A Garden Story

Last weekend I was out in my back yard when a boy walking down the alley stopped at the back gate. He paused for a moment then said:


I turned for a minute and said, “Um…hi.”

He was about nine–an age when you might start to care more about what’s cool and to feel like image is everything all the time, just in case your friends might be looking. I didn’t recognize him specifically, but there’s a group of kids this summer that’s always running around in the alley and the street behind us.

I immediately felt very conscious of exactly how un-cool I probably looked. There I was, this old* white woman hunched over a bench with my camera, photographing a tomato with crazy useless art everywhere in the yard, plants growing out of everything, and water from the sprinkler going all over the ground and seeping into the alley. No one else on my block does that.



He paused a second longer and I prepared for some weird and possibly negative comment.

“I like your garden.”

“Thanks,” I said.

His compliment has made my week.


*I’m not old–unless you’re nine.


5 thoughts on “A Garden Story

  1. A delightful story. And the length is just right!

    I envision a publication sometime of your various written pieces (including that story about the rake) and photos of your art pieces.

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