Eleanor Tatum

I put on my old worn-out wide-brimmed straw hat. As an author I cringe at that sentence. Translation: I put on a hat. There, now I feel better.

I found my gardening gloves; not latex “corn-teen” gloves, just old dirty worn-out stuff, and offered myself as free labor to our chief gardener, The Hubs.

Since Covid-19 stopped my market days, (yes, we’re that islolated), planting seeds is now a matter of wanting fresh vegetables. Yes, I know May is a bit late to plant, maybe. I do know the seeds go in the ground and cover them with “black cow”. Don’t ask. Those seeds need water and Carolina sunshine and in my case – prayers.

I know all that.

Which is pretty good for a spoiled Yankee city/country girl. I have memories of Mom’s plentiful gardens, her weeding, harvesting, and canning. Yes, I nearly blistered my hands on the steamer-canner.  As a really young kid, I played with those round rubber rings, but I have only had brief and unsuccessful encounter with gardening.

I might have to try dieting.

Today, I put seeds in the “black cow” soil: tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, garden green peas, green bell peppers, and some sort of sprout from Brussels. Can’t wait! This spoiled girl needs to edit my current WIP, Lillian’s Choice, or I’ll  be an historical fiction … much like my gardening.

Enough!