No need to dust for fingersprints

The two window boxes looked desolate. The dead leaves from last year’s flowers could not cheer up the purple and blue flowers on their white ceramic background. I searched the marché to buy replacement flowers and grabbed petunias thinking they were pansies. Okay, I am not a great plant person. I do know purple and planted the flowers.

My neighbor Madame Martinez stood by watching. She has one those open faces that breaks into a smile at the drop of a bonjour. A real plant lover, last year she talked me through each of my attempts to bring nore plant life to the street that is a floral wonderland. “Not enough dirt,” she said referring to the left box as I patted the petunias into the soil.

“I know. I’ll get some later.”

Her husband went to one of the two royal blue containers that flank my front door. “Papillons ate your geraniums.” He pulled out the dead plant and showed me where the little buggers hollowed out the inside. The rest of the calf-high planters was weed-cover but at least it was green. (The other planter has a tree which hasn’t succumbed to my neglect.)

I am still not sure if the Martinez’s applaud my attempt to no longer be one of the only houses on the street not to have flowers or despair for my black thumb or both.

I went in and did some things. By the time I came out again, one the planter with not enough dirt was emptied of my new petunias. My first thought was they were stolen, but then I saw the weeds in the blue planter had been replaced by the momentarily missing petunias. I didn’t need to dust them for finger prints to know that Madame Martinez had been at work. I must remember to say merci before I return to Geneva.