Purloined plants provide distraction

I call it the case of the pest that purloined a pepper plant. I call it that because I so seldom get to use the word, “purloined,” and because the perpetrators remain unknown.

I put out a very small garden this year. 

Along with the usual tomatoes and cucumbers, I set out a lone pepper plant. It was a very healthy and burly plant. I surrounded it with a tomato cage, plastic forks with tines up, and a stray piece of fencing. 

At first it was fine. It liked the fertilizer that I fed it. It grew flowers and teensy fruit. I sprinkled poison on all the plants to keep the bugs away. Things were looking good. Then one day it was gone. All that was left was the rootball it came with and the plastic identification tag. No chewed stems, partially eaten leaves, or any part of the plant were left. Just a cage full of nothing. 

The usual suspects are about six or seven inches tall, furry with either long fluffy tails or short white tails. 

They are various shades of brown, gray or black. The ones with short white tails, commonly known as “cute, little bunny rabbits,” tend to gather under the spruce trees to discuss future plans for mayhem. The long tailed ones seem less organized as they dig holes everywhere and leave empty walnut shells for me to step on.

I may have discovered a secret hiding place for young squirrels. Three of the youngsters fled from under the car when I went out to further destroy, I mean prune, the lilac. Only problem is that one of them ran straight for me. He was about a foot away when he realized he was headed in the wrong direction and made an abrupt turn.

The next time I went shopping I picked up a pot-bound cherry tomato to replace the pepper. I’ll plant it later today.

I am concentrating on missing plants in an effort to avoid thinking about my brother David’s father-in-law who is in the hospital and not doing well.

David called me yesterday to tell me what was happening. I hadn’t known that he was battling pneumonia and other rather serious problems. 

Listening to David brought back Mom’s last days. All the uncertainty, the reluctance to accept the inevitable, the fruitless hope that she would rally like so many times before; I heard all of that in his voice.

It is too early to call him for an update. 

So I send up a prayer and force myself to concentrate on the replacement plant. I hope that whatever critter that absconded with the pepper plant got a good meal out of it. I also hope they don’t like tomatoes. But if they do, I will find replacements.

People are not so easily replaced. We are all in this world together, yet we are all alone. 

Nobody has the same exact life as we do. While I am complaining about missing pepper plants, someone else is waiting to find out if their loved one will recover or not. Somewhere, someone is overjoyed and another is distraught. Life itself goes on.

We also go on. We are not given a choice. All the hurt and pain never quite goes away. We simply learn to live with it. 

Just heard from David. His father-in-law died last night. He will be missed.