by Debbie L. Miller
Winner of the 2017 Mona Schreiber Prize for Humorous Fiction and Nonfiction
“Honestly, Marge,” I say into the phone, “I don’t know how I do it. I just have a green thumb, I guess.”
“Well, I do admire your effort. You have achieved an enviable ecological balance.”
“I try,” I say modestly.
It’s true I was a gardening genius. Until the slugs came, that is. They ate their way from one side of my garden paradise to the other, spreading their slimy, shimmering snail ooze. I lived in fear of Marge stopping by unannounced and finding out what a fraud I was.
I called her back to broach the subject, without mentioning any problem. “Do you know that Addy has been having a terrible problem with slugs?” I gossip.
“Well, it doesn’t surprise me. She’s a terrible gardener. No gardener worth her weight would have even one slug in her garden.”
“I know, but, if she asksmy advice, what do I tell her?”
“I hear that beer works for some. Of course, I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had slugs in my garden.”
Like hell, she hasn’t.
