American humorist Erma Bombeck once quipped that when she wanted her children to take their vitamins, she threw them on the floor and commanded, “Don’t touch those.” She always made me smile.
In recent years, I’ve loosely applied this approach to planting sunflowers. (This year’s “self-seeded sunflower gallery picutred below).





It’s not the seed’s fault that they are tasty morsels before they hit the ground. Over the years, I’ve planted seeds “three to a hill” as the packet recommends, only to have them dug up the following day. I’ve started seeds indoors, but end up with leggy transplants. I bought domes to cover my plantings a few years ago, and that seemed to work, but again, the plants weren’t as sturdy.
Last year, I bought a pair of tender seedlings from a local farm stand. One creased, folded, and closed up shop almost immediately. The other eventually succumbed as well.
Then a wonderful thing happened. On the other side of the planting bed, a small sunflower plant appeared. Then another one. I couldn’t believe my luck. I didn’t plant them, yet there they were, tall and proud and happy in the sun.

I checked on them every day, welcomed the bees with whispered tones in case my neighbors were within earshot, and enjoyed those golden flowers reaching toward the sun. As the flowers faded and the seeds formed, our neighborhood squirrels knew what to do.


In this scenario, the squirrels are Bombeck (dropping the seeds), and they’re also the kids on the floor (scrabbling to pick them up). Since they can’t eat all of them (did you ever hide the last cookie from a sibling?), they happily bury a few on the spot. Your’s truly becomes the “middle manager” nodding in agreement while sipping a bevy and checking social media every ten minutes while those squirrels get to work.




The “squirrel of life” is complete.




































































































