Read by Matilda Longbottom

Touching a little girl’s—and a grandmother’s—heart. By Lady Mo Pascoe-Hoyal

More and more, less and less seems to get planted in the grounds and gardens here. Could it be because I live on a road named Pandora? Hardly. I’ll be 67, November, on disability, with three areas of my spine injured pretty badly. (I’ve had five gruesome spine fusion surgeries.) But, after all, I’m still a cowgirl, with one beloved horse remaining in the barn, and we don’t give up so easily. In the meantime, God has blessed me with some of the cutest grandchildren in the world. (Of course, I am biased.)

I don’t focus on disabilities and nagging chronic pain. Instead I’m grateful I can still walk, do some useful things, and cherish beautiful memories—like this one about my granddaughters.

At the time this story took place, they were still young. Shaylee wasn’t quite four, and McKenzie was approaching age seven. I had divided my garden into two plots, one for each of them, and let them do pretty much what they wanted. That year, McKenzie, the elder and more methodical, had planted with order and determination. Shaylee had always taken great pleasure in burying all kinds of things in any dirt anywhere, so that’s pretty much what she did in her garden.

Both girls watered and waited, watered and waited. Suddenly, one day we had a “greening of beanings” moment (we speak our own language at my house). McKenzie finally had beans sprouting in her patch! Shaylee, on the other side, still had zilch, zero, nada. I hated to see the disappointment on her tiny face. Gazing into her sad, angelic eyes was heartrending.

McKenzie’s green beans climbed their trellises, flowered, and put forth. We harvested, cooked, and enjoyed. Shaylee’s side was still barren. What could I do?

Then, from the far reaches of my aging mind, a memory came drifting back. Shaylee hadn’t planted seeds. She had planted colored stones from the old goldfish bowl! For gosh sakes, no wonder nothing grew!

Then one evening, as I strolled through the garden at dusk, the old lightbulb finally came on! I quickly gathered up twigs that had fallen from an oak tree—the one sporting the ceramic eyes, nose, and mouth we’d ordered from a gardening magazine. Taking the twigs into the house, I promptly plugged in the glue gun. A woman can fix darn near anything with a glue gun.

I brushed the twigs clean and then glued on all sizes and colors of toy gemstones, fishbowl stones, and shiny gold pieces from a broken bracelet. Voila! Stone flowers!

The next morning, when Shaylee arrived for the day (Big Girl McKenzie had gone to school), I took her by the hand and asked her to keep her little eyes closed tight. I cautiously led her to the garden, to her patch where nothing had grown before. When she opened her eyes, miraculously growing before her in all their magical colors were her beautiful stone flowers.

Shay lee put her tiny hands up to her face. “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it!” she gasped. Oh, my heart melted instantly, and a lightning bolt of love speared itself right through me. I was more thrilled then Shaylee, if that could have been possible.

We may end up with fewer flowers and vegetables growing around here. Most of our produce will be purchased from the grocery store. But anyone can manufacture stone flowers when times become bleak and there is a need. I still thank God today for the idea that came my way on that day years ago, my gift to that precious baby who smiled the day she was born (I saw it, plain as can be!). Shaylee still warms my heart every time she smiles at me and says, “I love you, MeMo.”

How blessed can one woman be? ❖

About the Author: Mo Pascoe-Hoyal is a published writer, songwriter, and avid gardener 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.