Black Thumb

By Ellen Fannon

All around me, I am starting to see the telltale signs of spring’s arrival. Pink buds are showing up on my azaleas, a forerunner promising an explosion of brightly-colored blooms. The vines crawling along my fence have started producing a cascade of delicate yellow flowers, while a tree in my backyard is bursting with a profusion of stunning purple blossoms. I wish I could tell you exactly what kind of tree I have or the name of the sunny flowers gracing my fence, but unfortunately, I don’t have a clue. You see, I have a habit of planting things and promptly forgetting what they are since the plants in my yard generally don’t stick around long enough for me to form any real attachment to them. You might say I lack a green thumb. In truth, what I possess is closer to a black thumb. But that minor detail doesn’t stop me from trying year after year to maintain a beautiful flower garden.

Every spring, without fail, I embark on my annual pilgrimage to the garden center—usually Lowe’s—where I carefully choose hundreds of dollars’ worth of vegetation, fully aware that most of them won’t survive under my care. I am somewhat surprised nobody recognizes me as the plant assassin and bans me from entering. Then again, the more plants I murder, the more money I spend, so I suppose it is to the nursery’s advantage that I patronize their establishment. I stroll up and down each aisle, looking for something that thrives on bad soil and neglect. My intentions always start well. I fully plan to water, prune, and tend to my garden, but somewhere along the way, my plants are left to rely on the whims of the rain for survival. In addition, I’ll admit that I really don’t know what I’m doing, like when I planted an entire bed of beautiful sun-loving plants in a shady flower bed on the front porch.

I look at the plants with the festive blooms. Nope, I planted them a few years ago, and they all died within two weeks. Ooh, that one looks pretty. No, wait, I’ve tried that one, too. At this point, I can recognize just about every plant that has failed under my not-so-tender care, which leaves me with little to choose from. Impatiens are fairly indestructible except, of course, when my dog decides to do her business in the flower bed and excavates half the soil in the process. But I can’t be blamed for the death of those plants. I even managed to save the hanging pots of begonias this winter by bringing them inside the first two times the temperature dipped into the thirties. And I managed to keep the cats from eating them as snacks or using them as litter boxes. Unfortunately, on the third freezing night, I forgot about them. Now they sit on my front porch, their sad, drooping brown bodies a visual reminder of my gardening failure. My husband, ever the optimist, says maybe they will resurrect, but I’m not holding my breath.

Realistically, I should probably accept my limitations and give up my gardening dream. But the truth is, I still want a beautiful, blooming garden. I even hired professionals to help, but despite my explicit instructions (twice) to two different lawn care services that I wanted a colorful masterpiece, I ended up with someone who showed up twice a month and mowed the thriving weeds in my yard.  So, as February turned into March with the sky painted a soft robin’s egg blue, streaked with wispy white clouds, the temperature increased to a balmy 72 degrees, and new plant life emerged everywhere (except my yard), I felt the irresistible draw to revisit the garden store, like a moth drawn to the flame. I can’t fight it—the pull is just too strong—because I know that this time, my efforts to create and maintain a lovely flower bed will succeed.

You do know the definition of insanity, right? Something about doing the same things over and over and expecting different results. But this time . . . this time it’s going to be different. Right?