When I was a kid one of my chores was to water Mom’s garden, which would have been no big deal except that it was – or at least felt like – the size of a football field (an exaggeration, but only slightly). Tending to all the petunias and geraniums and potatoes and kale was exhausting. And for what? Fresh flowers and produce three months out of the year? The logic eluded me, and I swore to my mother at a very early age that I’d never have a garden. “Okay,” she said, smiling. “We’ll see.”
Well. Go ahead, universe (and Mom), laugh away – because it turns out the green thumb I’ve always despised is the same one I somehow inherited. Not only can I plant things – I can actually keep said things alive for a really long time (which, for someone who harbors a few less-than-pleasant garden memories, is a blessing slash curse). Here’s the real kicker. Since everyone knows green thumbs can’t be wasted, I have a moral obligation to use it. (And I’ve read Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird one too many times to deny any and all moral obligations.)
The irony doesn’t stop there. I started planting flowers about three years ago and since then I’ve actually grown to like it. Maybe it’s always been buried inside me – a silent bud waiting to bloom (gag-worthy pun totally intended) – but I kind of get it now. There’s something magical about planting a seed and watching it grow. Somehow I missed that magic when I was twelve.
Today Geoff and I planted our first vegetable garden. Carrots, green beans, raspberries, and a plethora of other “Savannah-unapproved” goodies await their triumphant debut and the anticipation fills me with excitement.
Looks like Mom wins again.
Mother knows best 😉
Love you!