I Hope I Do Not Murder These Peach Trees.

Today, despite working very hard at my real job yesterday, we planted four peach trees. I hope they all live. Mainly I hope that because I touched them. I tried very hard not to breath on them or make eye contact. I kill plants. I am a serial plant murderer. I have killed ivy before. Ivy. Do you know how hard it is to kill ivy? It's like I am the lamest assassin ever. STOP ME BEFORE I KILL AGAIN!

Ahem.

Right. Okay. Look, I let Scott, also known as the-only-one-who-gardens-around-here do the planty bits. Like take them out of there tubs and put them in the ground and stake them and water them. We haven't watered them yet and I'm afraid to suggest it because I do not know what I am doing.

We used King, the best backhoe in the world, to dig out the holes. Unfortunately for us, we had to put the dirt back in by hand. We put rabbit poop, leaves, dirt, and then more leaves in the holes in the hope that the trees would have everything they need to have a long healthy productive life. It was agreed in advance that nothing short of Scott's death I would not water them. That being said, I am super excited about these trees. We paid extra for more established trees, which after watching the great cheap tree die off of O' Ten, I think this was a good bet. I probably shouldn't tell you where my dad had gotten the cheap trees, but it rhymes with 'Fallmart.'

Also, adding to the cheap tree problem was the deer. In the deers mind, we had not purchased fruit trees so that we humans could eat fruit, we had made an all you could eat buffet. I do not know how much an single deer can eat in the course of the night, but I am suspecting they turn into voracious black holes bent on eating until nothing is left upon this earth but dry grains of sand and forgotten memories. Which is why I eat venison. Asshole deer.

The decision to plant peaches came about solely from the fact that I used to think I didn't like peaches. Then I had a real one. Up until last year, my opinion was peaches was that they tasted like tart, hardish moist baseballs. That is until Scott brought home a bag of farmers market peaches. I ate them until I got sick. Then we went back for another bag. And another. And then we bought a whole crate. I was eating peaches like I was recovering from scurvy. And it was wonderful.

So we planted peaches. Wonderful delicious peaches. Which we will promptly cover with netting and anti deer weapons, because I will not loose this war again even if it means I have to use car batteries and electrify the damned things.

In your face Bambi.

*That's what this world needs plant vets! I'm on FIRE today people!