The hours slipped by unnoticed as I wandered through the flower show, reviving my spirits dampened by rain and broken umbrellas and wet feet.
The exhibits ranged from the cacti to the old cabin and its pickup truck emerging out of the woods, to the Asian garden and the various patios that made me long to have a garden once again.
I'd turn right as an exhibit caught my eye, but I'd no sooner headed that way then another exhibit to the left or down the aisle would catch my eye.
Gradually, I realized that I was seeing less and less as the crowd grew thicker and thicker, and all of them taller than I was. It was then I wished I'd come at dawn for two days rather than try to absorb everything in one afternoon trip.
I reluctantly decided to depart but made the mistake of going out by way of the vendors. I naturally had to see the latest in pots and tools and creatures to add to my garden.
I stopped to watch a man toss flowerpots and decorate them in all manner of designs and color. I looked at him with envy and admiration, as I was, at one period, a very inept but enthusiastic potter.
I studied the planting soil but decided it might be a bit awkward to carry it home on the bus, so I took a brochure home instead. I also picked up several business cards in case I wanted a windowbox on my mammoth balcony.
I then come upon a vendor I'd been looking for. I'd bought four of his little slices of slate, complete with small frogs, for gifts, but I drew the line at buying one for me - a frugality I'd regretted ever since. Nothing else could possibly top that find, so I left the flower show.
I couldn't wait to get home to display my new, little bud vase and put my new horticultural knowledge into practice. So I returned to the gray, damp, real world and spent the trip home on the bus mentally drawing plans for a new and interesting garden.
Oh, how I was looking forward to working in that garden.
Once home, I found a sprig of greenery and put it in the vase. Perfect.
I admired my Christmas cactus and congratulated it on how well it was doing.
But slowly, as I walked toward my deck, reality penetrated my dreams. My exquisite estate was roughly a 4-by-15-foot deck, and my garden consisted of a somewhat-dead poinsettia and five 4-inch pots of primulas, slightly wilted because of a slight case of frostbite; a wrought-iron corner shelf with two decorative pieces of pottery; and a bag of potting soil.
Unbowed by this sad sight, I stood there envisioning my garden, thinking of how I'd enjoy it when spring arrived.
I took my little garden tools out of the cupboard. I checked my potting soil and my Jobe's Sticks supply. I was ready, just in case Spring decided to sneak in during the night.
But that night the temperature fell to 30 degrees, and the next morning, five of the saddest, most frozen, little primulas shivered on the deck.
My gardening career has been nipped in the bud.
Roberta Cole can be reached via e-mail at editor@capitolhilltimes.com.
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