When I was about ten, we lived in a small rented house with no bathroom inside—a nice outhouse at the corner of the back yard. The yard itself was generous, flat, sunny, bordered by trees that shaded only sections as the day progressed. I love trees, creatures, flowers. It was a miracle to me how Mrs. Buchanan, who lived on the corner, had blooms almost all year, in orderly beds bordered by bricks. She was a huge woman, corseted, wore dresses, and yet she managed to plant and grow flowers with none of us ever seeing her doing the labor. I surmise she was out before the sun was up.

                I wanted to grow flowers. My mother gave me total freedom to do that, gave me money for seeds, and advice about reading the packet information for when and how to plant. She probably offered more specific advice but then, as now, I wanted to do it by myself from scratch, and owe no credit to anyone for even influence. Besides, she worked in a pants factory and I didn’t want her working for me, too. I don’t recall which seed packets I purchased or if I managed to borrow trowels. Possibly I used spoons, forks, and a knife. I remember a wood-handled butcher knife, but memory plays tricks on us. The flower bed was probably six by six, measuring now from where the edges lay when I was squatting or on my knees. The rows were straight, the soil upturned and black enough–my mother had told me black soil was the best. We lived on the high-land area known as Crowley’s Ridge, surrounded by rich delta land but more like Appalachia. Likely our soil, whatever color, was filled with tangled roots of weeds and grass.

                When delicate green leaves appeared, I was ecstatic. I had saved the empty packets as a key to identifying what grew, but a green leaf or a spiral was the first sign. I weeded according to my own sensibilities of what looked most lovely, most assuredly a flower. I was wrong. No flower ever breached soil. I grew weeds. Not one blossom came through during the following weeks, when I neglected to care for the square bed except by looking to see if success would surprise me. Some weeds have lovely flowers but none of mine did. They were, however, my weeds. I felt ownership. Now I know that because I had acted from hope and love (maybe even passion) and had labored for a goal, I had to own what resulted. I didn’t begrudge the effort. At least that’s what I remember.

                This spring I bought five packets of seeds and planted them in five places, two in containers and the others in secret spots. I planted them too late to be successful, but I’m excited at the possibility they will bloom anyhow. This morning I found green leaves in the containers. When the sun has been out a while, I’ll check the small beds. I plan to root out nothing but give everything in the ground a chance.

                I realize my gardening attitude is much my general attitude. My nature is to become passionate and act quickly, fear influence and intrusion, but harness energies. My stories are more than seeds. They blossom, though perhaps not with the best nutrients, not enough research and thought, but certainly through labor and love. Passion. I write early, in isolation, in a different world and time. Then I send the work out already blooming, looking for a great place to display. It’s a lot like tossing wildflowers into the wind—it feels wonderful but isn’t the most effective method. It has, still, given me a good life.