I planted a garden this year. I laugh at myself as I say this, because my ‘garden’ consists of the following:
1 watermelon plant
3 squash plants
2 pepper plants
1 strawberry plant
3 tomato plants
That’s not a real garden, and I know it. But we all have to start somewhere, don’t we? My husband tilled up a little piece of ground and fertilized it with the composted waste from my kitchen over the past three years, and I planted my plants.
They’re growing; flowers on the squash, sure and steady growth from the tomatoes. And this:That’s my baby pepper – soon to be a full-grown pepper, soon to be part of dinner in the very near future.
I’m drawn to the effort of growing things these days. Even as my youngest child prepares for his final year of high school, as my two armed-forces-wife daughters prepare to take leave with their husbands, as my eldest son finds his way as an adult, as my middle child chases her bliss from coast to coast. I’m digging in.
Planting things. Watching them grow.