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fence for a foothold. The blood rushed to my head and the link dug into my inner thigh each time I thrust my leg. A painful shriek escaped my lips as I threw my leg once more. Ripped polyester released me and I dropped to the ground with a thud. Relieved, I lay there with my throbbing head and thighs, looking around to realize I was not lying in my driveway, but on top of the Dillard's perfectly planted tulips.

Rather than come to the aid of a struggling six-year-old, Mr. Dillard wasted no time phoning the police. Before I could hoist myself up and run, I was greeted by a towering officer, his face masked by the glare of the midday sun. Though my father and the officer shared some chuckles in the driveway, I was banished to play only inside on a Saturday for alienating the neighbors. My father must have made an offer agreeable to Mr. Dillard because after that, they were agreeable, smiling and waving as long as I steered clear of their yard. Flowers were not so agreeable.

In addition to the wild kingdom inside our home, my mother cultivated roses. Occasionally, she would clip the vibrant red blooms, and arrange them in a long-necked green vase. On the counter, they lasted at least two weeks. In my room, they died the next day. At age 10, I attempted to snip a rose for myself. I was once again stabbed. I bled, and the bush became baron, refusing to produce ever again.

Two years later, I was commissioned to mow the lawn. Along with the blade being too low, in the middle of mowing, I went into a sneezing fit, leaving the mower on the hill, where it ground the grass into dirt. This would occur in several sections of the yard. After paying a landscaper to plant a new lawn, my parents determined I was not allowed near the lawn mower. "You have allergies." My mother consoled. My father muttered, shaking his head. "You ate the lawn."

Until my fourteenth birthday, preoccupation with boys, friends, and teen angst shielded all plant life.

To the left of the carport of the split level home I grew up in lived a beautifully pruned holly bush. Many a day I pedaled past the shiny shrub, to be stabbed by her prickly leaves. It was as though she called to me from the vast carport. Holly Berry knew of my black thumb long before I did, and ensured I would never be called upon to care for her. I envision her laughing at me to this day from the flower bed in front of the kitchen window. Under her leaves, she housed my pet gerbil Norman as he ran from my tiger-striped cat Pumpkin. Perhaps she believed she was protecting him. Nevertheless, I never saw Norman again. As for Holly Berry, she still stands 25-years later, no thanks to me.

I managed to marry an equally cursed man, his affliction-lawn equipment. Through some miracle, we produced and nurture a healthy 8-year-old and 6-year old. As for gardening, I recognize my limitations, but I still try. Recently, I replanted a piece of the Jade, which at near death, I gifted to my father. So far, Jade is thriving in front of the kitchen window, courtesy of two aqua globes and the touch of two very enthusiastic boys. My husband talks of planting a garden in the next door lot we purchased. I have my reservations, but I remain willing. I hold high hopes for shiny red tomatoes and homegrown potatoes, but mostly I enjoy the time spent with my family, hands and feet in the earth, growing together. After all, I have never been a quitter.

Learn more about this author, TC Crumpton.
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