Read by Matilda Longbottom

The day greeted me with a crisp, sunny Fall morning—a perfect invitation to tackle a long-awaited gardening project. Brimming with determination (and a touch of self-righteous zeal), I donned my gardening clothes, fortified myself with tea and toast, and set off with a bucket, gloves, a trusty spade, and a bag of 50 daffodil bulbs. Today was going to be the day.

Surveying my (mostly) thriving garden, I admired the handiwork of Past Me. Back in the Spring, she had tirelessly planted rows of perennials in front of the azaleas followed by a cheerful border of impatiens. Visitors were greeted by bursts of pink and white blooms, all thoughtfully arranged. I ignored the crispy remains of a neglected evergreen and hoped Future Me would stumble upon miraculous regrowth next Spring.

“Clever me!” I thought, smugly praising Past Me’s efforts. Yet, a pang of guilt accompanied the thought of yanking out the still-blooming impatiens. Frost loomed on the forecast, and removing them now would save Future Me from dealing with their frozen remains. So, Present Me rolled up her sleeves and got to work.

As I wrestled with the impatiens’ stubborn roots, a new idea struck—perhaps these plants could be relocated to the woods behind the house. Could they reseed and surprise Future Me with a mystery garden? Inspired, I deposited the plants gently, roots intact, into the yard waste bin. Future Me would thank me for this foresight, surely.

But as I toiled, my Past Me’s flaws began to emerge. The soil quality diminished at the far end of the garden—clear evidence of my Past Me’s laziness. Future Me chimed in, urging, “Add compost here! The daffodils will need enriched soil.” Meanwhile, Present Me muttered, “Why did I even buy 50 bulbs? What was Past Me thinking?”

Despite my grumbles, the bulbs were finally planted. My aching back and weary knees testified to my labor, but I couldn’t help but imagine the dazzling Spring display. Future Me promised grand rewards, and Past Me smugly reminded me of my joy over the Summer blooms.

As I cleaned up, two stray bulbs rolled out of the bag. Future Me gasped, “Don’t forget those!” Present Me scooped them up and set them aside. “That’s a Future problem,” I whispered. ❖

About the Author: Dory Herman-Sample is a former educator who championed nature-based learning in her schools. Now retired, she delights in the challenges of gardening in Virginia clay, continually seeking plants that thrive in shade and heat. Twice a year, Dory empties her composter, carefully rescuing resident worms before sifting her prized soil.

When not coaxing her garden into bloom, Dory writes novels that captivate readers, including “The Price of Magic” and “Poison Patty” (published under the pseudonym Kary Buchanan). Both books boast numerous five-star Amazon reviews. A proud grandmother, devoted volunteer, and self-proclaimed “compost whisperer,” Dory enjoys spoiling her grandchildren and tackling future gardening dilemmas with the optimism of someone who knows spring is always just around the corner.