I am the queen of black thumbs. Houseplants suffer a terrible fate in my hands. I guess I figure that if they really needed something, they'd scream or yell or cry like my kids. Since plants are, for the most part, silent (except when they whip around in the wind) I suppose I should be more attentive.
Each year we plant a garden. Usually, in our drought-ravaged area, we don't have much water in August. As a result, the garden tends to shrivel up and, well, die. At the beginning of the season I vow to be a better gardener. I promise myself, and the plants, that I will faithfully water, weed, and otherwise tend to them throughout the summer. (Actually, I fibbed. I assign the watering and the weeding to my kids--perhaps that's another reason the garden seems to suffer so).
This year is different. It really is. I've made a goal to go out and weed with the kids every day and oversee the watering. I've even scheduled it in my daytimer to make sure I stick to it. Maybe this will be the year my black thumb turns green.
So far, I've planted tomatoes, cucumbers, a watermelon, corn, and some flowers. The kids planted peas and radishes with my husband a few weeks ago and they are already growing. We even pulled out a radish and ate it.
I'm going to keep at this garden and, hopefully, in a few months I'll be able to enjoy (literally) the fruits of my labor. And, I'll be sure to check my thumb.