by Julianne Havens

Created on: May 30, 2008   Last Updated: December 04, 2009

I was a three year old playing outside on my family's farm. Something had happened that I wanted to share with my Mom who was bent over a row of vegetables in our huge garden pulling weeds. When she caught sight of me skipping down the slope towards her she smiled mischievously and said, "Julie, look what I found". I stopped and saw her throw something from her hand towards me. It floated towards me, flipping end over end as I stood rooted in place. Suddenly, it landed at my feet, I looked at it in horror and promptly fainted. It was a huge earthworm.

As an only child growing up on a farm, there were not other children around me. I spent my summers reading books underneath my Mom's gorgeous hydrangea. I splashed in the birdbath surrounded by daisies when I was hot. I picked the honeysuckle growing on the fence and loved sucking the sweet nectar from inside. My Mother would always have mason jars full of freshly cut lilac or roses in the house. She loved working outside, getting her hands dirty, picking her vegetables from her garden, cutting her flowers to share with neighbors and family. My childhood was spent surrounded by the beauty she created with her hands. I, however never got over what was now termed "the worm incident". I appreciated the flowers and the vegetables, but could not tolerate the feel of the dirt on my hands, ("real gardeners don't wear gloves", my Mom said) and would become nauseous at the sight of an earthworm. Gardening was certainly not destined to be my past time, and I was not inclined to take advantage of my Mother's expertise and learn beside her.

My father had a massive heart attack and died. We had to sell the farm at auction. I was ten years old when we moved to a little rental cottage. It didn't feel anything like the old, rambling farmhouse we had left, and I missed my room with it's creaky wood floors and three giant windows looking out over the Elm trees and my Mother's hydrangea. I came home from school one day in early spring to find the front yard of our little cottage full of flowers my Mom had transplanted from our old house. The new owners had allowed her to dig many of them up, or take cuttings from others. Now, our new house felt like home to me. She struggled as a now single Mom, and many more moves followed our time in the cottage. It was the flowers that she lovingly took from each home that created a sense of continuity for me. Though, as I grew into adulthood, I never did share her love of gardening.

I married

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