We have a squatter on our front porch. Not on the porch, exactly. Suspended over the porch, sort of. Remember those hanging flower baskets my grandchildren gave to me for Mother’s Day? A Mama Robin is squatting in one of them.
Spring has arrived at last in Michigan. The grass is greening. The trees are leafing. Tulips and daffodils are blooming. Temperatures are staying above freezing.
It’s time for planting, and that means a trip to the greenhouse for Macho Guy and me to stock up on annual plants, both flowers and vegetables. I can already taste those garden fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, and peppers.
Outdoor plants thrive in our garden, no doubt in spite of me and because they aren’t trapped with me indoors. Mother Nature waters them and MG weeds the garden when it’s my turn to do it but I don’t because I’m writing and have lost all sense of time.
Houseplants are another story. Houseplants do not thrive in my care. Whenever I walk through a greenhouse in the spring, the fear emanating from the rows of houseplants is palpable. If they could speak, they would no doubt say, “I want to live. Please don’t let her take me home.”