Guilty as charged. (I’m also raising my hand, you just can’t
see it.)
My father loved gardening--a trait I inherited. But I liked a variety of flowers. I love annuals for their non-stop season of
blooming. I love perennials for their
variety. But I avoided roses. Why you ask?
Because that is all my father grew in his garden. I could have overdosed on their scent wafting
in from the back yard!
Now three things in my life are making me confess: I wish I had listened.
The first is the fact that I moved to Nevada. Have you ever tried to start a garden in the
desert? Well let me tell you, that
although it isn’t impossible, it’s hard work.
In Ohio, I just jammed a plant in the ground and it grew. Such is not the case in Ohio. But I did find
that roses grow amazingly well here.
The second is my current work in process, a story called One
Last Miracle. An elderly woman, who is
trying to “arrange” a romance for her grandson, hires a companion to live with
her—a woman she feels is a good match for her grandson. The elderly woman has a
rose garden with which the heroine helps her tend.
The third is a change in my website and blog to be more “gardened
centered” . . . more news of that later.
Now it’s time to dig into my roots (excuse the pun), and
relearn what my father tried to teach me long ago.
Sorry, Dad.
Your turn: Have you
ever looked back and said, “I wish I had listened?”
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