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A serial concernThere's no denying I've got a problem. Yet another corpse lays on my front porch, not so much the result of premeditated murder, but rather outright neglect. When I brought the specimen home, it was lovely and bright and full of life. One week under my care, though, and it was a desiccated skeletal mass. Poor petunia basket, it never had a chance. Each spring I have the best of intentions when it comes to gardening. I have grandiose schemes of a manicured lawn, and big planters full of flowers on my patio. I plant seeds in the everlasting hope that something will emerge in my flowerbeds in the backyard. I buy flats full of blooming annuals, faithfully plant them in hanging baskets, using the right pre-mixed and fortified potting soil. And each June I start making the nightly trips to the dumpster with the carcasses of the ones who didn't survive my care. I just have to face it. I'm the Hannibal Lector of the gardening world. Well, without the creepy menu choices. I just don't get it. I can usually keep a pothos plant alive in my house. I've got a shamrock plant that's reached its fourth birthday. Why is it that landscaping plants don't fare as well in my care? It's not as if I don't have the genetic aptitude for it. Afterall, my grandmother's gardens were the talk of her neighborhood. Each plant carefully pruned to submission, the flowerbeds weed-free and immaculate. Her backyard would have made Martha Stewart green with envy. My mother and sister have her gifts for gardening. Mom can grow anything anywhere. She's constantly moving sprinklers, or mowing the yard, or playing in the dirt. And my sister? In each house she's owned she's done her own professional-grade landscaping--with a little help from my brother-in-law. Her yard in Montana really did come from a magazine page. Me? I can't even get a lousy $10 planter of petunias to last more than a week. Some farmer's daughter I am. I water my plants--when I remember. I fertilize, and weed, and prune and lay down mulch. I plant bulbs only to have the squirrels dig them up. Once, I had a hanging basket of begonias last a month, but I was out of town for two weeks of that and I had a friend taking care of it. As soon as it was back in my care it went to join its brothers and sisters in the dumpster. Maybe my problem is that I just need adult supervision in the garden--sort of a caretaker for the homeowner. Better yet, I wonder if there's a rehabilitation program for serial plant killers like myself? One with weekly group therapy sessions that discusses our inner feelings toward our victims. Maybe a process of reconciliation where we apologize to the greenhouse owners whose plants have become our unwilling victims. Surely I'm not the only one of my kind out there. Until I can find that program, though, I'm just going to have to reconcile myself to having my wanted poster plastered at the garden centers in the area. "Hello, Clarice. I'll take another hanging basket, please." Jennifer M. Latzke can be reached by phone at 620-227-1807, or by e-mail at jlatzke@hpj.com. 7/14/08 Date: 7/9/08
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