Jack of All Trades

 In which our Heroine falls in Love (again). 

          I have a new love.  I know I’ve already exhausted the topic, but I am quite ardent about my little seedlings.  In a recent conversation with my mother, I was documenting my various successes as novice gardener.  I was astonished to hear her claim no love for planting seedlings.  Now, I can clearly remember her making a very successful go at corn and carrot seedlings in our garden, but I can’t recall much more about the small plants.  Nevertheless, I nearly dropped the phone at her casual pronouncement.  Not like seedlings?  What’s not to love?

          Thus far in my short gardening career, I can find no greater joy than in buying cheap seed packets (or procuring them for free from family and neighbors), planting them carefully, and then nurturing them along.  Each seedling is a fragile little thing, and I’ll admit that there is great disappointment when they sometimes fail, but to see even one thrive is immensely satisfying.  Something in my chest goes all gloppy and mushy when I spot a new sprout.  I can’t wait to see them grow, grow, grow.  There is a possibility that seeing a mature plant produce fruit will be even better—and if so, then I can’t wait!

          I think I’ve missed my calling in life.  I’ve officially announced to Jon that moving to a place with flat land and ample sunlight would be acceptable—especially if he provides me with a humongous greenhouse.  (Wouldn’t it be great to do this all year long?)  His answer was typical.  It went something like this, “Sounds good… I’ll look into it.” I’m pretty certain that he filed my imaginary huge greenhouse next door to my large art studio, complete with pottery wheel and kiln, which is located somewhere near my personal publishing house, my dairy house (so I can make expensive cheeses at home—no busty dairy maids included), the museum dedicated to my favorite artists and named after yours truly, where I will engage in curatorial ecstasies, oh—and my consummate future collection of the odd instrument, to be played at pending “creativity soirees,” (basically, a big, well-catered party based solely on my favorite themes, which may occasionally change from time to time).  Am I really asking for so much?