by Nancy Canfield

Created on: July 25, 2009

The phlox I threw behind the shed thinking it was a weed has just about finished blooming. I'm feeling a little unproductive as I look at everyone's outstanding garden photos, and driving through a town lush with summer blooms makes me feel quite inadequate. I mean, if the town crew can make things grow, why can't I?

Every year it's the same thing. I borrow a truck, drive to Home Depot and buy hundreds of dollars worth of flowers and shrubs. I buy fertilizer, soil, Miracle Grow, and turf builder, whatever that is. I unload the truck, place everything where I think it should be, stand back and evaluate my color scheme. Perfect!

I then fight with the door on the shed to get the wheelbarrow, shovels and a strange looking tool my sister uses for digging holes. I check to make sure the house windows are open so she can hear me, and begin a series of moans, grunts and groans. She must be upstairs out of ear shot. I'm a little pumped about the possibilities this year, so I give it a shot by myself.

After digging the first hole to the recommended depth for the red things, I begin to think they look pretty damn good right in the plastic pots, but determination is a strong suit of mine and I continue. Half an hour later, I have an eyelid drooping from a bee sting, a partially amputated toe from swinging that strange tool my sister uses for root removal, and three plants of an unknown species in the ground. I'm wondering where my sister is, and thinking I could be dead out here and she wouldn't know it.

I move on to the shrubs, with my ambition renewed as I realize they are perennials, which is a good thing, I think, because on the off chance they make it through the winter, I won't have to replant the same thing next year. By now I'm singing yo, yo, heave, ho, with a background of chamber music blaring from my neighbors window. My eyelid is now hanging down to my cheek, but my toe has stopped hemorrhaging. My spirit soars as I stand back and look at what I have accomplished. I don't care if my sister ever comes out to help.

A couple of hours later between the something opsis and the pincushions I become feral. Covered in foul smelling garden soil and even fouler smelling sweat and dried blood, I begin drinking out of the hose. I dig holes for the remainder of the plants bare handed, like a dog digs with his paws. Chamber music is screaming in my head and I want to take a bite out of Franz Haydn's leg in retribution for his hideous contribution to all mankind. Come

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