Read by Matilda Longbottom

One fine morning, I was on a mission, banana peel in hand, ready to toss it into the compost box. Simple enough, right? But as fate would have it, a few wet grass clippings decided to hitch a ride on my shoe. Suddenly, my quick trip turned into a full-scale garden inspection.

My first stop: a cluster of cleome sprouts that had popped up from the seed pods I’d oh-so-helpfully scattered last Fall. I thought they needed a nudge to get going, but these little overachievers were already aiming to reach their “devil’s darning needle” phase. So, down I went, yanking them out for the hundredth time this month, feeling like a one-woman weed-whacking crew.

While I was down there, I spied a couple of dandelions sneaking under the okra. With my trowel locked away in the garage and my determination (and laziness) in full swing, I grabbed a pointy stick and did some makeshift excavating. Most of the roots came out, but my glasses now sported a fashionable splatter of mud. Then I spotted a pokeweed pretending to be basil. Nice try, buddy. I duck-waddled over and gave it the ol’ heave-ho.

At this point, my knees were staging a protest. Sure, there was a plastic stool on the patio, but I was closer to an old brick wedged in a suspicious hole in my rabbit fence. So, I brushed off the brick, parked myself, and tried to ignore the fact that my knees were now kissing my chin. It was a tight squeeze—let’s just say, there was some overflow.

From my new vantage point, I saw some cherry tomatoes that had ripened overnight. I couldn’t let the squirrels have them, so I figured I’d grab them now. Soon, my hands were overflowing with tomatoes, and while I usually keep a lovely wicker basket on the kitchen counter for these occasions, my muddy shoes weren’t about to let me go inside to fetch it. Solution? I rolled up the tomatoes in the bottom of my shirt, of course.

Sure, a few were split from the recent rain, and yes, my shirt now had a colorful new stain, but it probably needed a wash anyway. As I wandered around with my makeshift bundle, I couldn’t resist adding a couple of jalapenos and some pole beans that were threatening to go from fresh to future soup stock if I didn’t pick them soon.

Just when I thought I was done, another weed caught my eye. I attacked it with my trusty stick, which promptly broke under the pressure. Undeterred, I grabbed a sharp-edged stone and kept going. It was dirty, rough, and had absolutely no regard for my skin, but who needs manicures when you’re a garden warrior? I was making good progress until up strolled my husband.

There I was, perched on my brick, sporting a tomato-leaf smudge on my shoulder and zinnia petals in my hair. He took one look at me and asked, “Have you gone back to the Stone Age? What happened to those nice tools I bought you? You said you’d be ready to go in a minute, and it’s been half an hour!”

“Oh, all right,” I sighed, struggling to my feet with my shirt full of produce. “I’m just about done. I only went out to the garden for a minute!” ❖

About the Author: Jill Draper is a freelance journalist and a part-time garden warrior, battling dandelions, pokeweed, and her own tools in a suburban Kansas City, Missouri, yard. When she’s not locked in an epic struggle with her garden, she’s busy crafting humorous tales of the trials and tribulations of green-thumb life.