If any of the following seems more than ordinarily stupid, we want you to know that our lack of concentration is largely due to the fact that we just got off a bus from Chicago, and it wasn’t exactly a mega-comfortable trip, if you get our drift. We fully intended to fly, but, well, things didn’t quite work out as we planned. In fact, the whole airline experience turned into a real drag.
As long as we’re making amends, someone has informed us that we recently and foolishly declared in these very pages that Spring sucked. What!? Yeah, we can’t believe it either because, wow, just look outside. You got your daffodils, your tulips, lots of azaleas, dogwoods. Spring has pulled up offshore like a carrier battle group and is kicking butt and taking names.
We have an Italian friend who told us that in his language, daffodils are known as narcisi after the mythological guy who was so darned handsome he couldn’t stop looking at his reflection in the pond. We have personally never been afflicted with narcissism, our looks being such that we take our chances shaving in the shower rather than have to stare at our mug first thing in the morning.
But we were worried about our daffodils looking sort of droopy, and this explains it. If they’re going to be like Narcissus, they have to be looking down.
At least the daffodils came up. We suffer from a condition we like to call azalea remorse. Every last one we ever planted up and died on us. We planted cheap ones from K-Mart. Died. Expensive ones from the nursery. Died. Pink ones, orange ones, red ones, purple ones. Died, died, died and died.
On our first attempt, we discovered we had planted one right under the old coal chute (insert joke here). A lot of houses don’t have them, but the architecture of our house could be described as Late Flintstone. Naturally, we thought that maybe it was the coal dust from 100 years ago that was bothering our delicate little shrub. So after that one promptly morphed into a tumbleweed we planted the next one in more fertile territory. A once-in-a-century killer frost escorted it off this mortal coil. The rest of them just marched off the cliff in single file. We’re pretty sure that nurseries were putting our picture up at the checkout counters with a note not to sell azaleas to this customer. We’ll just have to reconcile ourselves to having a case of SACS. Sudden Azalea Croak Syndrome.
But flowers are the glamor end of the operation. With the bulb plants, all the work was done last Fall; you’re just hanging around waiting for payday. It’s the lawn that’s got you in the crosshairs. With grass, you have this love / hate thing going. First you’re supposed to weed and feed. You’re supposed to want it to grow like nobody’s business, thick and lush and green. Then when it does, you have to fire up the mower and hope you can catch up with it in between rainstorms.
Meanwhile, the neighbor kid is strolling by steering a new self-propelled Toro with his hat on backwards and his pants sagging dangerously, telling you he maybe could squeeze you in Tuesday morning if you could, you know, make it worth his while, and by the way, isn’t that new Yamaha 950 a sweet ride?
Then there’s the garden. Notice how people who own roto-tillers won’t return your calls this time of year. Of course, we could always go at it with the pick and shovel, but we’re still a little stove up from that misunderstanding on the plane. Wonder what those new Yamahas are going for?
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