I Said What I Said, I’d Rather Be a Gardener Instead

(Forthcoming Publication in GreenPrints Magazine, August, 2024)

It’s a steamy summer evening in Atlanta. My husband, Curtis, is inside taking care of our three children: Nico-9, Tanna-7, and Celeste-3. When I peer inward, it resembles a warm gingerbread house with twinkling candles in the windows. Or is that the gleam in my eye as I hurry away to the garden?

I’m covered from cap to boots to prevent mosquito bites. I snatch my favorite spade. It’s the perfect weight and length. Passed down by my Italian grandfather, Giovanni, who tended a tomato garden in Jersey for Grandma Beatrice’s precious, sweet sauce.

My worn gloves slip over my hands and I tug my hat brim down. I proceed to separate and replant Southern Wood Ferns, dark green, lustrous and leathery. 

Sometimes called plantain lilies, I separate and find new homes in the garden for my Antioch, August Moon, and Blue Cadet Hostas, with their trumpet-like flower. 

My spider plants produced a rosette of long, thin, arched foliage and are so bountiful that in addition to the tiny white flowers on long stems are “pups” that I transplant into pots. 

My Bugleweed has a sweet smell that attracts hummingbirds and pollinators like bees and butterflies. I separate it into sections and replant into different beds throughout the garden. 

I turn to my favorite magenta Beauty Berry shrubs that are food to many species of birds, as well as opossums, raccoons, and squirrels (plenty in Atlanta!) Deer also like Beauty Berry but a rare deer sighting in Atlanta is elevated to unicorn like status! I separate bushes and spread the love throughout the garden. I’m intrigued that their crushed leaves are purported to repel mosquitos.

The sky turns grey. A gentle breeze picks up and it feels refreshing. Thunder cracks and the sky opens up to a steady rain. I trudge through sticky mud like a planting zombie thirsty for blood, I mean dirt!

I’m drenched, but do I stop? No. In my gardening trance, I hardly notice. I know you’ve been there too! We rarely feel this kind of relief in Atlanta in the summer. Rain soaks my clothing, but this washes away the cobwebs and indecisiveness of my day.

I’m thankful Curtis is getting our children ready for bed, so I can hash out the day (my worries, anxiety about work, concerns about the children) in each shovel load of Georgia red clay.

I think about my Grandfather Jerry and Grandmother Margie and generations before and after them who farmed 100 acres in the Garden State and never toiled in front of the blue light of a computer screen for a day's wages.

I am happiest in my quiet urban oasis. It feels like meditation. My arms and legs instinctively know the “flow.” Considered to be the sound of my universe, “soil, clay, water, dirt” is my mantra like “Om” is to a yogini.

Dusk turns to night and I wonder if I will be caught in a neighbor’s headlights while they drive by. I worry if they will think I’ve snapped and “lost it.” I trudge through the mud into our back patio where my spider plants are enjoying life outdoors. I flick on the market lights strung onto our pergola to light the way. But my son Nico is still awake in his upstairs bedroom and curious about what I’m doing. He knocks on the window and shouts, “Mom is all wet! Mom is digging in the rain! Mom, I hear the loud music playing on your phone!” I feel a bit shy, like I should be more “responsible” so I come in and freshen up.

I quickly change into my pajamas and soft robe. I tuck in the children with a kiss and hug. But, a new energizing feeling ripples over me.

I lost something out there in the dark garden. Maybe I let my guard down or took off that mask of being a mother or forgot my trustworthy educator badge. Maybe I lost that person for an hour and found someone else. I think she was there all long, I just had to do some pruning to find her under the lush foliage. 

Mom may be a little nuts for gardening, but that’s a good thing, right?! Did I mention the kids' nicknames are: Oakley, Juniper, and Iris? Nuts for gardening indeed! The hand-painted sign on our door, adorned with acorns reads, “Welcome to the Nut House!” It is where you and I belong.