A few years ago as a birthday present for my wife I dug an area next to the deck and made a flower garden.
My wife knows about flowers; when to plant them, where the sun is best, etc. As for me, I figure if it goes in the ground and it gets sun and water, it’s going to grow. It will produce flowers if I did those things.
Boy, was I ever wrong.
Even though it was early summer and we had enough spring rains, the ground was rock hard. Using a shovel, I dug an area thirty feet wide and fifty feet long. The ground was full of rocks. There were small ones and large ones and a few VERY large ones. Two days later the ground was turned over, preventive weed cloth was down, assorted plants were in and all covered with pine bark.
My wife was working out of town and was to arrive home the afternoon of her birthday and I had, in addition to the garden, planned a party.
That evening I had far too many people telling me about the plants in the wrong spots.
Keeping my mouth shut, smiling and nodding my head, I listened to why nothing that I planted would grow.
Most, after the party, went home. A few stayed over and the next day was actually no better. My lip now has a permanent indentation from my upper teeth.
Once they had all gone to their own homes, Sandy and I relaxed to the quiet on the deck.
She smiled at me and said how much she loved the garden. Later that day we moved some of the plants to other, more correct, spots.
Since then we have more flower gardens than anyone else on this road. Each garden has different flowers but all beautiful.
I know your question: What does a flower garden have to do with writing?
Not a damn thing.
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