I believe one of the reasons I was put on this earth was to appreciate the people who have green thumbs. My own efforts at gardening are notoriously pathetic and I won’t bore you with the great pea and cabbage disaster of 1988. Suffice to say the moose got their vitamins, and I got a lesson in humility I’ll never forget. I also threw a tantrum and cussed some, but that’s another story.
Since then I have become a sort of Zen gardener, not one who rakes gravel and meditates on the intricate patterns, but one with a rich fantasy life filled with visions of brilliant tomatoes, robust zucchini and carrots that are firm and sweet. I imagine bushel baskets filled with squash and onions and potatoes, all lined up on my porch, waiting to be canned or frozen or served for supper to a gang of ravenous farm hands. The fact I don’t can or freeze anything is a small detail I conveniently ignore and I can’t remember the last time a single farm hand stopped by for supper, let alone a whole gang.
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