Welcome to the Garden of Weedin’

There has been so much confusion in the garden this spring that I have fallen into a state of wisteria.

Here in the Garden of Weedin’ we learn by trowel and error, mostly error – and an endless flow of bad gardening puns. Yes, as you may have suspected, we are a few plants shy of a full flat.

Most of the seeds have been planted and are starting to sprout, but I can’t exactly remember what I put where.

“It looks like Daisy and wild William are the same bed,” I sigh.

“Do all gardeners talk dirty?” the husband asks.

I give him the look.

“Well, if they are, at least they’re near the taters—they’ll keep their eyes on them.”

Another look and I shake my head.

“Still having problems with your impatiens, I see.”

“Only because you keep giving me flax,” I say. “I’m trying to concentrate. Peas stop.”

He then asks, “What kind of socks does a gardener wear?”

“I haven’t given it mulch thought,” I say.

“Garden hose.”

I ignore him, as I am studying three rows of lettuce, trying to remember which is green leaf, which is red leaf and which is butter. I guess thyme will tell.

The important thing is to romaine calm.

“Well, this will depress you,” the husband says, digging around the trellis for the pole beans.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Global worming.”

“Funny,” I say. “Could you toss that hose over here?”

“Sure,” he says. “But I think it leeks.”

“It’s time to quit joking around,” I say. “If you carrot all, you’ll help me.”

“Heard about the iceberg lettuce?” he asks.

“Yes. He was tossed in prison.”

I ignore him again. “What in carnation is this?” I ask, uncovering a toy truck buried under the soil as I prepare to plant another pack of seeds. “It’s windy,” I say.

“No, it’s Thursday,” he counters.

“Are you working weed me or against me?” I ask.

“I’m rootin’ for you!”

“Thanks,” I say. “I always knew we were mint to be. Hey, where are you going?”

“Inside for a snack. Hosta la vista.”

“Is that your fennel word?”

“It’dill do for now.”

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