I Know When I'm Beaten

Well, dear reader, I have made yet another futile attempt at gardening. I can't win. I am beaten, and I know it. I am not meant to have pretty flowers on my porch. I either neglect plants until they succumb to my selfish, errant ways or I care for them to death. There is no middle ground with me. Just when I think that perhaps a plant is going to survive me, the universe steps in, mocks me, laughs at my foolish thoughts, and then BAM! kills my plant. It's just ridiculous at this point. 

I have tried my hand at big, beautiful ferns during the summer months. I water, I feed, I spin so they have equal access to sunlight, and by the end of July, they look like someone has hacked them off with a weedwacker. I have tried to go with the most basic, least needy plant ever created, an air plant. To date, I have killed three air plants. Fall mums, which are hardy, it's even in the name for the love of all that's holy, cannot survive life with me. Sigh. 

I made one more attempt to decorate my porch with pumpkins and fall mums. I bought a cheap six-dollar mum from Walmart. I've learned not to spend a lot on plants because it is a waste of money. I started strong. I watered every three days or so. I kept them in full sun. I repotted them in a large, galvanized container with good potting soil. I did all the right things. My mum was looking good; dare I say it, even thriving. The universe saw this and said, "Hold my beer. I've got gardening dreams to crush."

Jordan's rotten little geese she hatched this spring are now full-sized. They continue to come up on the porch and wait for her to come out the door. In the meantime, they poop everywhere, grab everything within their reach, and drag it to the ground. They snipped off my rosemary plant that I have kept alive for almost a year, right down to the root. I bought two elderberry plants, set them in the sun, and while I was digging the holes to plant them, they snipped one off again, right at the root. My mum was no exception. Baby and Kiss-Kiss snapped off sections of the mum, down to the dirt. I then moved the mum, which had been repotted into an antique galvanized container, up to the porch railing, where the geese cannot reach. Foolishly thinking my mum would be safe, I continued to care for them and hope for the best. 

I watered my mum because it looked a little sickly. There was a nice deep hole burrowed right into the roots of the mum. I thought it odd, so I filled it in and watered my plant. I went out the next day, again, a perfect hole was dug into the roots of my mum. I stuck my fingers into the hole made in the dirt and found it was filled with hickory nuts. The rotten little chipmunks that run around the porch and drive Buster mad are digging holes in my potted mum and burying their nuts! Sigh. I give up! Seriously, I am not meant to have pretty flowers on my porch. I get the message loud and clear, universe. I am throwing in the towel. I am also setting traps for chipmunks. Chipmunks attract snakes. I cannot live with snakes close to my house. No, it's war chipmunks, and you have no one to blame but yourselves. With 150 acres of farmland to scurry about in, trees and woodland away from my house, you choose to bury your nuts in my flowerpot. Checkmate, chipmunk. Checkmate.  

 Next year, I will invest in some lovely faux ferns and call it a win. I am over geese, chipmunks, and flowers in general. I am certainly not a gardener. I am also certain this is my sign to give up on trying to grow anything in pots. Sigh, to reference The Bean when she was little, "I can't have nuffin' nice." 

On this overcast October Wednesday, stay safe, be smart, know when you're beat, and keep washing your hands.