One by one my friends grew green thumbs. They eagerly anticipated the spring’s first shipment of annual color and would spend hours planting, watering, weeding and rhapsodizing about the results.
I didn’t get it. I tried. Each year I would make the annual trek to buy blooms, feigning interest. I struggled to recall the names of flowers. Anything beyond a daisy or a rose confounded me. I couldn’t even accurately name a pansy from a petunia.
My friends at work would give me a gift certificate to the local nursery for my birthday, which always falls around Memorial Day. They also accompanied me on the shopping spree knowing how shrub-challenged I was. But then the bets would be on to see how long it would take me to kill my plants.