Sunday, August 19, 2012

I would not be 'the flower lady' without Steve's help.

We start in March, sprinkling seeds on dirt, spraying with water and carrying down to the greenhouse we made in the basement. We have grow lights, a fan and a space heater. We call them our kids, asking each other, "Did you water the kids today?". Then they germinate and it makes you feel like God. The little seedlings pop their head up with their seed coats still suck on. And there's that fresh smell of dirt. We wait for the last frost of which we argue yearly about and then it's time to get the garden ready. This part I like to leave to the guys.

Once I have flowers I share them with everyone. I take them to neighbors, co-workers, family and nursing homes. It's become kind of a ministry. I tell God, you grow them and I'll give them away.

This last Spring Steve hadn't been feeling well. He'd had carpal tunnel surgery in both hands but still could not use his hands to full capacity. For the first time in years I said I didn't want to start any seedlings. I felt guilty as the time came to plant and I had nothing, but also an immense relief at not having the responsibility. Then Steve went and bought packets of seeds and soon I had rows of zinnias. But I already had it in my head that I didn't have this extra duty of cutting, vasing and sharing. I found it to be a chore as I drug my feet out to the garden to cut.

Then I thought, wait, he did this for me. All the transplanting them 12 inches apart and weeding on his knees. All the watering since it would not rain. How many husbands grow their wife a flower garden? And now they are blooming and I see in their colorful array the gift of it, of him.

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