Maybe it was inevitable.
My mom is a gardener. It’s her passion. She pores over gardening books and magazines, goes to gardening expos, creates spreadsheets to detail what she planted and when and how it fared each season. When we visit during the summer, if we want to spend time with her, we trail her from one flowerbed to another. Some of my strongest memories from childhood are of following her around as she weeded or watered, the grass cool on my bare feet in the golden hour before dark.
Her knowledge of plants is encyclopedic. Her gardens are a thing of beauty. But I’ve never been interested before, not really. Not until this summer, the first when I’ve had my own house and yard. I planted roses and herbs and watched them sprout up. Excitedly reported on their growth during every weekly phone call. Crooned to them encouragingly in the mornings as I left for work. Somehow I fell in love. Even with weeding–I find it very satisfying. It’s like organizing, but outside!
So on Friday, when Steve and I arrived, my mom said, "Come on." We took a trip around the house, then down to the vegetable garden, across to the asparagus, over to the berry patch. She pointed out each variety, told me whether they liked sun or shade, stopped to pull a few errant weeds. And I was fascinated.
I thought I didn’t care for peonies, but I was wrong. I’m not fond of the white ones with yellow centers, like eggs, nor the billowy pink ones. But these? Snowy white and luscious wine colors? Love. I might need some for my own garden.