You'd think that that'd make me the perfect candidate for city living.
Well I do like the city. After all, I grew up in one, and visit them with great regularity. But I love green growing things even more. I don't mean to get all mushy here, but they're good for me. I find them soothing somehow. I breathe better. I can watch branches out my window for long stretches, letting my mind wander, without getting bored. I'm not the touchy-feely type, but I'm convinced that I'm a saner person when surrounded by living chlorophyll.
There is no genetic reason for my inability to make things grow. My ancestral lines include farmers and talented horticulturalists, on both sides. But the best I can do is cut back. You know, remove branches; mow the lawn; prune bushes---although "pruning" implies more intelligence in the process than I have. If something dies, it's gone---I am incapable of bringing new things to life.
I've tried, you know. I've planted perennials that never returned, herbs that withered, grass that turned to weeds and bare patches.
So my home does not have a well-tended garden. And until we have enough money to hire a full-time gardener, it never will. I grow what others have cultivated for me---trees, bushes, vines, grass, moss. And so long as I leave them mostly alone, they do okay. Fortunately for me.