ABSTRACT
Every spring, I turn over a new leaf (so to speak), vowing that this year I will garden. Last Saturday, the warm sunshine and light breeze made it the perfect day to make good on this year’s promise. So I donned my rubber gardening shoes, pulled out my color-coordinated gardening tools, and headed out to plant flowers along the bank of the creek that runs through my yard. I suppose that in the spirit of full disclosure I should say that “creek” is the word my landlord uses to describe the little stream of muddy water. A cartographer would more likely refer to it as a drainage ditch. Whichever name is more accurate, I’d decided to plant day lilies along its bank. I dug carefully spaced holes to exactly the depth prescribed by the planting instructions and then packed dirt around each flower. After repeating the process several times, I stood to admire my work. Looking at the meager amount of work completed and pondering all the holes yet to be dug, I wondered why I had ever thought this was a good idea. Just then, something brought me to an abrupt stop.
