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Broke Wife, Big City
Not all that glitters is marigold
By Aprill Brandon
I once was very mean to a marigold. It wasn’t anything personal. It was in the name of science.
Specifically, that name was the Fourth Grade Science Fair. The
birthplace of so many childhood wrongs. Somehow I had convinced my
teacher of the merit of the hypothetical question “Does Being Nice to
Plants Help Them Grow?” A fantastic scientific query when you are both
lazy but insecure about being lazy and want to make it kind of seem
like you care while doing minimal work.
So I planted two marigold seeds. Once I day I would sing to one and
read it books and was on my best behavior. The “grandma is over for a
visit and it’s her birthday” behavior.
And to the other one I was verbally abusive in that unique, dark, unholy way that only a 10-year-old girl can be.
I don’t remember my official “results” or even my grade. The only
conclusion I took away was the knowledge that the entirety of this one
marigold’s life was having a freckled brat say awful things to it and
try out new curse words on it when her mother wasn’t around.
This lingering guilt likely explains my current awkward relationship to
plants. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate plants. I just don’t want to
be responsible for them. I prefer them to run free and be wild in
nature. Because once they enter into my care I feel the overwhelming
weight of commitment of keeping them not only alive but happy. And I
don’t necessarily trust myself to do this because I have seen the dark
results of my former mad scientist self. I killed a flower WITH WORDS.
I’m a monster.
Cut to last week. My friend Melissa very sweetly and generously
surprised my kids with their very own starter vegetable garden kit
complete with 15 seed pods. It was one of them thar enrichment
activities I’d heard so much about but have never, ever, ever done with
my children. However, I wasn’t worried. At least at first. I assumed
like most other things that were good for us, my family and I would
talk excitedly about it for 15 minutes and then forget about it
completely.
Oh, but then how their eyes lit up. For the first time in a long time.
They were engaged. They were getting along. They were happy in a way I
hadn’t seen since March.
Crap.
So we planted the tiny seeds in their tiny pods while the kids peppered
me with one thousand questions. All of which I enthusiastically
answered wrong because I know zero about gardening but still wanted to
encourage their newfound passion.
“Momma! What are turnips!?”
“Sad onions!”
“How did turnips get their name!?”
“They were discovered by Joe Turnip of Indiana!”
“What do leeks taste like?”
“Like celery that is wearing a bow tie!”
And from there things started to spin out of control. I casually asked
my mom to help me find something to put all these seed pods in because
she knows more about gardening than her marigold murdering daughter.
Before I knew it, a large garden bed and a gardening toolkit and
adorable tiny kid gardening gloves and many, many pounds of soil were
making their way to my house. Because a Memaw who misses her
grandchildren and is armed with an Amazon Prime account is a dangerous
creature.
Then my husband started talking about how we’ll need a trellis for the
tomato plants and maybe a tiny fence to keep out the bunnies and maybe
we could plant some sunflowers too.
And daisies, added my daughter.
And tulips, added my son.
And, lo and behold, I am now the reluctant owner of a garden,
responsible for dozens of tiny lives. Which means I’m obsessively
watching them and constantly questioning if I’m over or under watering
and following my husband around the house telling him about all the
awful things I learned on Google today.
“Did you know some ancient religions thought plants had souls?”
“Did you know trees make cries for help? Like when they’re in danger or thirsty?”
“Did you know forests talk to each other?”
“Did you know plants know when they’re being eaten? They send out defense mechanisms to try to stop it.”
I guess the punishment fits the decades old crime. I need to redeem myself. And I will.
But as the old saying goes, you can lead a horticulture but you can’t make her like it.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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