When I was growing up in Illinois, I wasn’t interested in plants other than those which we used to hide us from view from the house. Now as my Mom’s gardening “slave,” I find that I adore spending time with the plants. I don’t particularly like the snails that spend it with me (understatement!) but the plants themselves are a delight.

Two weeks ago I prepared the “back strip,” as we call the area about two feet by ten, and dropped in seeds for another year of wild flowers. It took me weeks (okay, when I say weeks, what I really mean is a few hours on a few Saturdays when I could manage to get down here.) I missed last week but upon my triumphant return I find that the little fellers are already sprouting all over the place in the strip. Yay!

I only began caring about and for the plants two and a half years ago, but now I regularly ask Mom, “how are my plants doing?” She actually answers even though she’s the one who makes sure they get water and occasional deadheading throughout the week (and sometimes longer.)

I think it cracks her up when I arrive, even if it’s dark, on a Friday night and after her kiss, the bathroom break and the inevitable laundry lug, I dash out the front door, into the night, to check if the rose bushes have budded out or the tulips have bloomed. Well, I know it cracks her up because I overhear her say to her friend Elaine that I’m out “checking the property” or “walking the acreage.”

Meanwhile the plants grow, bloom, die back and some even come back next year. I love it when that happens!