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Curse of the Black Thumb

"What happened?" My mother crinkles her brow, befuddled by the sight of my butchered lawn. I stare into the deep gray clusters hanging above the trees, heeding the rhythmical squeak of the wooden porch swing as I rock to and fro. Mom steps onto the porch and proceeds to inventory the damage. Unmoved patches of knee-deep grass create a maze, slightly resembling that of a deformed snake through the right half of the front yard. The choppy mowed patches take no form at all, save for the shaved path from the back to the front yard. My flower bed is home to primarily weeds, in addition to one gigantic Hosta, and two impenetrable Barberry bushes more than happy to poke me upon my return from work each day. Spanning from one end of the yard to the other, lay three mangled lawn mowers. The riding mower's blade is out of commission. Somehow my husband managed to break the handle of the push mower from the base. "It's the Dillard's curse." I proclaim.

From birth, my relationship with all oxygen dependent life forms has been shaky. My mother, who manages to extend the life span of every being in her care, still ponders how she failed to pass on her nurturing nature to me. We once had to release frogs, algae eaters, and turtles from our 72-gallon aquarium into the river because they grew so big, they could no longer be contained. Plants were no different. "The Dillard's cursed me!" I proclaim as my only defense in the face of countless ill-fated encounters with vegetation.

Ironically, Flora was our neighbor Mrs. Dillard's first name. It was 1982, and Flora still sported a box-dyed black beehive with a tiny white bow in the front. She and her husband Harold never spawned children, a blessing untold since their perfectionist nature would not have allowed them nasty creatures who wriggled and spoke. They spent most days tending to their lawn and garden. The sunlight glistened atop his bald head and beamed her tidy black bonnet blue. Their largest flower bed was adjacent to our driveway, protected by a chain link fence.

Enticed by the rainbow of color, I scaled the 4-foot fence, reaching my stubby hand toward a yellow tulip. My white kitten hair barrettes fell into the garden, releasing long strands of flaxen hair into my eyes. I tried to heave myself back up, deciding I may have been too hasty. My orange and white checkerboard shorts were caught on the triangular links across the top of the fence. Desperately, I flung my leg against our side of the

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