Every year about this time. .
I take one picture of my hanging baskets. . .
so that next year. . I can compare to see if . . .
my gardening skills have improved. . .or declined.
From time to time. .
people come over and look at mine and say. . ."mine died".
I hear their pain. . .
and commiserate on the probable causes of the hanging baskets demise. . .
and together we conclude it was not their fault.
Every year about this time. . .
I wish mine would die.
We have no fancy schmancy watering system that supplies drinks to the thirsty flowers.
Every morning. . .they get the hose. . .
and if they don't . . .
they let me know by sundown. . .
that if they don't get the hose by dawn the following day. .
they are done.
I'll keep watering them. . .
I'll let the frost be the one to end their days.
I had two weeks free from the hosing chore when we camped. . .
and our farm care man Ken. ..kept them wonderfully hydrated.
I almost admitted that they looked better than when we left.
Then there is this guy. . .
every year. .
I toss in a few annuals. .
give it the hose and a few good doses of miracle grow and watch it take off.
Last year I planted the dark purple saliva's. ..but I didn't like them. . and determined not to ever plant them again. .
they volunteered to come up anyways.
It's funny how our opinions can change. . .and given enough time we can like what we once disliked.
Truth be told. . .
I'd never consider myself a gardener. . .
but I love gardens.