Last weekend I bought two tomato plants. Now that I have a house, I feel I should try to grow something. When I was a kid, I had a garden. Each of us did. Chad grew corn, I grew carrots and tomatoes, and Amber grew zucchinis. Chad hoed, I pulled weeds, and Amber made pies in the mud. And somehow, all of our plants grew into food we one day ate and gave to people at church who really didn’t want zucchinis.
So I figure if I could do it as a ten-year-old child, I should certainly be able to grow things now. But I’ve moved to the middle of America where it’s always winter or summer rather than in Puyallup where the soil was always moist, the rain always poured, and the temperature was never too hot or too cold. My dog could have grown the same juicy tomatoes then that I did.
I am horrible with plants. I forget to water them or remember and am too lazy. Steve knows I can’t grow anything except leg hair, yet he still watches me buy flowers and plants at Lowe’s and doesn’t say anything about how I’m wasting our money and we’ll be pulling these dead plants out of the ground in three weeks.
This morning, while he was reading the newspaper, Steve told me about how temperatures would hit freezing the next two nights and if I wanted to save my baby tomato plants, I would need to cover them. I certainly hope he’s not testing me with this to see what kind of mother I’ll be. But if he is, I think everyone can see why we have yet to reproduce.