I know, I know.
The Primary song keeps running through my head like a guilt mantra, “The prophet said to plant a garden so that’s what we’ll do!”
Well, we didn’t.
If you feel my example is too delinquent, please feel free to release me from all church callings as punishment so I don’t corrupt others.
As I’ve ranted about before, my gardening success has been very limited and what does manage to sprout from the stingy soil of my property mostly feeds the deer, magpies and grasshoppers instead of my family.
And this past spring, between the lingering cold snap and our super busy schedule of soccer games, end-of-school-year recitals, concerts, productions and graduations, we just never got around to it.
That’s my excuse and I’m standing by it, even if it makes my pioneer ancestors roll over in their graves. They’re probably just jealous that I have access to superstores.
But, you know what? I actually don’t need a garden because I have a produce fairy.
My in-laws are master gardeners to whom Mother Nature bows. Anything they plant grows like a vine from magic beans. I bet if they put a rusty old pop can in the ground, a bush bearing ice cold cans of Diet Coke would sprout up.
Every time these magicians come into town they come by my house and drop off a horn of plenty overflowing with fruits and vegetables. Though their children are grown and gone, they still like to work wizardry in the dirt in abundance, and who am I too discourage them by being self sufficient?
In years past when I’ve had my own garden, I could tell they were disappointed when they had produce to give me and I didn’t need it. My slack is now their gain by letting them do what they love and giving them those warm fuzzies that only come from selflessly serving those less productive.
Thank you Produce Fairy. I hope you live and garden forever, or at least for five more years until my kids are raised.