My Husband was a Slave Driver

Many people who know me understand that my husband is into gardening. Engineering-style, if you will. He actually reads every label, determining the optimal location for each plant, adding exactly the right amount of fertilizer. He even made a spreadsheet for each plant, its location, its growth patterns, and the amount of water it needs. :confused2: I was of the old school of thought where you just find a nice plant and slap ‘em in the ground. Once I married my husband, I was introduced to his world of gardening.

What this meant was, my weekends would involve being dragged to Home Depot, Lowe’s, and McDonald’s Garden Center. We would peruse the plants, determining whether this corner of the yard would be better suited to arbor vitae or Leland Cypress. Lilies or roses? Hostas or juniper? Oh, the endless hours of debate. My husband loves to argue, and I could always tell when he had something in mind because he’d ask, “Honey, what if we transplant all the shasta daisies from the center of the yard to the side, rip out the sod on the back fence, and make a new mulch area where we can plant dwarf Alberta spruces?”

Now what he meant was, “Honey, how about if you spend three hours outside in ninety degree weather with a hoe and pickaxe, and we’ll sweat like pigs while we argue about where you’re going to plant flowers?” :whistle:

To my credit, I resisted the urge to smack him and run screaming. :hissyfit: I’d reply, “Um…I kind of like them where they are.” (Translation: Noooooo! Save me!)

And he’d argue about how much BETTER they’d look along the fence. I learned quickly that it was easier to just let him do his thing. The results were usually worth it. Here’s a picture of one corner of the yard that he landscaped.

On the bright side, there isn’t room for many more changes. Yay for that! :hello2: