I spent yesterday morning shopping for rocks with Hubby and the Doodle. Yes, ROCKS. I paid money for ROCKS. Six 40-lb bags of them, in fact. Shiny, purdy, round ones, allegedly from a river. (Doodle loved the garden store, by the way – counting the fake owls, making bird noises, petting all the dogs, splashing in all the water displays, running inside, outside, inside, outside … And then she wanted to toss my pretty little rocks into the sewer. I said NO WAY.)
I’m not much of a green thumb. I did not inherit any of my mother’s keen gardening sense; I killed a cactus once, with surprisingly little effort. (It’s a CACTUS. Whaddya mean you’re still supposed to water it?) Case in point: I have this dinky little sandbox tucked under the eaves at the front of the house. It gets about five seconds of sunlight in the morning, absolutely no rain whatsoever and serves as an excellent potty for the neighbourhood cats. I have tried hostas, ferns, grasses and myriad “hardy, drought-resistant” flowers. No dice.
So, I bought myself some rocks. I lugged the rocks around the yard and unceremoniously dumped them into that barren Wasteland Where Plants Go To Die. It is now the loveliest little pile of rocks in the world. Now, if I could just get the grubs to stop eating my grass.