49 little seedlings all in a row (well, a square), happy, growing and…nameless. Well, maybe not nameless, per se.
They started out with names. Oddball names like “Japanese Black Trifeleâ€ and “Cosmonaut Volkovâ€. Names that I had found amusing and, knowing my absolutely mind boggleing ability to forget everything, I had written each one down on a neat, line piece of note book paper torn from my son’s notebook.
And as I was writing down those names, I said to myself “Hannaâ€ (and I said Hanna because sometimes in my head I am not so certain who will answer if I do not direct the comments) “Hanna, ” I said, “Get you lazy ass up and go get your laptop and type these seed names and which hole they are into a spreadsheet like you did last year. You won’t lose it.â€
I was going to type it into my computer. I really was. Then my youngest son brought home a whole stack of artwork and after I had waxed on to him about his Picasso like ability to fingerpaint, I whisked the stack surreptitiously to the trash when he wasn’t looking. I am fairly certain that my seed list was at the bottom of that pile.
It just goes to show that my second grade teacher did not know what she was talking about. Being a pack rat does indeed pay off as you will never permanently lose anything if you never throw anything away. At least it was not a computer.
So now I have 49 cute but frustratingly similar seedlings glaring at me accusingly. They have no names, no identity and I fear that I will be footing the bill for 49 sessions with the tomato therapist. *sigh* Maybe they can work in group therapy in their Compact Trainer before I transplant them to their individual pots.