“Look!”, my mom happily exclaimed as we looked over our family’s new home and yard.  It’s bare dirt patches just waiting for my mom’s creativity and loving touch. A blank canvass of dirt in which to write upon with our spades and our tiny seeds. “Oh, the possibilities!”.  I was just four years old at the time but even now I remember the look of anticipation that graced my mother’s face.

Mom did transform the front yard into a rose garden that bloomed with pinks and reds in the warm Florida climate.  The delicate smells wafted into the air along our front walkway.  The backyard, under the kitchen window along the home’s brick exterior, she crafted a haven of flowers and herbs, lavender, basil, thyme, various other herbs with big, beautiful marigolds bordering them all.  She would say to her “gardening shadow” (a.k.a. me) that the marigolds were “hugging” the rest of the flowers. Even at that tender age I was eager and curious about all things that had to do with nature, and especially dirt since I was already such a tomboy!  I trailed beside her with my tiny trowel, ready to dig into the waiting earth.

Mornings in the garden were coveted as they were cool.  There were times when the air was kissed with a misty dew that sparkled on the leaves.  Mom would kneel beside me, her hands steady and patient, guiding my small fingers to plant marigold seeds into the dark, cold soil.  “Give it love,” she would say, her voice soft like the hum of bumblebees that danced around us.  She taught me to tell weeds from seedlings, pointing out the delicate green shoots we would nurture and the stubborn intruders we’d pull. I would plunge both hands into the dirt, reveling in its earthy smell, the cool grit clinging to my skin. No gloves for me! Even today, I enjoy the tactile sensation of “playing in the garden” without gloves whenever possible! The garden was alive with quiet sounds – soft rain pattering, the whisper of dragonfly wings, butterflies fluttering close enough to tickle my cheek. Mom would smile and say, “They’re our little friends, helping the garden grow.”  She knew how much I was fascinated by nature and all creatures-big and small.

She showed me how to water just enough – “a drink, not a bath,” she’d tease when I got carried away, water dribbling over my fingers. I’d lean in to smell the lavender, its dreamy aroma wrapping around me, or stroke the fuzzy leaves of the lamb’s ear, imagining a sheep’s soft wool might similarly feel. Mom’s rose garden was her pride and joy; each bud and bloom tended with care – avoiding the thorns’ sharp pricks.

I quickly learned to respect the roses in all their glory with all their sharp protectors! I loved the cheery marigolds best, their bright petals always called to be picked for impromptu bouquets, along with dandelions, to offer to my mom or little sister.

Gardening with mom was more than planting – now I realize it was a lesson in life. She’d talk about the miracle of a tiny seed sprouting into sturdy leaves and vibrant flowers, how love and care could coax beauty from the earth. “Everything has its season,” she’d say. Her words planted seeds in my heart to be cultivated and tended: patience, growth, respect, gratitude. Those moments shaped me, teaching me to see the rhythm in nature, like a hymn sung by creation itself, with God watching over it all.

Some days, the routine of weeding grew dull. One bored afternoon, I plopped down in the dirt, mixing mud with water and pebbles, topping my “mudpie” with grass clippings. I presented it to mom with a grin, offering her a pretend bite. Her laughter rang out, warm and bright, as we played along, the garden turning into our stage for pretend and silliness. Those shared giggles were as precious as the blooms we grew.

A few years later, when I was eight, mom and I planted a strawberry patch inside a rock wall dad built for us. He took the care to find just the right rocks, laying them against one another firmly fitting together, and then filled the whole area with rich compost and soil. I cherish reminiscing about these early gardening adventures. But those early days in the rose and herb gardens stay with me the most. They were a mix of newness, excitement, and calm, with occasional frustrations when a seedling wouldn’t sprout or a weed clung too tightly. Yet, gardening made me feel special – mom included me, asking which flowers to plant or how to arrange them, making me her partner in creation.

Now, at times, when I smell the pungent aroma of a marigold or feel the softness of a Lamb’s Ear, I’m four again, kneeling beside my mom. The gardens we tended together rooted deep in me, shaping how I see my family, others, and the world.  There’s a bittersweet ache in remembering those days, knowing time has passed, but the joy of those lessons – about love, care, and the quiet miracles of life – bloom on within me, as vibrant as her herbs and roses.

By: Lisa M. Whitaker, Member