Last year, my garden was a disaster.
After tilling, making neat rows, planting beans and carrots and corn, it seemed I grew nothing but weeds. I was so discouraged, I swore I’d never do another.
But here I am, one year later, and I can’t resist. Only this time, I’ve tackled a much smaller garden. (Thanks for the advice, Mom; I should have listened last year!)
And so far, so good: I’ve got plants!
I want to believe I am a gardener.
But my flower-patterned rubber boots and puncture-proof gloves were no match for the invasion of thorns and dandelions and other unnamed monstrous offenders. The weeds have taken over.
The few vegetables that found room to grow were tiny and bug-eaten. Only the potatoes have been victorious. This gardening is not for me.
I called my mother. She said I cannot be a gardener and a beach-goer.
I choose the beach.
In between the rain and the thunder, I was able to do a little gardening.
There were plants that needed saving. I bought them with good intentions, but it was either too hot, too wet, or there were too many bugs to plant them.
Now, they are safely inside a pot on my front porch.
With a little luck, they might even grow.