Once I was driving to Home Depot to buy a toilet seat. I was feeling fat and kind of depressed, because I had just broken a toilet seat. But soon enough I turned my mental state around. Talked myself up, saying, “Hey, you can lose weight. Just a few small changes, and you’ll be looking good and feeling better.” Buying in, I was soon smiling and rocking out to some music. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something. What? Sure enough. They were building a new Krispy Kreme! Thank you, Lord! Practically in my back yard!
One step forward. Two steps back. This is the lack of control I have over my life, and why I play God in my garden. Nothing else explains the kind of gall it takes for me to look at a world of perfectly good nature and decide, “That’s not bad, but if I put a chartreuse plant here, a purple one there and a gazing ball right in the middle, it will be a lot better.”
Yep, in the world all I do is react to random events, but in my garden, I’m a god. I decide which plants come home, and then which are given prime locations while others are gambled in poor soil and terrible light. I can even make it rain, (but only with two hoses at a time). This brings upon me the terrible responsibility of deciding which plants get water first, second and none.
To the mophead hydrangeas, that decision is really important. When they wilt, it’s like they are praying to me. “Please, choose me, Lord!” Most times I go ahead and water them, but sometimes I don’t. Frankly, I’m getting a little tired of their endless thirst. I wouldn’t want me for a god.
I won’t be coy. I get off on this kind of power, especially when wreaking wrath upon weeds. Nothing is so satisfying as emerging from the darkness of my garage, hooded, dressed in black, a string trimmer rumbling in my hands: “Good morning, honeysuckle. Behold the Angel of Death. Say hello to my little friend.”
But it’s not lost on me that my powers are weak and fleeting in the face of those of the Real Thing and/or Mother Nature. I can’t get cocky when it’s so obvious neither will ever allow me to grow a Himalayan blue poppy (Meconopsis) in Ohio.
And without their benevolence, a disease could smite my maples. A tornado could wind out of the sky. A truck full of herbicide could skid off the road!
All there is to do is garden on. Try to judge good plants from evil and strike down those that make me angry. Oh—the end of my story about my trip to Home Depot: While there, I went ahead and bought two seats. With a new Krispy Kreme in the neighborhood, I figured I’m going to need a spare.
