As far as we know from history, Mary had a fair bit of help growing her garden. Maybe too much considering its horrific outcomes. For most of us, gardening (or writing, or any other intense project) is hands-on, which means we personally get more out of it.
My grandfathers gave me their love for gardening. Both had town jobs. Mom’s dad added the chlorine to Vancouver, Washington’s water supply and sometimes climbed tall water towers to check on things. I was sad as a kid when he wouldn’t let me climb with him. He bought a farm he loved with acres of evergreen trees and cows and a dog and said he’d rather gaze at his fields than eat. Dad’s dad was a creative machinist who stood on cement 40 hours a week but afterwards loved spending energy working on his farm. Both cheerfully planted gardens and exulted as this year’s produce beat last year’s records. Sometimes I helped them and learned more than I realized in the process.
This year, Minnesota’s weather has been crazy—late surprise snowfalls, soil too cold to plant. A week ago when we finally got a sunny day without rain. I worked long and cheerfully thinking I’d complete the second half the following day until the 5 o’clock weather report announced that our sunshine would end and that cold rain would return. That made me rush back outside to labor until dark, finishing last touches the next morning, after being glad to find my rain poncho. Every last thing got seeded and the rhubarb harvested just as a steady downpour arrived. Ideal growing conditions, some say. I discovered aching muscles I didn’t know I owned but smiled with satisfaction. I had dirt under my fingernails. Both grandfathers would be proud.
There’s a wide range of gardening levels from master gardeners with vivid green thumbs, to deck container gardeners, to those who carefully nurture a single house plant or two. Every level counts. I take no credit for the amazing orchid in this photo. A new neighborhood friend gave it to me. I’ve never seen one with so many open blooms at one time!
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