Discovered: my inner gardener

A brown thumb turns green.

from the April 14, 2008 edition

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As a mom of four young children, time to myself is scarce. Evenings that summer usually found me out in the garden alone, savoring the silence, relishing the warm, earthy scent I uncovered with every weed I pulled; listening to the satisfying vvvrip of roots ripping out of their sheaths; feeling the dark, damp loam squish in between my fingers.

If the color brown could be described, it would be the smell and feel of rich soil. Who needs Calgon when there's gardening?

Perhaps even better was the quiet time the garden allowed me with my children. As my twin daughters and I planted and then picked beans, peas, carrots, cucumbers, and squash, we had talks we never would have had in the normal commotion of our lives. With no distractions from the computer, TV, or trying to put together a meal, I learned a great deal about the girls behind the title of "daughters" just by working in the garden with them.

When a summer storm dropped hail all over my lovingly nurtured, half-grown plants, I suddenly understood the worry and dismay farmers in my agricultural community must feel when storms blow in, feelings I now had, too, only on a much lesser scale. Would my plants be flattened and all my hard work blown away with the ferocious wind? That storm gave me a new appreciation and respect for occupations that depend on the vagaries of the weather or climate. Fortunately, my little garden weathered the storm with no damage.

It was a sad day when I had to accept that my garden was through for the year, an unwelcome harbinger of the long winter months to come.

Still, going months without a garden does heighten anticipation for the coming of spring, and it intensified my appreciation of warmer weather and the potential for planting. Coming soon is that time of year when I'll be able to plant my garden and again have my own little patch of paradise – a place where time isn't an issue, deadlines are moot, and all that matters are the tasks at hand.

Although several of my ancestors were farmers, that fact always seemed remote to me. I'm a born and bred city girl, a transplant to rural life, a self-proclaimed inadvertent plant slayer. I never expected my ancestors' way of life to become so deeply a part of mine. But it seems that a penchant for dirt, sun, and seeds, and the savoring of just-picked produce isn't easily diluted, even through three generations.

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