You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Planting innocent little flowers.
As many of you might suspect, I don’t have a green thumb. In fact, I have a black thumb. My thumb is a black widow spider angered by a fire ant pissed off by a rattle snake.
My black thumb is the horticulture kiss of death.
My green thumb was the Lindbergh baby, kidnapped as an infant and ransomed off to a terrorist group that lives in a tree in Oregon.
When I touch plants they wither and die. I am Medusa with chlorophyll.
I walk in the garden center and my face is on a wanted poster.
I am the Malificence of Pansies, the Hannibal Lecter of daffodils, the Lex Luthor of roses.
That’s why this next moment in my life is so ridiculous.
I am at the Home Depot garden center and I am shopping for little colorful plants to put in the dirt space in front of my house.
Quite honestly, I’m not sure why I care. I don’t mind the dirt space in front of my house. It has green things in it all ready. I believe they are weeds and a mixture of lawn clippings and possibly bird droppings. The dirt is the color of bleached hot chocolate mix that has been baked by the relentless sun.
It’s dirt. It is easy to maintain.
I flower shop with all the planning of a plane falling out of the sky.
I throw a few plants in the cart. They are not the same color. That is all I consider. I don’t care about their needs as far as light or sun or rain. That’s their problem, not mine.
I head to the register.
A Home Depot lady stares at me like I am a child molester at a day care.
She eye balls my cart. “Do you need garden soil” she says.
I look at her incredulously. “Garden Soil?”
What the hell would I need that for? I think to myself.
“Yes for your new plants,” she says.
I eye ball her suspiciously. Is she trying to sell me something or does she really care about my garden? Maybe she is afraid that the little flowers in my cart will die if they leave the premises with me.
“That’s OK,” I respond inching up in line.
“I have top soil.”
“Top Soil?” she says as if I am trying to bring a live snake through a TSA check point.
“You can’t put these in Top Soil alone.”
Who is this lady? Is she with the Home Depot FBI?
I smile and move to the register. I feel her eyes burning a hole in the back of my head.
I pay for the flowers and leave.
I feel like the entire garden department is murmuring and pointing at me as I roll to the parking lot.
I put the little flowers in the back seat of my car and begin driving away.
I look at them. They seem to be wilting, almost hiding their little purple and yellow faces with their leaves.
Like the father I am, I glance at them with a discriminating eye as I move forward.
“Don’t make me come back there, I muse.
The flowers say nothing.
“Listen guys. I am not saying you are going to die. But then again, I’m not promising you anything. I am going to throw you in dirt and you will have to fight to live.”
I stare at the little purple plant on the floor board. It’s leaves are quivering like a child leaving an orphanage.
“You’ve heard of Darwin right?,” I say to the floor board pansies.
I sense other motorists staring at me. Talking to plants is discernible worse than texting and driving.
“I’m going to get you some fresh dirt, and get you out of those little plastic tubs,” I say in my most soothing voice. I can’t believe that’s comfortable for your little roots.”
I snicker as I head over the hill.
Ten minutes later, we arrive.
I put the little flowers on the driveway.
“That’s your new home,” I say showing them the dirt clod in front of my house.
I sense the flowers bending away, trying to uproot themselves and plant themselves in the neighbor’s beautiful garden.
“No No No,” I say to the flowers. “Don’t try and get in that bed over there. This is your new home,” I say pointing. “It’s going to be ok. I have new top soil for you.”
I begin tilling the dirt. I rake it up, pulling weeds. I dig a hole, my metal tool striking roots and rocks.
I pull the tired looking hot cocoa dirt out of the hole and replace it with a splash of fresh top soil.
“Yum” i say to the little pansie, watching from the walkway.
I grab a flower by its plastic cup. I crease the side in a circular motion, caressing it, trying to gently loosen the dirt from the inside of the container.
I turn it over and delicately empty the plant into my hand, discarding the plastic.
“There you go little fella,” I say in a soothing voice.
I look at the flower’s tiny white roots. They are fragile and young and wrapped tightly to the packed dirt.
I put the flower in the hole and sprinkle dark, luscious top soil into the hole.
I pat the top soil, filling in the space around the flower.
“There you go little purple guy. It’s gonna be ok.”
I sense the other flowers watching, breathing a collective sigh of relief.
“Maybe he’s ok,” I hear one whisper.
And so it goes. From right to left, I transform the weed filled, sun-baked dirt mound into a fun-filled caliopy of life. I don’t know flower names. I just address them by their color.
“Hi purple guy.” “What’s up yellow flower.” “It’s gonna be cool, orange, dude, you’ll see.”
I call them my little fighters, my believers, the survivors of the garden.
I tell them they will be called upon to live as best they can.
“I have a black thumb,” I tell the little flowers as I clean up my tools. “I will try to remember to water you, to pull the weeds surrounding your roots. But I can’t promise anything.”
They seem bright and happy as they stand erect in a fertile dark layer of dirt.
I continue to educate them on the ways of my black thumb.
“You, for all intents and purposes, are on your own little flower garden. If you want to live, you will live. If you suck every drop of water out of the burning Tennessee summer sky, and dig your roots deep into the hard clay below, then maybe, just maybe you have a chance. If you act helpless, looking for a Salvation Army hand out, then I will watch you die and I will yank your lifeless plant exoskeleton from the dirt.”
I see the pansies quiver.
“I have a black thumb,” I shout as the garage door begins to close. “Cherish this day, It could be your last.”
I fiendishly laugh as the door closes and I tear off my dirt stained clothes.
I have planted for the year. This is it. My curb side appeal is done.
Whether my little plants live or die is now in the hands of forces older than me, more powerful than me.
What’s next?
I will turn my attention to that bastard who smokes cigarettes and throws unwanted newspaper ads into my driveway.
I plan to ask him about Darwin.
Ha Ha.
Life’s Crazy™