People get age spots and roses get black spot. Just as I need a dusting of powder to cover the ravages of sun, wind and rain, so do my roses. I do legal blogs about the dangers of chemicals around the house and yard, yet I am about ready to throw in the towel and work some Dow Chemical Company into the bed of roses. The truth of the matter is that my environment is so alien to what roses flourish in in other parts of the world, it's unnatural to even suspect that they would hit blue ribbon size in the wind and dry environment. Why do I plant them then? There's just something sweet and touching about a bush that will produce soft, feathery, baby fine petals over and over again. It's like the roses look at me and yearn for me to love them, to find a way for them to break out of the bare root dungeon of Ozark Clay dirt. If I can run enough well water down over the roots, they'll have a chance. A chance to peek out from that bud , tightly closed, against intruders.
I am so entranced with my garden now that I don't care about cleaning house or writing funny stories. The squash, beans , and tomatoes, along with the cucumbers have replaced my school children. The more time that I spend mulching, reading veggie books, learning the best methods, and mixing in compost and manure, the more luxuriant the result. They remind my mind that something needs me, even if to turn on a hose and crawl around pulling out small sprigs of grass. Magic garden, I love you. Flower beds, you mean that I have a friend.
I'm talking to plants again, imitating bird calls, and stalking snakes, butterflies and moths. Tomorrow will come with the warm day and shovels and hoes will dance over to the back door . Ready to do the watermelon crawl!!!!
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