Read by Michael Flamel

Normal people (that means nongardeners) think of the rest of us (that means gardeners) as sweet little old ladies with sunhats and flower skirts, humming elevator hits to ourselves as we putter placidly amongst our plants.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Oh, sure, we may look like the next-door Joneses of suburbia, but inside—inside we’re the Indiana Joneses of the Home Front, rolling dice against the most merciless foe of all: Mean Old Ma Nature.

I’m not kidding. Just look: We toy with frost the way the progeny of pyromaniacs play with matches.

That first balmy spell of Indian Spring hits and—whammo!—we’re popping pepper plants in the ground or setting out trays of tender ornamentals.

Sure, it’s a little early.

Yes, our official frost-free date is close to a month away. But feel that sun! Smell that air! Let’s go, sisters, it’s planting time!

That night on the TV news:

“Well, that’s all the murders, rapes, stabbings, and Elvis sightings for today. Nick, what’s happening with the weather?”

“Terry, it looks like tricky Mr. Mercury’s going to dip down to 28° tonight. That means all you normal people might want to, well, maybe shut your windows before you go to bed. But all you gardeners out there—Ha, ha! You’re in big trouble!”

He’s right! In a flash we’re up from our seats—dumping trash cans, stripping beds, pouring milk down the drain—and rushing outside. Thump! A can over the salvias! Foomp!

A blanket over the begonias! Plop, plop, plop! A de-bottomed milk carton over every tomato.

Next morn, when the tardy fingers of that treacherous sun finally melt the frost, we tally up the casualties—and set about searching for replacements. Replacements which we set right into the ground, cueing Ma Nature to drop the F-bomb all over again.

No, the way I see it, you normal people—watching TV, reading the paper, maybe playing a board game with the kids— you’re the placid, nonadventurous types.

When it comes to spring, frost gardeners are Amelia Earharts, Evil Knievels, Backyard Bonnies, and Clydes.

And we’ve got the scars—from a thousand gambles lost—to prove it. ❖