Growing up, I had absolutely no desire to do any sort of gardening. Or planting. Or weeding. Or pruning. My parents would drag me to the Earl May greenhouse every Spring to buy annuals and perennials. I dreaded it. I would spend the entire hour trying desperately not to get wet or dirty, an impossible task in a muggy, muddy greenhouse.
The general public did not feel my sentiment, I guess. The masses were there in earnest — pushing and shoving each other to get the last potted fern. My mom, bless her heart, had a black thumb. Every time she’d pick out a flower, a priest would magically appear at Earl May. I think he rappelled down from the ceiling to give the plant last rights.
Ahhh, those were the days. Simpler times.
Somewhere along the way, my mom became more proficient in plant care and I became fascinated with inserting seeds in the earth and watching them sprout. Now my front yard is adorned in a colorful spray of flowers, which, mind you, I planted myself.
Heck, last weekend my friend Chris suggested we go to the Missouri Botanical Garden, smack dab in the middle of St. Louis. The old me would have found any excuse not to go. This time, despite temps being in the mid-90’s at 9am, I traipsed along for a new adventure. Clearly, Chris had been to the Garden before. He was my tour guide, of sorts.
Chris is an amateur photographer, something I love about him. He sees things in a way I never bothered to look at … let alone through the lens of a camera. His sharp eyes spy color schemes and odd angles. I can’t tell you the amount of times I was walking along with Chris and suddenly found myself 500 feet ahead of him because he stopped to click some shots.
The Gardens have a huge backstory (far too much to go in to here), but I thoroughly enjoyed my day. It was like a botany class combined with a history class … except WAY less lame. Thanks Professor Chris.
Now if you could warn me the next time I wander off the beaten path and head directly in to a patch of poison sumac — that would be great!