We're bona fide farmers now.
Our little 12x18 garden makes us so.
See, I soiled my plants these last couple weeks.
Even did strawberries when I was told it was too late in the season.
I'm a loner, a rebel. I live on the edge.
So do ya wanna know all I planted? Do ya, do ya?
Nah. You don't.
And dudes, I am seriously watching over my little garden like a mother hen to her chicks.
I'm so afraid I'll murder everything in it. (And dang you to the teenager who tossed their slurpee in there last week! Dang you to heck!)
Sorry. As I was saying, I'm watching over my little garden closely.
Take my watermelon plant for instance. Within 24 hours of planting:
BAM. Homicide. What was it?? What did I do? Was it my manure? My cedar? It's my hips, isn't it?
On a brighter note, everything else is hanging in there. Despite cold temps and mother nature's attempt to drown us all.
And many thanks to ye who suggested wave petunias for my urn.
They're purty. Me likey.
And I've got a lil garden box just for my hhhhherbs. They seem to be doing okay. So far. Knock on cedar.
So, um, how will I know when they're, like, edible and stuff?
And don't knock my train wreck of garden markers! Or, as the mister says, "Those are huge and you can't even read them."
You know where you can put that pitchfork, don't ya Jeffro?