Pardon My Attitude

I've never been the most optimistic person in the room. If there's a sale, I'm pretty sure the items I want most will be out of stock by the time I make it to the checkout counter. If I sneeze, I start inventorying my stock of herbal teas, and if I'm getting low on gas, like as not it's on a holiday weekend when gas prizes head into the stratosphere. On a good day, I'd claim to be a realist. On a bad day, I'd probably admit, looking into space pensively, that I'm inclined to be glum -- maybe even morose.

The one exception to my dour leanings is the garden: I doubt I've ever planted a seedling thinking it wouldn't sprout. In the garden, I'm faultlessly hopeful. In the garden, I've always had a bright and positive outlook -- bourn, I think, of the notion that I'm not alone in wanting things to work out just fine -- that the cosmos will line up in quantum harmony, and my sorrel or cress or meadowsweet will clamor out of the dirt somehow.

I can be a careless gardener, forgetting to water the corner behind the garage or next to the deck, but it usually turns out okay. I have help. I could get sentimental here and start talking about the wonder of plant seeds, staggeringly small replicating factories much more deserving of our time and attention than anything on the SyFy Channel. I won't, though. Suffice it to say that in the garden, nature is usually on my side, and that's cause for a little zeal.