I live in the Pacific Northwest where a person is judged not by the content of their character, but by the size of their garden.

When my family transplanted from the Nevada desert to our Oregon oasis I had one simple dream. To one day become a green thumbed, garden growing maniac just like everybody else. I realize now that I am garden challenged and the only thing that's green is my envy.

Before we unpacked a single box in our new home, neighbors arrived on our doorstep carrying baskets filled with their garden goodies. Within weeks I was addicted to the fresh homegrown taste of green beans, tomatoes and zucchini and quickly realized that in order to sustain my veggie habit, I'd have to grow my own. No problem. All I needed was a few seeds and a bag of some cow's doodie. Mother nature would handle the rest.

After weeks of careful planning, plotting and preparation I was ready to begin planting. Our neighbor, Courtney, watched as I opened the first packet of seeds. "Ohhh, what's that?" she asked.

As I called off each item, she kept saying, "You know, I don't think that'll grow here." Undeterred by her pessimistic attitude, I planted it all anyway.

The days slipped by and green things started poking their heads up out of the soil. There were radishes and carrots and corn and beans and it was a glorious sight to see!

And then, one bright June morning, disaster struck. I went out to visit my lovely growing garden and discovered that the only thing left standing was one spindly little corn plant and a gigantic pile of poop.

At first, I thought perhaps the cow spore had been reproducing on it's own, but then I recognized the footprints and realized the poopetrator was Courtney's dog! She was right. My plants wouldn't grow there.

Determined to enjoy the fruits of my labor, or at least a vegetable or two, I installed an electric dog-proof fence around my remaining corn plant. Over the summer I fought off killer slugs, had close encounters with fungi and survived a skirmish with six huge beetles from hell. The corn stalk survived and grew quite tall, but looked kind of droopy.

In August, my Aunt Sharon came for a visit. I shared the story of my little corn plant's near death experiences. Aunt Sharon smiled, nodded and asked, "How often do you water it?"

Water it? In Oregon? It never even occurred to me! I immediately ran inside for a glass of water.

When I returned, Aunt Sharon held up her hand and sadly said, "I've got bad news."

My voice quivered as I whispered, "Is it too late?"

"Your corn plant" she quietly said, "is actually a large clump of grass."

As I burst into tears, she placed a sympathetic arm around my shoulders and said, "Try bulbs, Kate, it's really hard to screw up bulbs".

Since the grass clumping incident, I've murdered scads of vegetables, bunches of wild flowers and yes, even bulbs and all I really want to know is... when's the next meeting of gardeners anonymous?

Next year, if you show up on my doorstep with a basket of harvest to share, please don't say...

"It's practically growing by itself! We can't possibly eat it all."

Because... I may lose control and bean you with your homegrown zucchini!

Kate Taylor
Snickerdoodles
Weekly Syndicated Humor Columnist
Snickerdoodles -http://www.kathrynrosetaylor.com
" Guaranteed to Make Your Doodle Snicker!" ~ ºÜº ~