There has been so much confusion in the garden this spring that I have fallen into a state of wisteria.
Here in the Garden of Weedin’ we learn by trowel and error, mostly error — and an endless flow of bad gardening puns. Yes, as you may have suspected, we are a few plants shy of a full flat.
Most of the seeds have been planted and are starting to sprout, but I can’t exactly remember what I put where.
“It looks like Daisy and wild William are the same bed,” I sigh.
“Do all gardeners talk dirty?” the husband asks.
I give him the look.
“Well, if they are, at least they’re near the taters — they’ll keep their eyes on them.”
Another look and I shake my head.
“Still having problems with your impatiens, I see.”
“Only because you keep giving me flax,” I say. “I’m trying to concentrate. Peas stop.”
He then asks, “What kind of socks does a gardener wear?”
“I haven’t given it mulch thought,” I say.
I ignore him, as I am studying three rows of lettuce, trying to remember which is green leaf, which is red leaf and which is butter. I guess thyme will tell. The important thing is to romaine calm.
“Well, this will depress you,” the husband says, digging around the trellis for the pole beans.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Funny,” I say. “Could you toss that hose over here?”
“Sure,” he says. “But I think it leeks.”
“It’s time to quit joking around,” I say. “If you carrot all, you’ll help me.”
“Heard about the iceberg lettuce?” he asks.
“Yes. He was tossed in prison.”
I ignore him again. “What in carnation is this?” I ask, uncovering a toy truck buried under the soil as I prepare to plant another pack of seeds. “It’s windy,” I say.
“No, it’s Thursday,” he counters.
“Are you working weed me or against me?” I ask.
“I’m rootin’ for you!”
“Thanks,” I say. “I always knew we were mint to be. Hey, where are you going?”
“Inside for a snack. Hosta la vista.”
“Is that your fennel word?”
“It’dill do for now.”