A good friend of mine, Miriam, was preparing for a long fall trip. The day before her departure, I called to wish her well, only to find her overwhelmed. Among her last-minute worries were some wonderful corms she had bought for spring planting but had no time to plant.
I, an avid gardener who can't bear the thought of any plant missing its chance to grow, immediately offered to plant them for her. Delighted, she promised to leave them on her back porch.
A few days later, on a chilly autumn morning, I found a frost-covered paper bag on her steps. The contents looked unusual—not like typical bulbs—but as an experimental gardener in Minnesota, I was undeterred. After careful digging and rearranging in her garden, I planted them all to my satisfaction.
Months later, over a dinner celebrating her return, we laughed about her pre-trip chaos. Then she exclaimed, "I still can't believe I forgot to put those corms out!"
Confused, I reminded her they were on the porch as promised.
"No," she said, "they're still on my kitchen counter."
A look of dawning realization mixed with amusement and alarm spread across her face. After a few apologetic hesitations, she revealed the truth: "That was cat poop. I cleaned the litter box before leaving and must have left the bag on the steps. You planted cat poop."
The news took a moment to sink in. I was replaying the image of myself lovingly planting those hard little kernels into the earth.
Miriam, trying not to laugh, finally asked, "So, where did you plant them?"
"Uh, next to the catnip," I replied.
We both collapsed into helpless laughter. To my surprise, I found myself laughing heartily.
Years have passed. Both our gardens and our friendship have continued to grow. That story has become one of our dearest bonds. I guess, true to form, I really will try to plant just about anything.