I am the “boogey-man” of scary campfire stories that flowers tell their fellow flora when gathered around the campfire.

I am the “boogey-man” of scary campfire stories that flowers tell their fellow flora when gathered around the campfire.

Flowers fear me.

It’s true. I kill plants.

This year I’m considering doing something different I’m going all silk or all plastic, basically all anything that is not dependent on my watering and/or pruning skills. I’m thrilled with the late spring. So far I’ve been spared the jealous eavesdropping as I listen to friends wax poetic about their garden plans. I’m just now reading Facebook posts about the hours spent happily digging in the dirt, planting the countless young plants they just purchased on their glorious visit to the nursery.

As I drive through the neighborhood on my way to work, I sneak awe-struck glances at the wheeled, enclosed mini-nursery our neighbor wheels to the edge of his garage. The seedlings neatly rowed on each shelf, welcoming the sun, confident and comfortable that they’ve landed on the right side of the neighborhood.

In full disclosure I must share that shortly there will be perennials popping up in our front garden. And it appears that very soon the lilac bush in our backyard will be lush and fragrant.

These plants grow despite my glaring lack of gardening skills. The lilac bush is the offspring of a long line of sturdy shrubbery.  My mother thinned out her lilacs years ago when we first moved to our house. As the men moved the heavy stuff, my mom planted the lilac start.

The anticipated peonies, which seemingly forever will be heavily budded and just aching to bloom, are from my paternal grandmother’s garden. She is the queen of all gardeners and I’m sure could make one of those salted sunflowers seeds — the kind everyone eats at the ballpark — grow if she just spit it on the ground.
Then there’s me. My two big planting successes are, the little, potted Christmas tree we planted in the back flowerbed one winter after the holidays and the “lucky” bamboo sitting on our kitchen island.

Those bamboos are hardy; you have to really try to kill one. They’re not named “lucky” by accident. I recently became concerned about mine, the leaf tips were starting to brown a little. I was looking at some bamboo pots for sale this weekend, reading the care instructions for the plants, when I had an “ah-ha” moment. The instructions read that the plant thrived best in low light and that the soil should be kept moist to slightly wet at all times.

Duh! Water. Who knew? Oh well…there’s always next spring.

Lori Marble writes a weekly column for the Daily News.