A Tree Grows in College Town

People, I have been patiently waiting EIGHT long weeks to share this one.

And before I go any further, I must begin by saying that my Dear and Loving Husband possesses many skills and great qualities. He is a fantastic husband and baby daddy. His dedication to learning to play guitar is inspiring. He can sew up bloody body parts without gagging. And he really is quite the gardener.

In spite of the following story.

We have a large window in the front of our house, between our garage and our front porch, with some shrubs and flowers and mulch, very suburban-esque and rather inviting.

But something was missing. It needed some height. Something to provide just a bit of privacy, but with style. Pizzazz. A little ornamental foliage to stand out among our otherwise khaki neighborhood.

Dave decided upon a Japanese maple. I agreed without hesitation as, so far, he had batted nearly a thousand with his lawn, garden, and landscaping choices.

(Except for the cottonwood he tried to plant in the front yard last fall. He dug it up from along a bike path early one morning and brought it home. It hung on to one dead leaf all winter long and, despite Dave’s pleading and begging, never turned green again.)

(But we don’t talk about that.)

As he began his search for the perfect Japanese maple, however, Dave found they could run hundreds of dollars more than he had hoped to spend on this tree that would greet visitors and passers-by alike, providing all who view our house with a first impression of its inhabitants. He had all but given up hope, when he came across a website selling trees – root, trunk, branches, and leaves – online for only forty bucks.

Did I mention online bargain-shopping is another one of his many, many strengths?

I was the only one home when the delivery was made. The FedEx guy came to the door sporting the same cross-eyed grin I got when he brought me my Miracle(-less) Suit last year and holding a box that appeared to contain a golf club.

“Good luck,” he chuckled.

Too afraid to open it, for fear my two brown thumbs would rub off on it, the boxed-up Japanese maple waited for Dave to free it and plant it later that evening.

The day rolled on like normal, picked kids up from school, broke up a few fights, made dinner, begged people to eat it, and cleaned up the kitchen while watching the “Idol” finale. (Adam was totally robbed)

It was during this time that Dave unpackaged and silently planted his tree.

“Well, they said to give it six weeks to really fill out,” he told me as I walked to the window to see it.

I stifled a laugh the best I could.

“How much did you pay for this?” I asked, looking at the supposed Japanese maple. I had never seen anything like this. Planted in the ground. By a grown up.

“Six weeks,” he replied, “not another word for six weeks, please.”

So I have kept this little gem to myself.

Until today.

Eight.

Whole.

Weeks.

Later.

This is what grows (I use “grows” loosely, mind you) in front of our house today.

Do not confuse the “tree” with the dowel rod holding it semi-upright.

Dave suggested we give it time.

My mom suggested we give it Viagra.