"Maybe I can Learn..." by Cathy Shouse

When people talk about gardening, I have a feeling of envy. It seems I’ve nurtured my brown thumb my whole life. To be fair, working with the soil never held any positive impression for me from the beginning. I grew up on a small farm and my mom had a large garden. My main memory of being in it is standing there with a hoe when I was in elementary school, hitting the metal hoe blade against the rock-hard soil to keep the weeds out from between the plants. I’m not sure if it never rained in my childhood but the ground always seemed hard.

My paternal grandmother had a passion for plants, especially African violets. She had them everywhere, on racks with multiple shelves in front of her windows. On window sills. On her coffee tables. And they multiplied. All it took was one leaf plucked from an existing flower and placed into a small dish for her to start another violet, and she always had a leaf—or five-- starting to grow.

When I got my first apartment, which was in another city, she gave me violets, more than one, she had so many. She planted them in those small plastic butter tubs. They held on for a while. I did what she instructed as far as watering them. They came with pretty purple flowers but, before long, the leaves would be brown and it was downhill from there. I guess I just didn’t have a knack for it. When I would go home, I might bring one I had about given up for dead. She could nurse that thing back to health. She encouraged me, always giving me more violets to try. Eventually, I must have told her I would simply like to enjoy them at her house. I had given up. But, I had a good life, and it wasn’t the end of the world. I always enjoyed seeing hers, and my relationship with her was my favorite thing about discussing her plants.

I didn’t really think about my “relationship” with plants until my daughter was in the third grade. I had volunteered regularly and read to her class. At the end of the year, the teacher gave me a gift. It was a plant. In the hallway of the school, as we were walking out after the last class, my daughter looked at me without any intention to be mean and said, “She doesn’t know you very well, does she?” She had spoken the truth.

Year after year, I would hear people excited about what they were growing, though. I have aunts and cousins in the local garden club. Secretly, I felt I was missing out on something.

Fast forward to a few years ago, when I saw a poster at my library for a class that would be taught by a Master Gardener and attendees would go home with seeds they had planted. I thought, “Maybe I can learn.” The informal approach might not work for me but getting educated by an expert seemed to hold potential. I went to the talk, which I enjoyed very much, and felt as though I was part of something bigger. I was joining a club I had never quite belonged in and was excited. We went to different stations and were give the correct types of soil, and pebbles to put in the bottom of little pots, and told how to keep the seeds warm so they would sprout.

I brought mine home and used an oblong piano light to keep my pot warm. I watered as I was told. When my piano light’s bulb went out, I invested in another one. (This wasn’t cheap). I kept the lightweight plastic pot on the dresser in my bedroom, which was crowded a bit by the TV on it. After weeks of this, looking for that sprout that didn’t appear, I went in and the pot was on the floor, the dirt spilled out onto the carpet. It had accidentally been knocked off, not even realizing. I knelt down to put the dirt back in. There was absolutely nothing growing and I sifted through it all. My seed had apparently not grown and gone back to dust? I wasn’t exactly upset, but mystified. I might have even seen the humor in it.

In 2019 during the pandemic, I learned that a friend from years ago was married to a man who grows vegetables from seeds and sells the plants. I love tomatoes. I love her. It had been too much isolation. My daughter and I would visit her an hour away and I would have plants that were specially tended. What could go wrong? I bought some tomato plants (a plant of kale and pesto too.) Lo and behold, the tomato plants grew! To be fair, it was my husband who watered them daily. I had a tendency to forget. (Maybe this was the problem all along?) They produced wonderful, healthy tomatoes. At the peak time, I made instapot salsa from scratch, there were so many, some of them very large, weighing more than a pound!

In 2021, I bought tomato plants from my friend’s husband, and the result was pretty meh, (as my daughter, who was in college by then, might say). Bursting with confidence, I had changed strategies, putting the plants near the house so they would stand straighter. But there must have been too much shade, and the plants grew quite large, but didn’t produce many tomatoes.

This year in 2022 will be my third season of growing tomatoes. I got a late start and ended up having to buy plants from Costco. I know it’s a long shot, given my history. But I have high hopes! And my husband is watering them faithfully every morning. 

How do you feel about gardening and/or planting flowers? I’d love to know your experience. Just hearing from other gardeners makes me feel as though I’m in the club.

~*~

Cathy Shouse writes inspirational cowboy romances. Her Fair Creek series, set in Indiana, features the four Galloway Sons of Galloway Farm. Much like the characters in her stories, Cathy once lived on a farm in "small town" Indiana where she first fell in love with cowboys while visiting the rodeo every summer. Please visit cathyshouse.com for more information on discounts and new releases and to receive a free copy of the prequel, Her Billionaire Cowboy's Twin Heirs: Christmas in Fair Creek, in exchange for signing up for her newsletter.

A Fair Creek Romance

They were best friends in high school just beginning to date when he abruptly left. Now Wyatt Galloway is home to help on the farm and raise his toddler son, since his wife died in childbirth.

The last person Wyatt wants to see after sixteen years is Sierra Delaney. He hurt her once and never wants to again. But Sierra has returned home to save Delaney’s diner, which she inherited. She’s catering at the farm when she unexpectedly meets up with Wyatt.

In addition to struggling to keep the diner, Sierra faces a recent health issue that makes everyday life more challenging, and has her questioning her purpose. When Wyatt shares his reasons for leaving, and she sees a little boy in need of a mother, her attitude softens. Besides, he's also helping her to accept and even embrace her new normal.

As Wyatt and Sierra lean on each other and look toward the future, can they find their way back to one another?

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