My uncles have a swell two-story in south Minneapolis. Built into a hill, the house is surrounded by beautiful terraced gardens. Tom’s the green thumb. His partner, Einar just appreciates the view.

Every summer, they spend a month with friends and family in Norway. When I was in collage, I was more than happy to house-sit. Central air, cable TV and a full wine rack are rarities in student housing.

Before departing, Tom would walk me through his do’s and don’ts (while Einar rolled his eyes). Instructions for the house took five minutes. Instructions for the garden took an hour.

“Water only in the morning… Do not turn the hose on full blast… Use this sprinkler for these plants… This other sprinkler is only for the rose bushes… If it rains, check the rain gauge… Don’t forget the herb garden… Blah, blah, blah…”

At the time, I thought he was being unreasonably anal retentive.

Okay, okay, I get it. Water. The. Plants. How hard can it be?

But now, as I prepare for a long weekend in Chicago, I tempted to leave just as many gardening instructions — with our cat sitter.

Yeah, yeah, feed the cats, whatever. Now, let’s talk about watering the potatoes. There’s a timer on faucet and the soaker hose…

Is it wrong to ask my cat sitter for a little garden help? Who watches your garden while your on vacation? How many instructions are too many instructions?

(Ten years later, my uncle still teases me about killing his dwarf hydrangea tree. Greengirl, indeed.)

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