Dad texted me yesterday asking me if I could water the plants. Yeah sure fine. I should say The Plants. My mom was a plant person. We have a room in our house that may as well be alive because there are so many damn plants in it.
Dad was quizzing me when he got home to see if I had gotten them all when I made a comment about how I was surprised that Mom hadn’t written down specific instructions for all of the plants. And then I said, “Actually no, I’m surprised that her last words weren’t DON’T KILL THE PLANTS.” We laughed. Well, I laughed. Dad then started going on about the time they’d spend moving the plants around making sure they were in the optimal position. He said his life was threatened too many times over “The Bougainvillea” that Mom got when I was born. I laughed again. Its 100% not a bougainvillea (I think it’s a pothos/devil’s ivy…unclear… I know jack shit about plants).
Spring in Louisville is like Fall in the Northeast. Absolutely glorious. The excitement that comes from football and apple picking and hayrides is replaced with the Kentucky Derby Festival and dogwoods and evenings that seem to go on for ever. And of course Graeter’s ice cream.
I haven’t spent a spring in Louisville in nine years, so maybe I’m romanticizing it too much. But I have the best memories that last year riding around in our cars with the windows down, blasting horrible country and pop music, driving by the houses of the boys we liked and creeping way down in the seats so they couldn’t see us. Or going out in the evenings after homework was finished to get ice cream and sitting and talking for hours. Driving out to the country just because there was nothing better to do. Getting stoned in the parking lot before going to work at the little burger joint by the mall. Trying to figure out what our plans were for the next weekend, and who’s older sibling would be willing to buy us a handle of cheap vodka or case of bud light. We were all into college and had nothing left to do but go to prom and graduate. It felt like we ruled the world. I loved that spring.
(YES I know I just linked you to an Ed Sheeran song. Which makes me, like, THE most basic white bitch on the planet. But I think we’ve established that I really am anything but basic.)
So anyways, sadly (for my sense of responsibility AND my waistline), I’m not 17 anymore, and this season won’t be spent sneaking around with my best friend Emmie and driving 90 down those country lanes. But that’s okay. It’s bound to be filled with new, exciting things, and Emmie, though she may not be as close geographically, is always just a phone call away.
It’s pretty incredible to think about how much life I’ve lived since then.