Have you got it? That itch to get out and get your hands dirty? It hits me every year.
Of course, it doesn’t hit me like it does my dad. He gets the urge early on. Plants potatoes on March 17th. And when one of his brothers is around, they discuss how tall this is, and how’re you doing your tomatoes this year. (Answer: Cattle panel on each side, all the way down the row.)
When I hear that talk, it starts.
I have a feeling my yen to garden is not unlike what a serial killer feels when he starts wanting to get back to his hobby. “Gotta plant it. Gotta fertilize it. Gotta grow it. I just can’t feel right until I do.”
My want started during Brad’s wedding week this year. The florist brought gorgeous, beautiful, stupendous flowers. I want to grow that!
Just imagine growing that! What talent!!! (The florist didn’t grow them, but someone did. Wow!)
These came up in my yard–
–and I knew I’d be out there soon!
I woke up one morning, and saw this had magically come to life, bloomed and was trying to take over the world.
Then it happened. Here at the end of The Road That Goes Nowhere.
My neighbor is having his gardens all redone and building a deck.