Read by Matilda Longbottom

IIt’s a balmy Summer evening in Atlanta, and as the warmth of a gingerbread-house-like home envelops my husband and our trio of children, I slip away to the garden, a twinkle in my eye.

Fully armored against mosquitoes, I clutch my cherished spade, an heirloom from my Italian grandfather, Giovanni. He once nurtured tomatoes in a Jersey garden, the essence of which lives on in Grandma Beatrice’s sweet sauce.

With gloves snug and hat brim low, I embark on a botanical adventure. Southern wood ferns, hostas with trumpet-like flowers—Antioch, August Moon, and Blue Cadet—all find new homes in my haven.

Spider plants, prolific as ever, yield “pups” for transplantation into pots, while bugleweed’s sweet aroma beckons hummingbirds and pollinators, its divisions scattered throughout the beds.

The magenta beautyberry shrubs, a feast for birds and critters (Atlanta’s squirrel population included), are generously spread across the garden. Intriguingly, their crushed leaves are rumored mosquito repellents.

As the sky turns grey, a refreshing breeze heralds a downpour. Undeterred, I embrace the mud, experiencing a planting trance akin to a zombie’s thirst for dirt.

Drenched, yet undeterred, I revel in this unusual Atlanta Summer rain, a cleansing of both body and soul. Grateful for Curtis managing bedtime duties, I delve into the therapeutic rhythm of digging into Georgia’s red clay.

Thoughts wander to ancestors who tilled 100 acres in the Garden State, far removed from the glow of computer screens. My quiet urban oasis becomes a meditation, the mantra of “soil, clay, water, dirt” guiding my universe.

As dusk turns to night, I wonder if passing neighbors see me as a nocturnal gardener, but the thought fades in the glow of market lights strung across the pergola. My son’s curiosity interrupts my solitude, and, shyly, I retreat indoors.

Pajamas and robe donned, children tucked in, a newfound energy pulses through me. In the dark garden, perhaps I shed a role—mother, educator—for a while, revealing a truer self under the lush foliage.

Yes, I may be a bit nuts for gardening, but it’s a delightful eccentricity. And did I mention the kids’ nicknames—Oakley, Juniper, and Iris? Truly, the hand-painted sign on our door says it all: “Welcome to the Nut House!” This, my friend, is where we belong. ❖

About the Author: Dana Morgan Zullo is an educator and mom to 3 in Atlanta, Georgia. She also creates floral art with the Ikebana Ichiyo School of Atlanta. Previously she taught art in the Peace Corps in Ghana.