My ties with gardens go way back. My grandfather’s yard was filled with a plethora of plants. I especially remember how well the ferns flattened as I tromped into the flowerbeds wearing my bright red US Keds sneakers seeking to retrieve my wayward baseball. The peonies offered a bit more resistance, but their flowers easily yielded to the swings of my Nellie Fox Autographed Model baseball bat. My batting average was low, but my PBIs (Peonies Batted In) was impressive.

Needless to say, trips to grandpa’s house usually ended up with a bent, old, hoe-toting gardener chasing a skinny, wide-eyed, bat-flailing plant destroyer out of his yard. Ahh, the sweet memories of family and childhood.

But that was a long time ago. Since then, I have met the flower of my life and have spent decades under her patient horticultural tutelage as her Junior Assistant Apprentice Gardener. During this somewhat extended residency internship, I must admit that I have not only been converted from plant destroyer to plant advocate, but actually have blossomed into a moderately skilled dirt digger.