THE GINGER HAS A POINT

Gardens have no more patience than hungry kids, so as I was moping about on the deck in this morning sun feeling sorry for myself now that all the grandkid action has gone and life around here has reverted to normal elder light-speed, the garden started yelling at me - or rather I started hearing it - especially the water-loving ginger, which told me off in a voice of curling, yellowing leaves: "Hey gardenguy, stop feeling sorry for yourself, when's the last time you gave us any water like you said you would, at least you can move around and get what you want, but what about us, look at us droop, think we can get some water over here this week maybe? We haven't had a good rain in you'd know how long if you'd been paying attention to us and our needs, like you promised when you planted us. We got a contract going here."

The ginger was right, of course. The other herbs and the peppers chimed in with their respective versions of my dereliction of the only duty around, as far as they were concerned. Thoroughly abashed, I didn't even try to offer my quite reasonable excuse that the grandchildren had been visiting and so forth, vegetables don't want to hear it; there are times for humility and this was one of them. Anyway I knew the look I'd get from the peppers.

In a moment I had my boots on, and hose in hand was watering, weeding and getting gritty-grimy kneeling and grubbing among the thickening green ginger shoots, where I could feel the green gratitude and the leafy fulfillment in all the hungry crannies of my heart, as the tall green flags filled out in sunny beauty before my eyes-- rather like, in their own way, grandchildren do.