Toward the end of summer, with its hot, sticky days, I like to bring some of my garden inside. Daisies and dianthus, spears of gay feather, flat cups of yarrow, long elegant lilies. I always hesitate—it seems a shame to snip them. But on a long, rainy day, or one where the heat blasts me back indoors, it’s a lovely thing to have flowers I’ve helped grow keeping me company around the house.
If I am outside, and the weeding and deadheading is done for the day, I can sit in the shade, on a bench or glider or garden wall, and just enjoy. Or I can take my granddaughter for a walk, show her the flowers, tell her their names as my mother and father did for me. I like to think I’m helping instill this love of growing things in her—and will do the same for my grandson soon, as my parents instilled it in me, and as I passed that love to my boys. My family is another passion for me, another garden full of color and bloom and unlimited potential.
Every year, from spring planting through summer bloom, through fall when my zinnias and mums give me flowers and the trees begin to flame, I’m given the gift of seasons. Through the long, cold winter while my gardens sleep, I think of what they’ll give me when they wake in spring, and what I’ll give them. When the first crocus pops its brave head out of the frosty ground, I know soon I’ll be digging up rocks, chasing deer, pulling weeds, wandering through my gardening center to see what I can ‘t resist this year. And watching life renew, watching hope while I plant.
In the garden is joy and beauty, work and reward. I hope you make your own.