Let's Review

People ask a lot about Flower Scout, and it's really super kind of them.

People are really super kind.

They ask at the check-out line, they ask at little parties, they ask over baby carrots or when we walk our dogs right into one another: When people know me, even just a little, they know about it.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm only made of Flower Scout. What did I talk about before her? It's like people who can only converse over their babies. Other, baby-less people love to complain about that behavior, but I bet you five whole dollars that when those complainers encounter the babied ones, the second question they ask is about that baby.

It's a way for people to connect with one another, and it's fine. Plus I like talking about Flower Scout. It's not me, not really, and it's not my boyfriend or my menstrual cycle or my job (it is my job, though) or my jealousies or my puppy or my obsession with this BBC miniseries or any of the other things I might be prompted to talk about, which are fine but somewhat less interesting.

And getting asked, on the regular, about FS helps me realize where there might be misconceptions. For example, the fact that I haven't written much since some severe whinging about bricks and slate in the soil perpetuates the idea that I'm having a pretty rough time over here.

So I thought I'd write to tell you that I'm having a really great time. Really. It's August, now, guys it's August, and flowers are just pouring from the earth, no matter how shitty a job I did putting them in there. I planted weak seedlings, held them too long in small containers and put them into stony, neglected soil. Groundhogs attacked them and it got really really hot, but it's August now and the ones that survived have perse-f*cking-vered. When I go to the garden (there are two gardens, so it's a little confusing) I'm astonished by what it has done with itself, essentially alone. I harvest buckets and buckets of flowers, until I get bored and sore-backed, and then I come back two days later and it's all ready to be hacked again.

And I only planted a third of the new space. And I bought in a load of soil that's only half spread. Grasses, clover, queen anne, lambs' quarter, vetch, chicory, and a mess of other unwanteds have spread their gangly arms all over the other 2/3rds, but it's okay. A sweet kid from across the street weed-whacked them all down for me. I never finished the gate, so the front is wide open. Sometimes I find Gatorade bottles or whole mulberry trees, in pieces. It's okay. The neighborhood kids come frolic with my dog in the grassy unplanted section. I stand and think about what I'll do with it next. My friend in the country grows a million beautiful flowers I buy from her organized hands, an example of how all kinds of communities require interdependence. The kindest humans dig perennials out of their rural and suburban yards, throw tarps on their backseats and bring me plant after plant, which sometimes make their way into the ground. Patience in all things, and a light touch.

Things are so good. Keep asking me, and I'll keep telling you.