My black thumb

I come from a long line of gardeners. My maternal grandfather grew roses that were envied by the entire neighborhood and planted rows of old maids every year that drew butterflies from far and wide. My mother loved plants and flowers and never failed to plant marigolds in the flower beds and African violets in pots that she displayed on the window sill.

Momma's oldest sister, Gayle, has always had the greenest thumb of anyone I know. I've seen her more than once revive a plant from sure death, and she can get something to sprout from the most meager cutting. Her garden at her former home was a show place. It was the kind of garden you'd see in a magazine. Her beds were so lush and full of plants and flowers that for my wedding I didn't hire a florist but rather got up early on the day of my nuptials and cut my wedding arrangements from her front yard.

One would think with such a magnificent pedigree to my name that I would have inherited the know-how to grow my own gardens that would make others swoon with envy. One would be wrong.

Until very recently I didn't care too much about planting things in the dirt and making them grow, but I've been wishing more and more frequently that this task were one I was capable of undertaking. I know, though, that I can wish all day, everyday but at the end of it all I still won't be a master gardener.

First of all, I never paid attention when my mother tried to teach me the information I would need to take up her gardening mantle. Secondly, I've suffered a life-long aversion to being hot, sweating and getting dirty - all of which go hand in hand with being a gardener. Lastly, I am inherently lazy so, therefore, cannot grow things that demand a lot of my attention (except, of course, children, but they're too loud for me to ignore. If plants and flowers were loud they might have a chance of surviving at my house.)

Despite my aforementioned challenges I have in the course of my 11 years of marriage made many attempts to put things in soil and pray they grow. Most of my efforts have failed. However, I do have photographic evidence to prove I am not totally worthless when it comes to growing plants.

Momma started growing this bamboo plant before she died. After renting her home to a cousin, I left the plant in his care, and to my surprise he actually kept it alive. When he moved out, I brought the plant to my house. It's life has not been cut short because it doesn't demand more from me than the occasional drink of water and making sure the cat doesn't drink all of said water.

This clematis also came from momma's house. It's been at my place since shortly after she died. It's also low-maintenance in that I don't have to take it inside when the weather turns cold and it only needs watering occasionally. However, I must not be doing enough for it because I've yet to be able to make it sprout a single flower.

This pot of creeping jade is my miracle plant. Honest to God, this thing was barely a sprig three years ago. Momma had given me an arrangement she grown from a cutting off of her plant thinking a succulent would be hard for me to kill. Turns out she was right - somewhat.

See at one time, this was part of a quite lush, lively green plant. However, I sufficiently ignored it until all that was left was a tiny bit of stem with a few leaves. I was all set to throw it away, but decided against doing so and began giving it a little bit more attention. To my surprise, it lived.

Now, obviously, I haven't been giving it heaps of TLC because this is all it's grown in three years. The dirt in the pot is very compact and could stand to be changed, but, knowing my track record, I've decided to leave well-enough alone.

I have no idea what kind of plant this is. It has red berries on it and sometimes sprouts white, lily-like flowers. It's name is of no matter to me. I am just thrilled to be able to report I've kept it alive for 11 years!

My mother-in-law gave me this plant shortly before Jeff and I got married. She rooted it from a cutting off the plant she had at her house. In my grand tradition, I've left it in the very pot (and dirt) in which she planted it. I pull off yellowed leaves, water it from time to time and move it outside when the weather turns warm. I am afraid if I did any more the dang thing would drop dead from too much attention.

Mrs. Hair. Amelia brought her home from preschool. She didn't yet have "hair," but was merely grass seeds covered in wet potting soil. I was fearful that because of my black thumb, Amelia might never get to see her project grow "hair" and would be the only kid in her class with a "bald" bowl of dirt.

I think this fear caused me to wish Mrs. Hair's coiffure to life. Amelia was so happy when her seeds sprouted, and I am still shocked I've keep this bowl of grass alive. I've even been able to give her a couple of "haircuts!"


So, even with my horrible history of growing plants and flowers, I do have a few of Mother Nature's gifts in my home. However, I would love to be able to look out over my yard and see bright colors and lots of textures, have my nose tickled by the scents of roses, ginger and honeysuckle, and watch bees and butterflies flit from flower to flower gathering nectar. Problem is: I don't want to be the one to make all of this happen.

Not too long ago I told Jeff, who loves to play the Tennessee and Georgia lotteries, that when we strike it rich playing the lotto hiring a gardener is at the top of my list of desires. I want to be able to give someone a list of all the plants and flowers I want to see in my yard, have them make my wish come true and then return once a week to keep everything beautiful and alive.

In the meantime, I'll just focus on managing to keep the few things I can grow - four plants, a bowl of grass, two kids, a cat and a dog - alive. Wish me luck! If I were a betting woman, I'd say the kids will last the longest of all.