“…Speak to the earth and it will teach you.”
Job 12:8 (NIV)
Between my garage and back door runs a long narrow porch, brown-painted decking less than six feet wide.
It’s less the kind of space where you’re inclined to sit a spell — though that didn’t stop us from parking our weathered garden bench right in the middle — and more a covered breezeway to shield you from the elements. In Macon, slap in the middle of Georgia, that means blistering sun or torrential downpour, the kind sliced by thunder and lighting. Snow is a novelty if we’re lucky enough to get any at all. We’ve been in this home just over two years, and there’s no telling how many times I’ve made that trek from my house to our garage or our garage to the house.
We inherited wrought iron window boxes from our home’s previous owners, two for the back porch and a pair for the front; they hang on the railing that runs adjacent to the porch. Every spring I’ve filled them with annuals that can tolerate direct sun for most of the day. That eastern exposure sure is imposing; Miss Sunshine long outlasts a friendly welcome.
This is about the extent of my gardening; my thumbs are the opposite of green.
These annuals are demanding little creatures, begging for water every day (imagine that). If I’m away, or say, more likely, forget, they get pouty and play dead. They remind me of little drama queens, wilty and depressed when they don’t get their watery way.
Except that one plant I didn’t even plant, the tenacious stalk that shoots up through two slats of decking. No matter how many times we clip her back, cut her down, or (try to) yank her through the deck, she returns healthier than ever. If plants could talk, this one would be getting the last word, and I’m pretty sure she’d be laughing all the while.
And here’s the thing: What once was an ugly nuisance to me has become an object of affection. How could this possibly be?