All my gardening friends seem to have the Midas touch. Everything they touch turns to wondrous rose bushes and succulent garden vegetables.
All I seem to get is an exercise in futility. Maybe it's the soil, I tell myself.
Perhaps it's the chemicals they induce. Or just the right measure of sun and water. Whatever the formula, it works for them, not me.
For years now, I've tried to get grass to grow at my cottage. I planted the best grass seed money will buy, used lime, cultivated every inch of my terrain, and nothing happened. I did notice a crow nibbling on the seeds, however, so it wasn't a complete loss.
And those marigolds I planted. They wimped out on me. One or two buds blossomed. The others resemble an overgrowth of weeds. It makes me realize that a garden is a thing of beauty — and a job forever.
My buddy is one of those braggart gardeners. He puts his arm around my shoulder and says, quite amusingly, "The best way to raise a successful garden is by trowel and error."
No pun intended. He tells me a garden takes elbow grease, often a painstaking matter. By the time your back gets used to it, the enthusiasm may be gone.
My friend — the ultimate gardener — is quite the landscaper. He owns a modest home on a side street and you can usually find him milling around outdoors. Not a single weed in his yard, much less an acorn. I have bushels. The squirrels love it here.
His marigolds are as big as the plum tomatoes he grows among them. Smart gardeners know marigolds keep the bugs away from the tomatoes, after all.
They surround the perimeter of his yard and are complemented by geraniums, roses and violets. He could easily win a Garden of the Month Contest in his community.
So what's your secret, Jim?
"No secret at all," he tells me. "Miracle Grow. It performs, well, miracles."
On the other hand, is there really a need for me to grow my own vegetables when I have others who are doing it for me with pleasure?
A man in my life lived on a farm and inherited the land once his parents passed on. Charlie Asadoorian had the greenest thumb you ever wanted to see. His vegetables were better than what you'd find in any supermarket.
I'd come home from work and find baskets by my door. Charlie also brought vegetables to the church he attended and left them for others to enjoy. This was his way of cultivating hospitality, whether he visited you or not.
Since Charlie passed on, my yearning for veggies has never been the same.
I'm big on supporting our local farms. If it costs me a dollar more for a dozen ears of corn, so be it. I'll take the freshly picked any day over what's being shipped and stored in the mega markets.
But here's one thing that bothers me: people are husking their ears right there. Touching, feeling, even peeling like someone on a binge to find the perfect specimen. What they don't like, they ditch, and try another. The mess they're creating in their quest is not my idea of proper sanitation.
The same could be said for flowers. I've stopped in the middle of a road and picked better daisies and lupines than I could ever grow myself. That'll be the day when I pay a king's ransom for a dozen roses on Valentine's Day.
Well, it's hard to find a field of daisies in February, so maybe I'll rethink that one.
With all the heat and humidity this summer, it's a wonder anything can blossom. I came home after a weekend get-away only to find my hanging plant sagging with heat exhaustion. I tried reviving it with plant food but it didn't work. Easy come, easy go. I refuse to look at a wilted, washed up plant all day. It seems to mock me.
It does my heart good to see brightly colored flowers hanging from my lakeside well. Sort of spruces the place up and shows life. Flowers have that power.
Off I went to get a replacement, not that it was suggested. "It'll only die," I was told. "Don't go throwing your money away."
I pass homes with some of the most gorgeous hanging plants and wonder why I cannot enjoy that beauty. Don't ask me their names. It took me a little time to know what a rhododendron was, let alone spell it.
As gardens grow, I'll just go on praising the crop in my neighbor's yard. It's far easier that way. And the appreciation goes right into my salad bowl.
Photographer and writer Tom Vartabedian is retired from The Haverhill Gazette. He contributes this regular column.
