Read by Matilda Longbottom

There are treasures in life that we hold dear, and for me, my four grandbabies are like pure gold. I was fortunate to be present at every one of their births—well, except for one. That time, I was far away, recovering from not one but two surgeries. Over the years, I’ve written garden stories for three of them, and now, as I set out to write this fourth story, I feel a pressing need for “Piecie” to have his own tale. After all, every grandchild deserves their moment in the sun!

Piecie is the affectionate nickname we gave my youngest grandson, Reece. The name comes from his favorite candy—yes, the one with the peanut butter and chocolate pieces. Reece is nearly 20 now, and I have to look up at him when we talk. But this story is about a younger Piecie, back when he was just a small boy starting Pre-K.

That Spring, Piecie’s family planted a garden. It was a beautiful patch, brimming with promise, and each family member had their part to tend. Piecie, a tiny bundle of golden hair and curious brown eyes (Those brown eyes, I’ll have you know, came from my side of the family.) was entrusted with a potato patch. He took this responsibility very seriously, diligently watering the patch and watching for the first green sprouts to poke through the soil.

He was fascinated as the plants grew tall and vibrant, then turned brown and toppled over, signaling it was harvest time. His daddy showed him how to dig for potatoes, and Piecie was a quick learner. He spoke surprisingly well for someone who was still mastering walking, and he carried himself with a sense of pride that belied his small size.

The family’s garden was a success, yielding tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, and a fine crop of potatoes. But the real magic came in September after school started. One afternoon, Piecie hopped off the school bus and ran into the house with pockets full of treasure—his own potatoes!

From one pocket, then the other, he emptied his precious harvest onto the kitchen counter. Red potatoes, ranging in size from marbles to golf balls, gleamed under the light. Not a single one had a scratch, even after surviving a full day in the bustling pockets of a lively schoolboy!

Together we scrubbed those potatoes. Piecie chattering all the while. I boiled them and steamed fresh green beans from my garden, lightly seasoning everything with butter and a pinch of salt. The result was a simple but perfect meal: Piecie’s potatoes and green beans.

When I placed the plate in front of him, his face lit up with pride. The look on his face was enough to make angels in heaven smile. Piecie, my youngest garden helper, had grown this meal with his own two hands, and it was a joy to see him savor every bite.

Children need these kinds of moments—memories that root them in love and joy. I write these stories for my grandchildren so they’ll always have them, like keepsakes tucked into the pockets of their hearts.

Today, Piecie is 20, towering over me but still wearing that same impish grin when I call him “My Piecie.” I’ll never forget the day he delivered his prized potatoes to the grandmother who loves him beyond the moon and stars.

And if you ask him—or any of my grandbabies—whom I love the most, each one will tell you, “Me.” That’s the magic of being a grandmother. ❖

About the Author: Lady Mo Pascoe-Hoyal, is a published writer, songwriter, avid gardener, and lifelong Equestrian residing in Central Louisiana. Despite facing various challenges, including disabilities from multiple accidents, Mo remains an ardent advocate for growth and resilience. Inspired by the spirit of aloha and the beauty of nature, she continues to find solace and joy in the art of gardening.