OK, so it was pointed out to me. I tend to think anything tall or vigorous is a plant. Well, it is. But not plants we want. So I hoed the squash patch after dinner in a misty drizzle, hacking and choking everything that had grown around it during the past nine days of rain. That stuff had taken root. It was sort of like tilling a whole new plot.
I wore pink-palmed gardening gloves that my aunt sent me recently, along with a copy of the memoir, An Unquenchable Thirst by Mary Johnson, who trained as a nun in Saint Theresa’s Missionary of Charity. A decidedly un-preachy and “inspirational” woman, my aunt said I’d like the book, as it tracked “the growth and maturing of a sheltered young girl into an educated independent young woman.” Her note added that the gloves were for my “foray into vegetable gardening.””It can get messy,” she said.
And I thought my foray into the city was my education…
(“Cows” by Gary)