Black thumb, but green appreciation

One of the things I love about Shelbyville is the landscaping. From elegant old houses to downtown merchants, the flowers and plants are just beautiful and they subtly and sweetly tell visitors, "We take pride in our appearance."

I like flowers and gardening the same way I like Xtreme sports -- it is so much fun to watch other people doing it, but it isn't something I want to do myself.

Bungee jump off a bridge, water a hydrangea -- yep, they're right there in that same category and for the very same reason. I have a great respect for life. I won't be diving head-first off a bridge with a rubber band tied around my ankles because I respect my own life and I won't take on the responsibility of a flower because I respect the plant's life.

To me, those people who can take a plant, nurture it, make it grow and even make other little plants are true miracle workers. I can't even grow mold in my fridge. (Of course, having three sons with life ambitions of being Food Hoovers might explain that.)

My husband has the green thumb in the family, and our 9-year-old appears to be the only one taking after him. He loves to grow plants. His 18- and 16-year-old brothers just grow bored.

I get flowers and plants for special occasions, as do most moms and wives. But how many of them only get to hold the plant for one trembling second before it is snatched away to safety?

I'm so glad there is not a PETA-type organization to prevent the wholesale slaughter of houseplants, or I'd be in deep humus.

I tried once, when I owned a little cottage in L.A. (That's Lower Alabama) and I bought ferns and palms, hibiscus and mandevilla. Luckily for them, my husband finally sold our old home and moved down to join me before I murdered them all.

But just because I can't dance doesn't mean I don't appreciate ballet. I can't paint like Van Gogh, I can't sing like Judy Collins and I can't even grow flowers.

But I sure love it when others do.