I was never particularly good at tending to plants. I had the dexterity required to trim hedges, but that’s another skill entirely. It was one of the few times I was allowed to leave the house, albeit with a heavy disguise: I was to trim the hedges, do the weeding, mow the lawn, plant bulbs, complete any landscaping tasks, scrub the decking, and if anyone talked to me over the fence, I was to put on a thick Somerset accent and pretend I was Farmer Jack Turnipseed from Cornwall.
I almost miss Jack Turnipseed. He had character, and in my mind, a family waiting for him back in England.
Nowadays, I can barely grow daffodil seeds. Mother and Father put me to work in every other area of the house, but once they realised that I genuinely couldn’t grow plants and I wasn’t just being lazy, the beatings stopped and Mother took over that particular duty. She did love her tulips. Planted tulip bulbs every year in February, apparently the worst time to start that sort of thing, and she planted them under the cover of the pergola since she didn’t want to go out in the rain to take care of them. As a result, the tulips didn’t get any sun and basically froze to death. And with that, I’m starting to see where I inherited my lack of skill.
Now that I have a place of my own, I’m determined to make these ranunculus my very own. I’ve looked up all the guides, and thus planted them before the weather gets warm, as you should. I have a system of watering down to the nanosecond, with alarms and everything. If these seriously don’t grow, I’ll have to accept that I have a genuine curse, and just buy flowers that are already grown in the future. But if my ranunculus DOES grow? Think of what Mother would say!
Probably “I despise you, goblin spawn. Flee from my sight, foul demon, before I have at you with the fire poker!”
Oh, she was a character, my Mum.