The Reaper

I am one of those people who fantasizes about having my own sustainable farm on twenty or so picturesque acres in Vermont, Colorado, or Northern California. I like to think that I can be resourceful person of the land, the kind of person who can assess the richness of soil just by picking up a handful and feeling its mealy texture between my fingers.

To this end, I have bought and read at least five gardening books. I also study books on rural living for tips on how to shelter plants during winter and can fruits and vegetables during the fall. Each spring, I buy order packets of organic seeds and comb through farmers' markets for vegetable and herb seedlings. I faithfully pot my budding plants in organic soil and place mulch on them to retain moisture. I regularly lavish compost from my worm bin to fertilize them. I give them water and sunlight. To prevent slugs and pests, I spray home brewed garlic insecticide on their leaves and place crushed egg shells around their stems.

It is all for naught. My plants all die in my care. Indoor plants and outdoor plants meet the same tragic outcome. Indeed, my dear readers, I took these photos of my plants only a few minutes ago. These are fresh kills! Imagine the condition my herb garden -- the earliest and longest suffering part of my garden -- must be in.

Looking at this depressing scene, I know I should give up on gardening as a hobby. I will likely vow that I will never pick up a garden shovel again and instead focus my energies on something more suited to my assassin hands, like Tae Kwan Do. Yet, when springs comes again, I am sure I will find myself once again browsing seed catalogs and eyeing the green pepper seedlings at the local nursery. As they say, hope springs eternal. I wish the same could be said about tomato plants.