I can kill a plant just by looking at it.

My grandmother–the amateur botanist–spent most of my childhood reassuring me that I was not cursed, and sending me home with various clippings to start plants of my own. In my time, I’ve killed day blooming cactuses and night-blooming cactuses and African Violets (which, admittedly, had no chance to begin with), wax plants, spider plants, plant-plants, bromeliads, and even philodendrons.

I did the best with outdoor plants. I can do roses, and sometimes crocuses, and my forte, Kentucky Blue grass. (I have thousands of Kentucky Blue grass plants, most of them doing quite well, thank you.)

Ultimately, though, I’m just not good at gardening. I’m the person who spends all spring watering, and fertilizing, and hoe-ing, and winds up with that one tiny strawberry about the size of your fingernail, and mostly still green as the over-ripe parts start to rot away.

I got to spend plant-time with my grandfather, too. He didn’t actually grow anything, but he’d settled neatly into his role as head-procurer of manure. This is an especially honorable and important role in the household of a botanist who does not own a farm or ranch of her own.

I carried the bag on long treks through the pastures, while my grandfather picked up the chips for, well… whatever gardeners use cow chips for. (No, I never got that far.) I don’t remember talking about anything in particular, but I do remember the words to the cow-chip song. Those odorous cow-chips. Those hash-cooking cow-chips.

They arrived with a trunk load of gifts, and they left with a trunk load of cow chips and sand.

Isn’t that what all grandparents do?