It's sunny and beautiful and lovely here, much like a March day, which is a little worrisome because it is January. A week ago when it was foggy and cold and raining, I glanced out the front window on my way to my room and the fence around our deck was so wet and gleaming that it looked white, like it was dusted with snow. I almost yelled out "snow!" which is ridiculous, even though last year we got a light dusting, just enough to make a few small snowballs and to let Clover think we live in a place that gets snow. When I paused to get a good look, it was clear that there was not any snow, but the more obvious thing I noticed was that our azalea plant is really dead. For how long, I don't know, (before Christmas?) but there is no denying it or holding out hope it will come back in the spring, which is usually my lazy gardening philosophy.
Kevin is even worse. A plant can stay dead, dry as a bone, no sign of life, for months, but he will insist it is still alive. Two years ago when I went crazy at the nursery, picking out tons and tons of plants, I stopped and asked if this was going overboard. Kevin's response was "How else are we going to meet our annual death quota?" That seems to sum up his gardening philosophy.
