It’s quite likely I’m carefully making plans for mass murder. I see a future of death and destruction and carnage, all at my hands. I’ve killed before. There’s no reason to think I won’t do so again. I don’t mean to do it, yet it happens every single time.
I’m talking, of course, about my recently planted herbs. Plants look beautiful when you first plant them, and I’ve outdone myself this year by adding three flowering mini-trees. This is simple container gardening. I have no lawn, no weeds, no bugs, no squirrels. What could go wrong?
Well, the most salient point is probably that I travel too much to keep things watered. OK, it really doesn’t matter about the traveling. Even when I’m home I can’t imagine I’ll remember this watering thing. How often are you supposed to water these things anyway? Every day? Once a week? When they start to cry in agony?
Another problem is that I tend to grab plants randomly and then toss away the plastic care instructions. The little flowering tree I put outside my front door in a completely shaded area that never sees sunlight ever, not even for a few minutes? Apparently needs full sun. The herbs that are sitting in the broiling sun from 6 in the morning to 9 at night? Likely are meant to grow into their herb-like ways in the shade.
There’s a reason my house is completely devoid of plants. It’s not that I’ve never had any. Houseplants are a favorite gift of guests and coworkers. But they never last. One day, I look over and see a pot filled with vaguely brown dust and vines and think, oh look — apparently I used to have a plant! I don’t even remember seeing that before.
And so it will go with the latest horticulture experiment. But maybe I can keep it all alive long enough to make a pesto.