How a Shared Passion for Gardening Is Our Gift for Generations to Come
The sweet, intoxicating aroma of peonies vividly reminds me of the long row of these heirloom flowers adorning our neighbor's garage. The delightfully full blooms were always there to bid farewell to spring and welcome summer for as long as I can remember. The peony blooms were abundant and delightfully full, making them hang heavy on the bush just asking to be picked.
My mother loved flowers. After the peonies, the summer months would be full of petunias, geraniums, and roses, and mom would plant a random cherry tomato or radishes wherever she could find a vacant spot in our small yard. Is it any surprise her nickname was Posie?
As I grew older, I somehow managed to avoid gardening. That is until I bought my first house. We moved in during the cool spring days of March, and the only color in the unkempt yard was a few yellow and purple crocuses to the left of the front door. By late April, I was digging my first of multiple gardens in that half-acre yard. My resolve was gone. I was in love and have had a green thumb ever since—quite literally many years as I do not like to wear gloves.
The funny thing about life is how it has a way of repeating itself. Today, 46 years later, I happily guide my daughter through her first gardens. Our daily calls often consist of, when should I plant this? and is this a week or a flower?
She recently moved into her first home, and as soon as the weather permitted, she bundled up the kids and headed out to play in the dirt. Because as all gardeners know, it's more fun to work in the garden than in the house.
New Feet Within My Garden Go
New feet within my garden go,
New fingers stir the sod;
A troubadour upon the elm
Betrays the solitude.
New children play upon the green,
New weary sleep below;
And still the pensive spring returns,
And still the punctual snow! — Emily Dickinson