Mulch and Fodder

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“I can’t believe how much you’ve turned into a gardener!” I’ve been hearing this a lot lately. Usually accompanied with an amused snicker.

Yeah, okay, so killing plants has long been a hobby of mine. I owned a house in the 80s, rapidly discovering that while I liked being outside, I hated yardwork. Seriously. Hate. I like groundcover and wandering animals. Lots of trees. And I swore I’d never own another home until I could afford a lawn service.

Now I’ve bought a house that had been pristinely, but simply, landscaped. SIMPLY being the optimal word here. Bushes. Lots of mulch. Rocks and the occasional stone lantern. So with an eye toward maintaining my resale value, I’ve become quite adept at shoveling mulch and trimming bushes. I also have a sunporch, so a few potted plants have found a happy home…but let’s remember that said plants might have already expired if I didn’t have a couple of friends who are greenthumb queens. They remind me about watering, food, and misting…or they just do it themselves when the peace lilies and the impatiens start looking parched and droopy.

I remind them that the reason I’ve become the rock and mulch queen is that you only have to do it once a year. And the grass? Well, the homeowner’s assocation cuts the grass and has a whole crew of hired cute guys who wander through with the weedeaters. So I guess I do have a lawn service. More or less.

What does this have to do with writing? It’s fodder. Life is fodder. And, sometimes, mulch is fodder. After all, who knows? One of my heroines may inherit a pristinely but simply landscaped home, with a handsome, single guy living next door.

Oh, didn’t I mention that I have a handsome, single guy living next door?

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