My green thumb has gangrene

I do not work in harmony with nature. My inability to distinguish vegetation has almost cost me friendships. I have been traumatized to the point where I now refuse to consume homegrown produce. My husband is reluctant to let me weed as my hands are magnetically-drawn to his cultivated crops. I get the whole "go green" concept. I just don't want to go where green typically resides. Where there are gardens, there is dirt. Where there are flowers and vegetables, there are spiders, snails, centipedes, and snakes. I do not deny the right of these creatures to dwell upon this earth. I do have a problem with building them a convenient ecosystem right next to my house.

Many years ago, during the early stage of burgeoning friendship with Jeanne, I took a hike with her, pretending to enjoy such activities. Our relationship almost came to an abrupt end as she pointed out and named different plants for me to enjoy and appreciate. Yawn. "That one over there," she informed me, gesturing to yet another green plant, this one with small purple flowers, "is the Deadly Nightshade." Isn't she dramatic, I thought to myself, scanning the foliage hopefully for a Pepsi machine. It wasn't until later that I discovered that Jeanne wasn't tossing around unnecessary adjectives. Because of Jeanne, I know that Dame's Rocket and Phlox are similar but not the same. Because of me, Jeanne can remember most of the rules to euchre.

Jeanne loves to garden; enthusiastically creating an herb wheel in her yard. Get this: she had her swimming pool REMOVED in order to install a bunch of spices that you can get for ninety-nine cents at the grocery store. How can I be friends with this? Her sister, Ann, just spurs her on. I occasionally visit Ann's blog, http://cassidyhillgarden.wordpress.com/, dedicated to gardening, just because I admire her incomprehensible enthusiasm about the subject. She writes about "changing the character of the backyard" and delights in the blooming of hostas. She and Jeanne swap plants like little boys swap trading cards. I like to look at the pictures of her kitty-cats. My husband, Brad and Jeanne can talk for hours about gardening. Their favorite subject is raised beds. Yawn. I refuse to acknowledge the presence of the Mosiman garden. Despite his numerous efforts, Brad has never successfully found a grape or cherry tomato small enough to satisfy me. Brad has another version of the following incident but the true story is that, one day, while I was sacrificially eating a salad made with lettuce grown from the garden, I consumed a slug. From that day forward, I vowed NEVER to eat anything grown from the ground unless it had been hauled hundreds of miles in a tractor trailer, bundled together with the strongest rubber-bands known to mankind, and wrapped in plastic. Similarly, I won't eat fresh fish unless it has spent the night in my freezer first.

And today, just when I thought it was safe to go back into the garden...well, actually, the berry patch. I am blessed with a blackberry bush that beckons just a few feet from my parked truck. I get home from work, walk six steps and start grazing. Couldn't be happier. Later in the day, Brad and I visited another berry bush at a less convenient location on our three-quarters of an acre property. Wrestling a prickly pine tree for the fruit, I gathered up a handful. I popped one in my mouth when a tickling along my palm caught my attention. Horrified, I pitched my handful of ant-covered blackberries and began dancing around, screaming that I ate an ant or maybe even a colony. I know what you're thinking but it turns out that it's a lot easier to give up lettuce than it is to abstain from blackberries. Once the ants had disbanded my berries, I picked them up off the ground and, after careful inspection, gobbled them up.

Brad and I then walked down to the pond to check out the blackberry patch down there. Accessibility was greatly hindered by tall, green shoots covered with prickers. As Brad picked from the opposite side, I systematically stomped down these annoying weeds to give me ample room to reach my blackberries. Wondering what I was up to, Brad wandered around and began yelling at me. He yells at me a lot. "What are you doing," he asked incredulously. "I got rid of these weeds so we could get to the blackberries," I defensively answered. "Those ARE blackberries!" he hollered. Crushed, I looked down in despair at my stained-fingers, "now purple with love's wound" (A Midsummer Night's Dream), and, like Lady Macbeth, rubbed ineffectually at the evidence of my ignorantly irreparable damage. My green thumb, painted purple. I would be the Hester Prynne of the plant community, nobly paying purple penance for the remainder of my days.