Alright, so I’m sitting here, trying to get through this blasted crossword, and up pops “fertilizer type.” Six letters. And my brain just goes completely blank. You ever have those moments? Like your head’s full of cotton wool. It’s not like I don’t know anything about fertilizer. Heck, I’ve killed enough plants in my time to be considered an expert in what not to do.
My first instinct was just pure panic. “Fertilizer type”? That’s like asking for “a kind of weather.” Could be a million things. I started picturing that aisle in the garden center. You got your miracle grow stuff, all blue crystals, promising tomato plants the size of small cars. Then there’s the organic aisle, full of bags that smell like, well, let’s just say they smell earthy. And they cost twice as much, probably because they’ve got “eco” written on them somewhere.
I even thought about that disaster last spring. My neighbor, old Mrs. Higgins, bless her heart, she’s got a thumb greener than Kermit the Frog. She told me, “You gotta feed your petunias, dear!” So I grabbed a bag of something. Had numbers on it. 10-10-10, or 20-20-20, who knows? All I know is my petunias went from looking a bit sad to looking like they’d been napalmed. Crispy. Dead. So much for “feeding” them. Pretty sure I bought plant cement.
- So, “CHEMICAL” was my first guess for the crossword. Too long.
- “ORGANIC” then? Six letters. Yeah, that fit. But it felt… lazy. Like the crossword setter couldn’t be bothered to think of a real one.
- I almost wrote in “POISON” after that petunia massacre, but pretty sure that’s not what they were after.
This whole fertilizer business is a racket, if you ask me. Everyone’s got a secret formula. My grandad, he swore by something he got from a farmer. Said it was the only thing for his roses. Probably something completely illegal now, knowing him. But his roses were amazing, I’ll give him that. He never bought a fancy bag in his life.
Anyway, back to the stupid puzzle. Six letters. “Fertilizer type.” And then it sort of drifted into my head, probably from memories of grandad’s slightly pungent garden. What’s that really basic, farm-y stuff? The kind that’s been around forever, before all the scientists in white coats started messing with it?
MANURE. M-A-N-U-R-E. Six letters. It’s definitely a “type.” It’s certainly… organic, in its own special way. And it just felt right. Old school. No nonsense. I scribbled it in. Checked the down clues. Yep, that was it. The M from “MYSTERY” and the R from “RARE.” Perfect fit.
So, that’s how I cracked that one. A trip down memory lane, a flashback to dead petunias, and a bit of grandad’s wisdom I didn’t even know I had. These crosswords, man. They’re not just about words; they’re about dredging up all sorts of weird stuff from the back of your brain. Now, if only I could get my actual garden to grow as well as my crossword skills.
