Read by Michael Flamel

Gardening is about patience. You learn to live by the seasons, marking time by sunrises and sunsets until the next hard rain. But sometimes, you strike gold. You find that special place in your backyard or on your farm that grows anything, no matter what time of year it is. I found my gold mine right next to the concrete patio in my backyard.

It was a long strip of soft yellow dirt—1-foot wide, 5-feet long—where I decided to make my dreams come true. Last Summer, I planted a row of Daikon radishes along this unassuming patch of land, thinking it was as good a place as any to throw away my leftover seeds. In the Fall, a small forest of stems and leaves appeared, like an oasis in a concrete desert.

I knelt down and pulled at the stem with both hands. I flew off my feet and fell on my back, a pale, enormous radish of cartoon proportions clutched against my stomach. I had struck gold. That night, nothing in the world tasted better than the rich, spicy tang of a homegrown radish.

So, you can imagine how excited I was when planting season came around in the Spring. I was going to try for carrots this time, and who knew what sort of fairytale monstrosity I’d uproot come Autumn? I’d practically have to drag that thing along like a caveman with a club.

I showered three packets of seeds into the upturned strip of earth, smoothing a blanket of soil over them with an almost paternal grace. As they settled into their seasonal slumber, I waited for Fall to arrive with the eager expectation that I would once again strike gold. I watered the strip religiously, sprinkled fertilizer on it, and studied the earth for the first hints of green. I was like a kid who wakes up early on Christmas morning to test the presents under the tree, hoping against all odds that a little wishful thinking will make all the difference.

Then, as August became September, tall fountains of green erupted from the earth, covering the gold mine in a jungle of leaves. Judging from the height of the stems, I could expect a carrot at least as tall and large as I was.

It was going to be a good day. I grabbed the most promising stem with both hands. I pulled, and a tiny, withered orange finger came out of the ground. The leaves were a good three or four times taller than the actual carrot. That day, I learned a valuable lesson: appearances, for all their wiles and ruses, can be deceptive.

I went home that day clutching the sorriest, most frazzled bunch of carrots I have ever had the inexperience of growing. Along with a tin bowl of my potatoes—which looked like the world’s ugliest Christmas ornaments—it seemed like I didn’t have much to show for harvest season.

I figured I might as well eat them, if nothing else. After a rigorous wash, peel, and boil, the treasures of my gold mine were laid out on platters on the kitchen table. They tasted much better than I imagined. It wasn’t anything like my radishes. This was different—it tasted like sweat, sunlight, and hard work. It was the taste of victory, hard won and hard fought.

My parents came downstairs to see what the racket in the kitchen was all about. I held out a plate for them.

“Look what I made,” I said. ❖

About the Author: Brandon Yu is a writer from South Florida with a passion for storytelling. When he’s not crafting tales, he loves spending time in his garden, battling the Cincinnati clay to cultivate beautiful sunflowers. He is thrilled to share his work and hopes it brings a smile to readers’ faces.