My husband doesn’t know anything about plants. He calls them all weeds. While I have unwillingly accumulated knowledge about all things war and ordnance, he has somehow never learned a thing about gardening. It’s fine, really. I point to things and say, “Please pull that. Please cut this.”
He asks, “What about those yellow weeds?”
“Those yellow weeds are daffodils, mow around.”
Every year he asks me what he’s going to do about the tulips in the lawn. Every year, I tell him I will cut them and he can mow them over. Every year, I explain that the part that makes them grow again lives deep in the earth, and he can’t hurt them with a mower. He stares at me blankly and then says, “Cool.”
I know he wants to kill them on accounta the way he gets excited about mowin down the peonies later in the season.
So recently, this happened:
I asked The Mister, “You know that rhododendron out front?”
“You know the woody plant with the hot pink blooms?”
“Okay, well, we have a rhododendron.”
“Here’s a photo of one that’s 125 years old.”
I thought he would say, “Wow!” or “Neat!” or somethin along those lines…
No, he said, “Holy Shit, Baby! We hafta dig that out! That will ruin our foundation!”
I don’t think we need to worry about it.
Like I said, he doesn’t know anything about plants.