Lord knows I have no green thumb. I think I've killed every plant I've ever owned, including Mimblulus Mimbletonia, the ivy Cait gave me. When I expressed some hesitance about accepting it, she said "COME ON, you CANNOT kill an ivy. It's, like, DIFFICULT to kill an ivy."
I killed the ivy.
I didn't mean to! I really didn't! I watered it faithfully (maybe too faithfully?) and sang to it and sent love into it and meditated over it and did all the other things Good Plant Owners are supposed to do. But still, little Mimby died a sad, slow death.
Hey. I can keep kids alive. I can keep cats alive. Hell, I can keep FISH alive. Remember Severus? He survived the three-hour trek from Boston to New Haven in a UHaul, for pete's sake. But bless my heart, flowers wilt in my presence.
Which is why the idea of starting a vegetable garden in our neighbor's beds across the street reeeeeally freaked me out. Because remember! I kill plants! All of them! I'm not allowed in arboretums anymore!
We did it anyway, though, cause the thought of fresh-picked tomatoes warm from the sun just makes my mouth water like nobody's business. So then this happened:
Bok choi, cherry tomatoes, lettuce, two kinds of heirloom tomatoes, two kinds of kale, three kinds of sweet peppers, cilantro, rosemary, basil, oregano, lemon balm, and mint. Planted. In the ground. Done. Wham-bam-thank you ma'am.
Luckily Cait has some garden knowledge and our neighbor (whose beds we're using) is an expert. So maybe, if I tiptoe softly 'round the beds and read them lines from Emily Dickinson's "Nature, The Gentlest Mother" and only handle them under direct supervision, these plant babies will have a chance in life.
C'mon, seedlings. Grow grow grow.