I purchased seeds years ago and sowed them. Flop.

I sowed them again.


I gave up and moved onto something else.

And then…


They grew and grew and grew. Four years they grew until it came time to move. I packed up the fallen seeds and went on my bittersweet way.

I brought seeds years ago and waited. I waited until their cousins bloomed and waited. I waited until their cousins grew older and dried up and let their spent petals fall.

I sowed my traveling seeds and waited.




When crayons sweat.

When the crayons start to sweat before 9:30, it might finally be summer. Not that anyone here was likely eager for the switch to finally flip.


I learned this morning that it’s the first solstice in 49 years to also be the full moon.

I also got outside time thanks to an actual morning nap by the littlest. Just enough to finish mulching. The beans and winter squash have a fighting chance now.

Happy solstice, y’all.

Slugs in June.

“I’ll make you a deal,” I plead, cheerful optimism forced upon each syllable. “You go to sleep and stay asleep before the sun sets so I can have some garden time, and I’ll give you three extra kisses.”

It’s dim, but not dark. Just before eight o’clock. I rush outside. I want to dig the rest of the garlic before it rots where it’s buried. I see an ant sipping the wine of the Mexican Oregano.


The fading light leaves a squash blossom alit.


I check on the carrots, long shaded by last year’s hidden sweet potatoes.


And the leek’s getaway is complete.


I hear the backdoor creak open. My heart sinks.

“He’s asking for you. Do you want me to bring him down or do you want to go back up?”

I go back up. The irrational emotions flare with each step. I take a deep breath, lower my shoulders, and swallow them down until I’ve softened.

It’s nearly nine o’clock. I haven’t finished my dinner. I nearly sprint out the door, snatch up my trowel, and make a bee line for the garlic. Surrounded by liquefied chard leaves the garlic is doing its best to thwart the hunger that crawls around it, along it, but hopefully not through it.

I send the blade deep into the soil and pry. Each root gives one by one and at once. The soil clings heavy. The roots ching greedily. Tap, tap, tap – some falls. I drape the shoot over the edge of the bed and move on. Another. Slice. Pry. Tap.Tap.Tap. Drape. Again.

The pill bugs scatter. The slugs hold tight. An earthworm seemingly launches from the earth and frantically races toward blind freedom. I watch it a moment. Dropping soil gently down its length, I bury it.

It’s dark now. Ration has yet to return. Dinner is three hours cold. I’m depleted. Unable to find enjoyment in the moments of daylight spent outdoors, alone, I step past the dinner bowl discarded to feed others, tend to others, love on others.

An apple, a knife, and a jar of peanut butter usually does the trick. Here’s hoping.