A few posts back I talked about things I inherited from my Dad.
One of the things I did not inherit in any way from my Dad is his ability to grow things. My father could grow baby bars of gold, if he were so inclined. Every year he has a bumper crop of squash or tomatoes or beans or whatever. It is something he is VERY good at doing.
Me, not so much. The only thing (plant wise) I’ve ever been able to keep alive was one of those little fishbowl ecosystem things where a beta fish lives in this tiny bowl and its poop makes a plant grow or something similar. I kept that thing alive for at least a year. Something happened though and the fish died, and I didn’t notice until it was this ghastly murky nightmare of fish skeleton and rotted roots.
I couldn’t ever even grow sprouts in a styrofoam cup in kindergarten.
In college, my roommate got me a TweetyBird chiapet and…well, that was a disaster.
I guess what I’m saying is that I am in no danger of growing any marijuana any time soon.
For some reason a couple of months ago I took stock of my life and apparently decided I needed to grow things. Dan’s grandfather passed away recently, and I rescued a pot or two of businesslike – looking bulbs from his backyard, thinking I would do his memory proud by finally being able to succeed in helping to grow life. It was very poetic – his life would go on in the form of those bulbs, and I would gently nudge them to luxuriant and lusty full life.
It hasn’t really turned out that way.
Only one of the bulbs seemed to sprout – and while it sprouted fully and quickly and seems as healthy as any plant could ever be, there is a slight issue.
I’m pretty sure it’s a weed.
Although, at this point, I don’t really give a shit. Life gives you lemons, you make lemonade, correct? Well, life has given me a weed, and I fully intend to nurture and groom and MiracleGro that weed until one of us dies.
I’m growing something. Anything. Horticulture is not my style – I will simply pretend it’s a rosebush.