Read by Matilda Longbottom

They chuckle when I begin cultivating tomatoes indoors, under artificial lights, seemingly in the midst of Winter. It’s not even the end of February, they jest. “She’s quite the character,” they whisper. “Always prattling on about gardening. Goodness, have you seen the state of her fingernails?”

“You can’t possibly grow tomatoes here,” they scoff, citing the region’s erratic weather. “Too wet, too cold, too hot—and blight is bound to ruin them.” Yet come August, I bask by the pond glistening in the sunlight, a T-shirt gathered around plump, ripe globes plucked from the vines. It’s Summer encapsulated in a sandwich. With taste buds tingling in anticipation, saliva flowing freely, I chuckle. I emerge victorious in the tomato race!

Are there others akin to me? Fellow earth-dwellers who live, breathe, and dream solely for the love of gardening? Or am I the lone eccentric? Amidst the Winter’s bluster, with winds rattling windows and rain cascading down mountains, dragging homes, cars, and lives into the valley below, where do I find myself? Do I even care?

There’s no cozying up with a blanket, a book, and hot chocolate for me. Instead, I’m hunched over a pile of seed catalogs, devouring their contents. I pore over gardening books, meticulously planning, selecting, and discarding orders with reckless abandon. I want this, and that, and everything in between.

Once a flunkee of Latin lessons in a chilly English classroom, I paid little heed to tales of ancient conquests and battles. The chants of “Amo, Amas, Amat” were but meaningless syllables. Now, those words roll off my tongue effortlessly. Lavatera trimestris, Origanum vulgare, physalis, grandiflora, and camassia cusickii. Is this an illness, a burden, a curse, or a blessing?

From a blank canvas of grass overrun by blackberries, I’ve single-handedly crafted my sanctuary. Honeysuckle, roses, beds of asparagus, strawberries yearning for a dollop of cream—each plant tells a story. Friends generously share seeds and starts, enriching my garden tapestry. I dreamed of a pond, so I took to digging. Now, it’s home to fish, surrounded by rocks sourced from tranquil rivers. Breakfast consists of coffee and bagels alfresco, accompanied by the symphony of bird songs. Bees flit from dahlia to dahlia, while I lounge on the deck, enveloped in nature’s beauty—fatigued yet content.

But beyond lies the meadow, beckoning with promises of an orchard, a grape arbor, and a new abode for an olive tree. There are steps to carve, rock walls to erect, and pathways to pave. I’ll toil and sow, prune and transplant, seed lettuces under protective covers, and clear the shaded woodlot.

Indoors, trapped by Winter’s icy grip, I long for respite from the Summer’s labor, from nurturing and tending to the Autumn harvest. I feel adrift, yearning for a cocoon in which to rejuvenate, much like the plants I nurture.

“Have you seen her garden?” they inquire, their smiles betraying their affectionate teasing. “Don’t get her started,” they caution, “or she’ll never stop.” Is there a remedy for my obsession? Call me mad; I’ve already come to terms with it…and I grin. For in my garden, I find solace. ❖

About the Author: Valerie Da-Silva Curtiss, originally from England, now calls Montana home. A great-grandmother with a penchant for adventure, she traversed the United States during her career as a medical transcriptionist and quality assurance editor. Valerie’s editorial endeavors include serving as the publishing editor of “The Headset,” a contributor/editor for “The Grapevine Press,” and a gardening contributor for “The Whole Shebang.” Her literary talents extend to her debut book, “You Can’t Have Too Many Boston Terriers,” available on Amazon. Now retired, she dedicates her days to painting, writing, and exploring the world through her photography.