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My parents were fabulous gardeners. Every summer Pop raised a huge vegetable garden - his tomatoes were to die for; his beans were sweet; his cucumbers were crisp. Mom was the flower maven - roses, peonies, iris, tulips. Together, they planted 150 azaleas in the back of our half-acre yard, turning the yard into a showplace.

I loved all the bounty and all the beauty. I'd wander through the tomato plants, pluck one right off the vine and eat it then and there. I'd smell every rose as it budded and bloomed.

I wish I could tell you that I, too, have a bumper crop of veggies and a yard full of flowers every summer.

Alas. I have a black thumb.

Believe me, I've tried. I kept plants in my dorm room. I watered them and fed them; I even talked to them.

They did not like me. In fact, all of them preferred death to living with me.

When I started dating Joe, he gave me three darling cactus plants, all with pretty desert flowers in bloom.

Guess what? Yep - they died.

I tried growing vegetables; I produced three anemic tomatoes and a couple short, skinny zucchini.

So I gave up. Instead, I frequent farmer's markets and buy fresh veggies; I beg my talented friends for their excess produce. If I need a pick-me-up, I pick me up a bunch of daisies or daffodils at the flower shop.

And Joe - because he knows I love them - buys me roses.