Today G and I performed the annual exercise in futility we like to call "gardening" on that blasted heath we like to call a "backyard." We planted six alyssum, twelve blue lobelia, and six of something with purple and pink bell-shaped flowers whose name I forget at the moment. I expect them all to be brown, crispy and shriveled by the second week in June, even though I dug two bags of rich, new soil into the flowerbed before we started. The only thing that has ever survived in that flowerbed is the world's most tenacious rosebush, which was there when we moved in five years ago. It's mostly sticks and thorns with a few bug-nibbled leaves, but occasionally makes an effort and produces one or two enormous red roses. (You go, rosebush! Fight the power!)
I just want something to grow out there. Anything at all. I'd settle for weeds, as long as they were green weeds, I swear.