|Further evidence of my mom's green thumb|
My mom has a green thumb which I did not inherit. By all appearances, it would appear to be such an essential part of her nature that it comes effortlessly to her. For example, it seems that the care she lavished on this cactus amounted to: sticking it in a nice pot, putting the pot in a spot which would appear to me to be strange but which the cactus appears to love beyond all understanding, and then to splash water in the general direction of the cactus at an ideal random, sparse interval known only to her and the cactus, as if they are members of some sort of watering conspiracy, a secret hydration cabal.
In contrast, if I were to undertake to nurture this cactus which I would not do out of an excess of previous disastrous attempts, the cactus would turn brown and wither away within two days. That may sound unlikely, since cactus are incredibly resilient and able to withstand monsoon storms, droughts which last for years, flash floods, and birds boring holes into their cores to nest, but I am nothing if not knowledgeable about my own limitations.
But I'm not giving up. Under the theory that it's actually skills and knowledge which my mom possesses which enable her to grow and nurture plants, and not just some innate ineffable glow of life force, I plan to have a sitdown with her to pick her brains in an effort to find out more about how she does it. She has more thriving plants of far greater diversity scattered around her house and yard than I have bicycles, which says a lot.
Possibly, gaining some understanding from her about how she does it would help me along the path of building my own bicycle frame. I am not sure exactly what the logic is behind that odd-sounding belief, but when I stare at that photo of that odd, happy cactus with its sensuous, flowing curves which represent some sort of loving, exuberant relationship with gravity, it somehow makes sense to me.