Have you ever poured over a seasonal nursery catalog, looking at pictures of such tranquil beauty that it makes your plain old thumb ache to turn green? The plants are there for the ordering, all you have to do is provide the planting and nurturing.

This is the time of year when my winter-weary thoughts turn to flower gardens in full bloom with perhaps all kinds of daisies — white, pink, some black-eyed susans thrown in for good measure — a few Canterbury Bells, forget-me-nots and cornflowers. But remember, I said “in my thoughts,” lacking the desire to get “down and dirty” plus no green thumb, that’s what it shall no doubt remain — just thoughts.

It’s those tantalizing catalogs that turn up unbidden in my mailbox that create these mind-pictures every spring but like those who “don’t do windows, I don’t do planting.” You see, when I was a child it was my grandma and mother who each possessed, luckily, the green thumbs, planting hollyhocks, cosmos, irises, tiger lilies, lily of the valley and roses galore. Even Daddy’s thumb was green so he planted a garden of things we could eat: tomatoes, green peppers, potatoes, corn and cabbage — flower and vegetable — so once again, not wanting to get my well-kept hands in the rich soil, I simply watched and later reveled in the results of someone else’s labor.

Now, pouring over each garden wish book like a scribe would over an ancient manuscript, I linger over each page until I have developed a rampant case of spring fever. Meanwhile, in my backyard, daffodils begin to show their delicate heads — they are there only because my loving husband planted them there quite a while ago. They are my kind of flower and my husband could have told you why: “Plant once and your garden comes alive every year.” At least that part of it.

As I stroll through my latest (and best) “dream” catalog I find a particularly sentimental page of old-fashioned perennials that were fodder for bringing forth memories of my childhood: Bleeding hearts, lilacs, portulaca, sweet lavender, baby’s breath and those 6-foot-tall hollyhocks Mom had planted alongside the walk and had grown so vigorously that they tended to sort of hang over that sidewalk. She was forever trying to get them to stand up straight. Now hollyhocks come in miniatures that even attract butterflies. I call that progress.

If I happened to be a dedicated gardener, instead of a page turner, you would find a huge collection of those daisies I have already mentioned and somewhere where nothing else seems to grow I would try again to grow some form of pampas grass — be it pink or white. Now they have one with new leaves tipped in pink and then fade to creamy white. Surely I could grow grass!

Right now I’ve been looking at two tempting things to grow right on my porch: carefree, hardy plants (and I am quoting) yielding tasty blueberries and as a delightful companion piece, large sweet strawberries in another container. Yours to enjoy anytime.

Those are two things dreams are really made of. I thought of trying to buy them but right now, playing it safe, I have two dependable containers of each berry in my refrigerator.

Just in case! source : www.pittsburghlive.com