by Ann Stewart Porter

Created on: May 16, 2010   Last Updated: June 07, 2010

"How much did you spend for all that?"  Mr. Honey asked. "I don't remember " I lied.  After all, when fantasy and reality collide, the whole of things can get lost in translation. "Probably too much" I heard him mutter, as he proceeded to tell me how gardening was when he was a boy . I am by nature and dream, a true gardner. I am, by reality and experience, a less than stellar dirt bargainer. " Daddy had us out in the garden too. " I countered, but Mr. Honey was well on his way to the rest of the story, even though Paul Harvey was no where in sight.

"My Dad used it as punishment. If we were fighting too much, he told us we had to go out and weed the garden awhile to burn off some mule." Mr. Honey explored onward. ' Well, that's not a bad idea, but it also explains why you don't like keeping these plants clean." I chided.  We finished the little rows which resembled a drunken driver's straight line. " Looks good.....I think." I concluded as I went to the country living potting shed table Mr. Honey had made me for planting. I just got all giddy diggity writing on those little copper markers. I finished just as Mr. Honey was heading in to watch football. I looked at the garden. I didn't want to appear inept, but there was a small issue. Where were the peppers? Where did we put the squash? Tomatoes were fairly obvious, but for the life of me, I couldn't  tell where the carrots might be.

I shoved each little sign into the ground where I thought each vegetable could  be, consoling myself that it didn't really matter any way. We all need to just get over all that gardening that requires tedious detailing. I had said that about the tilling of the ground as well. Mr. Honey had not agreed, but he had let it go. We don't have much of a growing time here in the mountains, but I still expected everything to turn out like the garden of eden. In fact, to top off the interior design of my garden, something I did consider rather needful, I had Mr. Honey make me a big old pine board sign. On it I painted Garden of Eatin and placed it at the entrance of the garden, like I was placing a flag on the moon. It felt good to wash the dirt off my hands. I could just imagine the taste of a fresh, homegrown salad. I would serve with homemade dressing and what a feast it would be!

Summer drooled on as we tended and watered, not as much as we should have, but enough to say we did it. I was worse than a kid at Christmas. When the time finally

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