Pansy

So my head is getting kind of swollen these days. It doesn't take much. I'm always looking for an opportunity to feel good about myself and my neighbors keep complimenting me on my flowers. I put in some pansies last fall because I found them at Lowes, they were a buck fifty for six, and I would otherwise have had a four foot by seven foot patch of weedy dirt. I got some white pansies and some yellow pansies to fill the space for less than ten dollars. Things went a little rough on 'em at first. We were in a drought. My soil is made of clay. Small feet liked to trample them. We were on the cusp of winter. I didn't think they'd make it past the first few weeks. A couple of the whimpier pansies up and whithered and died on me. It sent me into a bit of a panic because it was two white plants that bit the dust which left me with some serious color inequality. I felt for sure it was the end of any neighborhood cottage-garden distinguishment.

But those pansies persisted as pansies will do. And this spring, good gosh a'mighty, they have filled out, spread out, and told the world that they are something to behold. I thought for sure this spring I'd clear out the pansies and put in petunias. Petunias? Petunias? Oh how far the petunia has fallen for me in the face of the pretty and procreant power of the pansy.

I'm going to tell you the truth. Its in my guilt-stricken nature to have to confess the truth, so I'll tell you if you won't tell anyone on my street. I know next to nothing about gardening, I'm not all that dependable when it comes to making artistic decisions, and I don't have a great track record on keeping things alive. It's a miracle the whole darned pansy thing worked out for me. But my neighbors, they think I'm a well-studied, much practiced, gardening genius. And I'm loving playing that role.

Have you ever had fun having people think you're better at something than you really are? Share, share.