I’m still green in gar­den­ing

READ JORDIE LYNCH’S COL­UMN, ‘TUES­DAYS WITH JORDIE’, TO­MOR­ROW

The Morning Bulletin - - YOUR SAY - HAIDEE JENKINS

NOW that it is spring, it’s time to give these mur­der­ous hands of mine yet an­other op­por­tu­nity to strike.

I have had my sprin­kler on, green­ing my front lawn and wa­ter­ing my gar­den faith­fully for about a week now.

As it al­ways be­gins, I took my­self to Bun­nings and bought some gera­ni­ums, got home, lov­ingly plant­ing them about my gar­den (lur­ing them into a false sense of se­cu­rity).

Right now, I’m at the stage where I stand at the top of the steps, prob­a­bly look­ing rather pe­cu­liar, and marvel at my rapidly green­ing front lawn, and my lovely lit­tle gera­nium ba­bies.

In my mind’s eye, cars slow down to see the beauty, neigh­bours tak­ing a ramble stop to con­grat­u­late me on the sheer mag­nif­i­cence of my bloom­ing flow­ers which are a daz­zling rain­bow of colours.

I know, just know, that soon I’ll be­come hap­haz­ard with the wa­ter­ing, “I’ll do it to­mor­row” and even­tu­ally will be run­ning to get into the house, head turned away from the crispy, brown lawn and the with­ered gar­den in shame, guilt, fail­ure and re­gret.

I sus­pect that it may just be a pocket of in­san­ity in me, re­peat­ing the same thing (try­ing to be a gar­dener) and ex­pect­ing a dif­fer­ent re­sult.

As I al­ready have an en­vi­ron­men­tal­ist in the fam­ily how­ever, there’s hope for my gar­den yet.

Yes­ter­day, Ella, Sam and I went down to the creek that runs close by our house.

“I LOVE na­ture,” she shrieked, run­ning to­wards the creek ahead of me.

Then she stopped, brow fur­rowed.

“I can see RUB­BISH,” she seethed.

She quickly got to work, col­lect­ing any rub­bish she could see and jam­ming it un­der Sam’s pram.

“I’ll put it in the bin when we get home,” she beamed.

It was when she be­gan pulling drip­ping plas­tic bags from the rocks and lurch­ing to the pram that I balked.

“But Mum, a TUR­TLE could EAT them and DIE,” she said, dis­tress etched on her lit­tle face.

What could I say to that? So I sac­ri­ficed the un­der­neath of Sam’s pram, and when we got home was de­lighted to watch Ella haul her rub­bish into the bin, plas­tic bags and all.

A friend to all of the an­i­mals and flow­ers in­deed.

In my mind’s eye, cars slow down to see the beauty...

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