My background, by comparison, is a little less horticultural. My parents were city kids who were raised by city kids whose biggest fears had to do with being more than two blocks from a bus stop - a big family full of people who each enjoyed concrete, mostly.
In the 25 years my wife and I have been together, she has worked to reach out and educate me in the ways of plants, moving us to a middle ground (no pun intended) when it comes to flowers.
I try not to yank them out of the ground.
She tries to remain patient.
She who spends her time reading seed catalogues has attempted through the years to teach me the difference between weeds and flowers, keepers and pullers, which leafy things are to be yanked from the soil and which spiny things are to be left the heck alone.
Or is it the other way around?
Attempting to be helpful and knowing that eventually someone will be asked to give testimony in court, I semi-gladly volunteer my time and muscle to the upkeep of the more than sixty-eight thousand (and growing - no pun intended) flower beds surrounding our farmhouse. Like most who have natural gardening impediments and the attention span of a 5-year-old on Christmas Eve, I am usually handed simple chores.
Tote this.
Move that.
Dig a hole here.
Every once in a while, during busy times like spring, summer and fall, I am asked to do some weeding, akin to calling upon a snake to roll pennies.
My wife raises plants from seeds in our greenhouse in a careful and loving manner. She feeds and waters, moves, re-pots, taking the seedlings into young adulthood. When the last frost fades, she moves each of her experiments into their new homes, gently bedding them down in newly turned earth.
Once they're settled in and begin to take root, the young flowers have a fifty-fifty chance of living to adulthood. Most of that has to do with the weather and the hunger of the many creatures, fuzzy and flying, who munch. We never know how much rain to count on from year to year.
It is also possible that I, while attempting to be helpful, will tear the little suckers from the ground and toss them into a pile to be destroyed, confident in the fact that I've rid the garden of more annoying and dangerous weeds.
Even if they survive my "weeding," there's always a possibility that I will arrive in the nick of time with a power mower and take out an entire crop due to bad aim.
And blame it on the rabbits.
They've been looking really hungry to me, honey.
Honest.
Rabbits.
To hear Scott Paulsen's column, visit www.observer-reporter.com. He can be heard each weekday afternoon from 3-7 p.m. on 1250 ESPN Radio.