For a while in the '70s, people were advised to talk to their houseplants to make them feel loved. This was ridiculous, but the '70s were ridiculous; if you want to imagine the decade, envision a guy with gorilla-pelt chest hair flowing out a robin's-egg-blue pantsuit made entirely out petrochemicals, saying, "You're a cool dude, fern" to something hanging from the ceiling.
Yes, people believed that. They probably thought that plastic plants could be encouraged if you wrote a note and tucked it in the pot.
Talking doesn't work. But maybe threats will.
Last year I put down a lot of seed. And by "put down" I mean I criticized it to the garden store salesman because it hadn't worked.
"Did you water it?" he asked, and I was tempted to stare at him with a look of incomprehension.
"What, you mean, did I give it the life-giving fluid all plants require to maintain systolic pressure and perform photosynthesis? No, but when I walked the dog and passed the spot I'd patched, I spit on it now and then."
That's what I wanted to say. But, of course, I just nodded.
I had also fertilized it, because seed + dirt + sun + water isn't enough. America was a vast sandy desert before the Pilgrims showed up and invented granulated, time-release fertilizer.
