Spring Planting – But Not By Me

It’s that time of year, the spring planting season where beauty and nature collide, exploding in riotous color. Better known in my house as the killing season.

I love flowers and plants and fresh vegetables. I just don’t like planting them. I did not inherit my mother’s genetic anomaly for digging in the dirt.

But I did go to the nursery with her where she bought a variety of vegetables and roses to plant in my yard. She knows I’m not much of  a gardener. She also knows one other thing.

After she sweats and digs and spends money in my yard, I won’t let them die. I would feel too guilty. So it forces me to actually get a little dirty. Which I don’t like to do.

I don’t want you to get the impression that she’s doing this by herself. The boy helps too.

And he’s sweet enough around his grandma not to make a fuss about it while she’s here. After all, he’s missing the race on tv when he’s outside digging holes. But he can’t fool his grandma. She knows that he’s much more like me when it comes to gardening than he is like her.

How else is he going to learn to grow his own garden when he’s grown and gone from the house? I hope he doesn’t think I’m going to do it.