“You know you always have a friend here, my dear. As long as I’m still ticking along, you’re welcome anytime. Oh, I almost forgot.” She reached into her back pocket and pulled out two pairs of kid-size gardening gloves. “Give these to those two sweet girls. And let me know if you have any questions about your seeds. Best to plant them early morning or late evening, when the sun’s not too strong. No need to burn them up when they’re just getting started. And please tell your husband I said hello.”
Betsy smiled. “I’ll do that.”
After a bright start, the afternoon grew overcast, and now, in this space between dinner and the girls’ baths, thunder rumbled in the distance. Betsy was glad for the reprieve, even a slight one, after a week of relentless heat.
“Okay, girls, are you ready? Everything’s gotta go.”
“Ready,” Addie said, her eyes on the dirt.
“On your mark, get set . . .”
“Go!”
And with that, Addie and Walsh were off, tearing through the abandoned garden wearing their new gardening gloves. Betsy had instructed them to pull out everything but the dirt, and for a few minutes, they took the job seriously. Addie knelt over a patch of daylilies that had long ago dried up and pulled with glee, flinging clods of dirt as she went. But when she dropped the first pile of weeds and plants into the wheelbarrow, she grabbed its handles and pushed it through the yard, her mission forgotten. Walsh yanked fistfuls of weeds before discovering a line of roly-polies in a muddy spot at the back of the garden.
As the girls played and yanked a few weeds here and there, Betsy did the real work. Remnants of her years-ago project—nurturing a garden that would produce both a bounty for their kitchen table and blooms they could sell in bouquets to farm visitors—fell away beneath her fingers, loosened by the roots.
She’d once been determined to carry on the gardening tradition passed on from Ty’s grandmother, a woman known for her luscious blooms and vegetables she shared with neighbors. As the newest Franklin woman to live on the farm, Betsy had felt the pressure to be the best farmer’s wife she could be, and that meant doing things just as they’d been done before her.
Much to her surprise, she discovered she enjoyed gardening: the immediate satisfaction of pulling weeds, creating a clean space for plants to thrive. Seeing tiny sprouts pop up where the day before there had just been small mounds of soil. Bright green in spring, deeper emerald green in summer. Gardening had been a comforting outlet, a distraction from monthly disappointments.
Yet the pressure remained—an internal drive to work hard, to bring forth life out of the hard ground, to not fail the women who had come before her. When she resorted to making an appointment with Dr. Fields, the garden became too much life, too much vitality, and she’d walked away.
This time around, she’d work the garden for herself, no one else. Maybe they’d end up with some vegetables later in the year, maybe not. Maybe they’d have flowers, maybe they’d have nothing. Betsy would do what she could to claim her own green thumb, but it wasn’t up to her, and this time she was okay with that. It would depend on the generosity of the hard-packed dirt, the summer rain and sun, the survival of these plants in this garden.
For Betsy, it was already a success. Her hands in the dirt, the quiet twilight around her, new life waiting to be sunk down into the ground. Just doing something purposeful—something solely for her—felt good.
As she pulled the last of the old plants from the ground, the porch door slammed. A moment later, Ty called to Addie and Walsh and handed them watermelon Popsicles. While they raced against the heat—trying to lick the Popsicles faster than they melted—Ty joined her by the garden.
She stood, then laughed when her knees popped. “I guess I’m not as young as I used to be.”
Ty picked up a pot and inspected the label, then placed it back on the pallet. “A lot has changed since you were last out here.”
Betsy stared at the fresh plot of earth, her mind on the past, her heart drifting toward the future.
“You done for the night?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I want to get all this in the ground before I head in. The garden deserves to be full again. And as you can see, Marjorie loaded me down today.”
“Do you want any help?”
“I don’t think so. It shouldn’t take me long.”
“I’ll take the girls for a spin then. Let you finish up here in peace.”
He whistled and pointed to the Gator sitting in its shed by the barn. The girls cheered and ran ahead of him through the gate and out to the field beyond. By the time the engine roared to life a few moments later, Betsy had begun digging the first set of holes—one inch deep, two inches apart, just like Marjorie said—and dropped in the purple hull peas. Collards came next, then carrots and squash.
When she finished the vegetables, Ty was just walking back into the yard with the girls, their cheeks sticky and their hair curling around their faces from the humidity in the air. Fireflies winked in the low limbs of the oak tree and hovered in the grass around their feet. He paused to wait for her, but she waved them on, wanting to finish before dark.
After loosening the lantana and salvia from their pots and settling them into the ground, she sat back on her heels to survey her work. Everything was ready for sunshine and afternoon rain showers. Over time, the blossoms and leaves would fill the empty space next to the split-rail fence Ty’s grandfather built around the garden so many years ago. New hope growing next to old dreams.
twenty-nine
Ty
Tropical Storm Ingrid nearing hurricane intensity. Center
