Read by Matilda Longbottom

I heard them before I saw her—my mother’s determined size-five footsteps slapping across the kitchen linoleum. I already knew she’d be wearing her red-and-white kerchief, tied with military precision. She stopped at the top of the double steps and struck her signature power pose, hands planted firmly on her hips, waiting for us to acknowledge her.

We didn’t. We knew better.

It was a typical Saturday morning, and my sisters and I had draped ourselves over the family room furniture like exhausted explorers who had just discovered the TV remote. Cartoons played in the background, but we dared not look at her. Eye contact would only encourage her.

“Well?” she said, leaning in with a little smirk. “The sun is shining, and there’s work to be done!”

Uh-oh.

We knew where this was headed.

“No playing until that garden gets weeded!” she added with a grin.

“B-but it’s Saturday! Cartoon day!” we whined in unison, clutching couch cushions like they were life vests.

She just smiled, all business. “No TV, no fun, no freedom until your rooms are clean, and the weeds are gone. Everybody gets a row!”

And with that, she made her move, heading straight for the TV.

“Nooo!” we cried, but it was too late. With a triumphant click, the screen went dark.

Out we went, sulking under the Summer sun. But once outside, I secretly didn’t mind the weeding. It was almost… peaceful. Birds were still chirping, squirrels chattered in the trees, and the morning sunlight made the whole world sparkle. The earth was cool under my hands, and every now and then, I’d lie back in the grass and stare up at the sky, watching airplanes leave trails like chalk lines across the blue.

But even with those tranquil moments, that wasn’t how I fell in love with gardening.

The Plant Bug Spreads

My sisters left home, but their obsession with plants only grew. They compared notes on new varieties with the fervor of scientists sharing breakthroughs. Listening to them, I thought maybe I’d catch the gardening bug too. I couldn’t wait for my turn to cultivate my own patch of paradise.

But no, that’s also not when I fell in love with gardening.

A Silent Summer Afternoon

When my husband and I moved into our first little house, it didn’t have air-conditioning or much in the way of shade. We’d pulled out two massive trees, hoping to replace them with something smaller. On one blistering day, I discovered it was somehow hotter inside the house than outside. Desperate, I dragged a lawn chair onto the porch, thinking maybe it would be cooler out there. It wasn’t.

Even the animals seemed to surrender to the heat—no birds singing, no bees buzzing, not even a nosy fly in the air. Everything was still, as if the entire world had decided it was simply too hot to exist. I sat, scanning the yard, hoping for some distraction. That’s when I noticed my little patch of zinnias, valiantly drooping in the heat.

Zinnias are tough. They wilt dramatically when thirsty, like melodramatic teenagers. But give them a drink, and they bounce back as if nothing happened—resilient, cheerful, and utterly unbothered. I grabbed the hose and gave my bright beauties a good soaking.

As the first splash hit the ground, the scent of damp earth filled the air, replacing the dry, scratchy smell of parched grass. Then, something magical happened. Out of nowhere, tiny creatures appeared. A moth, then a bee, then a curious wasp—all gathered at the edge of the water, sipping delicately like patrons at a garden pub. Mesmerized, I knelt down to watch. They were so intent on drinking, they barely noticed the giant human looming over them.

And then I saw it: a monarch butterfly resting atop one of my zinnias. Its wings opened and closed slowly, like it was testing out a new pair of shoes. One wing tip was bent. I wanted to fix it—so badly. But I knew enough not to interfere with delicate butterfly wings. Later, I discovered an empty chrysalis beneath the flower. That monarch wasn’t broken; it was brand new. Its wings just needed time to unfold and dry.

A Garden Party for All

They say sharing food and drink can bring people closer together. But that afternoon, I learned that it’s not just for people. My zinnias, the butterflies, the bees, the earth, and I—together, we shared a quiet, refreshing moment over a simple drink of water.

And that, my friends, is how I fell in love with gardening. ❖

About the Author: Peggy Dustin is a lover of resilient flowers, curious creatures, and quiet moments in the garden. When she’s not writing or coaxing reluctant zinnias back to life, she can be found chasing butterflies, wielding a garden hose like a magic wand, or dreaming of a backyard filled with bright blooms and happy pollinators.