Plus, my relationship in principle to the wacky weed has grown to be a contentious one at best. Whether this is for actual reasons or just to be different in a sea of stoners is up for grabs, as usual. But the power of planting hormones overtook me. So I lovingly embedded my garage sale seeds in little round pots of black earth and placed them neatly on the sunniest windowsill. Maybe I had grown harsh and snotty in my I-don't-agree-with-you-John-Akpata anti-marijuana polemic, and this horticultural experiment would soften my soap box wee(d)totaller vigilance through a slow sprouting mother-offspring love relationship that watching something grow inevitably inspires.
Mine didn't make it. They never sprouted. Bad seeds I guess.
So I clipped some twigs from my favorite Horak apple tree and smuggled them across the border in a wet paper towel. A few days later, I climbed up the stepladder with a tube of silicone and did my very first grafts onto the scrubby crabapple tree in the yard, no knowing exactly what I was doing, but hoping the delicate cambrian layers would touch, and the silicone would provide an adequate seal for the grafts to take. Three weeks later I am happy to report, the twigs are not dead. We're having a spring heat wave and the crabtree is pushing out its leaves in a hormonal explosion. I have tossed the dried up marijuana pots and am focusing on the apple twigs. By far I prefer a good apple to a bad seed.
Meanwhile, my sister writes from Florida. She just dug a huge bunch of unexpected potatoes out of her compost pile. Some things spring to life on their own, unplanned, in a most joyous harvest 'sin trabajo'. Others take patience, intention, and work. And still others well, they just won't grow. So let go! And keep planting. And let nature do the rest.