Read by Michael Flamel

GGrowing up in a family where even spinach got star billing thanks to Popeye, gardening was practically in my genes. My siblings and I, forming a motley crew of garden enthusiasts, each cultivated our own green havens. My oldest sister even claimed the coveted title of “Master Gardener”—a title she probably wouldn’t appreciate but, hey, a green thumb’s a green thumb.

The real seed of my gardening dreams, however, sprouted during my days as an Able-Body seaman, navigating merchant ships through storms that made “The Poseidon Adventure” look like a Carnival cruise. Picture this: after two weeks at sea, our fresh fruits and veggies would vanish faster than a magician’s disappearing act. Suddenly, brown lettuce became our leafy savior, albeit one that would’ve been better suited for a blackout dinner party.

Now, I don’t know about you, but canned green beans were about as appealing as chewing on shoelaces, minus the fiber boost. So, in those long, veggie-less nights at sea, I’d find solace planning my own imaginary garden—a leafy sanctuary free from the culinary terrors of canned goods.

Fast-forward through enough years to make even a tortoise blush, and I found myself steering tonnage trains over the Berkshire Mountains. As a Locomotive Engineer, my life was mostly spent in the dark—both literally and financially. One or two dollars in my wallet, a penchant for nighttime travel, and a burning desire for a home-cooked meal made for a perfect storm of my own.

One fateful day, as the sun dared to peek out, I found myself on a wayward train, waiting on a siding with only a phone box for company. Armed with the secret railroad code and a key to the phone box, I called my wife. Little did I know, a train parade decided to snake around me, making me fashionably late for dinner.

Upon my grand entrance around midnight, stomach growling like a locomotive engine, I discovered a lonely salad in the fridge. “Perfect,” I thought, envisioning a light and refreshing end to my day. Little did I know, fate had other plans.

As I plunged my fork into the leafy greens, I encountered a crunch that rivaled a cement mixer. Panic set in as I realized it wasn’t a crouton but an eggshell. Cue the gag reflex, as my meal transitioned from a culinary delight to a gardening nightmare. Apparently, our compost container had reached its limit that night, and I missed the memo—a memo that would have spared me from a mouthful of eggshells and coffee grounds.

Lesson learned: when dining in the dark, always check for unexpected garden surprises. A midnight salad might sound romantic, but trust me, it’s a comedy of errors waiting to happen. ❖

About the Author: Peter Crooker and his wife live in North Kingstown, Rhode Island. Peter is recently retired from a career on the railroad where he worked as a technical instructor while maintaining a Class I locomotive engineer’s license. His other occupations included working as a merchant seaman and woodworking. He is currently writing his sea stories for publication and creating a new vegetable garden.