Friends of mine who recently returned from their annual migration to Florida, invited me to dinner last week at their home in Brunswick. Following a pleasant evening catching up over a home-cooked meal, I was preparing to take my leave when my hostess stepped over to the side table, returning a moment later with a foil-wrapped plant pot fairly bursting with sunny yellow daffodils.

“Here you go Tim,” she chirped, plunking the flowers into my outstretched palm. “I brought these home from church last Sunday. After they’ve gone by you can replant the bulbs in your garden. I knew you’d enjoy that. You obviously have such a marvelous green thumb.”

Standing in her foyer, car keys in one hand, healthy, flowering plants in the other, my first thought was: Excuse me? You “know” I have a “green thumb?” What on earth would have given you that impression?

Ever the gentleman, I kept my thoughts to myself, realizing that, in the face of such generosity it would have been boorish to point out that I stood about as much chance of successfully transplanting those daffodil bulbs as I did of single handedly brokering a lasting Middle East peace agreement.

On the drive home I ruminated on the genesis of my friend’s odd assumption. Then, just as I was pulling into my driveway, it suddenly hit me. Of course! She’s seen my house in the summertime. That must be what led her to such a wildly inaccurate assessment of my “gardening skills.” Anyone who has glimpsed the lush plantings surrounding my home would undoubtedly have come to the same logical, yet totally erroneous conclusion. “The owner of this place must possess a wicked green thumb.”

Sadly, nothing could be further from the truth. When it comes to growing things, the only “green” I bring to the party is a stack of crisp twenties fresh from the nearest ATM. It’s amazing how even the humblest garden can look fabulous when all of the heavy lifting is done by: genuine “green thumbers” like my wife; or professionals who actually know what they’re doing.

In my case, that really is the only viable option. When it comes to plant care (and by plants I mean anything and everything from a dandelion to a prize orchid) I’ve been cursed with what can only be described as a “black thumb,” a congenital condition for which there appears to be no known cure.

I first discovered that I was afflicted with this little-known malady several decades ago when, to commemorate the “grand opening” of my first art studio, my mom brought over a lovely spider plant, “To hang in your front window,” she explained, “and brighten the place up a bit.”

It did just that, for um, well maybe a week or so. Unfortunately any “brightness” associated with the normally hardy houseplant began fading the moment mom walked out the door, and despite my best efforts to revive it, the once vibrant plant quickly withered and died.

It’s been like that ever since. Virtually every plant left in my care through the intervening the years has, sooner or later (mostly sooner) come to the same bad end, an inglorious premature demise. Other than chalking it up to “black thumb,” the details of this horrendous horticultural holocaust remain shrouded in mystery.

I always water them regularly. I scrupulously follow any and all instructions provided by the nice folks at the garden center, a nip of fertilizer here, proper exposure to indirect sunlight there. Heck, I may even have talked to that original spider plant (believe it or not, chatting animatedly with your houseplants was huge fad for awhile back in the ’70s), all to no avail. One by one they toppled like so many chlorophyll soaked dominoes.

I was reminded of my malady when a friend dropped by for coffee the other day. Knowing her to be someone who actually has “a way with plants,” I solicited her input regarding one of my more troubled specimens, a Norfolk pine that had been entrusted to my keeping a few years back by a departing foreign exchange student. Apparently quite hardy, the little tree, having survived thus far, had alas taken a dramatic turn for the worse in recent months.

My question to my friend Pat was simple: “Is this plant still alive or did it die last winter?” Upon examination of the shriveled shrub she declared the evergreen D.O.A. Then it dawned on me that I’d stumbled upon a foolproof method of determining whether an individual is or is not afflicted with “black thumb.” If you have to ask someone whether a plant is dead or alive — you’ve definitely got it!