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jokes and belly-laughed at the disasters. Pap
w~s light-hearted about my lack of gardening
skIlls, but I was closer to heartbroken. The
harder I tried to be a good gardener the more
I fai·1ed . Though I was frustrated ' with my
black thumb despite my very best efforts, I
forged ~n, until the day I accidentally sprayed
~eed killer on my dad's precious begonias.
put my gardening on the back burner for
many Sundays thereafter.
. It was only for an important school as-
sIgnment that I ventured back into the gar-
den. In fifth grade, the school gave our class
bab.y.pine trees to plant, commemorating the
~xc.Itmgoccasion of moving onto higher edu-
ahon. I was worried I'd botch the plant as
Soon as I put it into the ground, so I decided
~~wa~t until my grandfather was by my side,
lfectmg my every move. Iwas worried the
sapling would die at my hands, just like ev-
~ryt~ing before it. And this was special. I tru-
~ dId need it to survive, for posterity's sake
~ course. My grandfather was the only one
saW~uld.let help me plant it. We placed the
th plIng m my backyard, near a burning bush
at turns electric red every fall.
I looked at the puny pine. I felt its size
Was mocking me.
"It's so dinky."
"Just wait kid."
At the time, Icouldn't see how the little
tree could ever grow to be any taller, but my
~andfather seemed confident. Iviewed the
tIny tree sort of like I viewed myself; stuck as
small forever.
"It's gonna sprout right up. You watch."
Are you sure? my big, worried eyes must
have asked.
. "You'd be surprised," he told me, a mys-
tenou s grm. on his rough, unshaven face.
"Ok, let's get going on this tree," he
nudged.
"pap ... ," my voice trailed to a mere whis-
per", ... I'm not a gardener." There. I had fi-
nally come clean.
. My grandfather looked at me, without
~~ng and without judgment. We had
a e the hole together in the ground, two
sets of hands in the soil. We were from the
same soil too. But I was still holding the base
of the pine in its burlap sac, reluctant to let
go. Ididn't want to make any sudden move-
ments. Part of me feared he would agree
with my statement, shaking his head in dis-
appointment. Another part of me feared he
would never understand who Iwas. Iwas no
gardener.
"So?" His eyes were still not judging.
Perhaps he had known from the start Iwould
never be a gardener. Maybe that suited him
just fine. Maybe he echoed my father, it might
come in time.
My grandfather's question of 'so what?'
hung in the air. Ididn't know how to answer
it, so we didn't. After some moments of qui-
et, we covered the hole we had made, patting
our overlapping hands in the earth. It was
the first time I felt a true satisfaction about
gardening, not to try to fit in with my fam-
ily, but to plant something that could possi-
bly, just maybe, flourish. Now Icould finally
kneel in the dirt and understand their passion
a little better.
Eventually, Ifound Iwas much less will-
ing to do that. Soon, I stopped being around
on Sundays all together. I never knew for
sure whether my absence was felt, but Iknew
Imissed filling the end of my week with yard
work. From time to time, Icatch a momentary
glimpse of the pine tree still in my yard. It's
gigantic now. It towers way over the burn-
ing bush and everything else in the ga:den,
reminding me of the steady pas.sage of nme.
I am much less involved in the garden
club. I miss most of the meetings. But there
are still Sundays, every once in a while, ~hen
Dad and Pap are busy out back, and ISIgnal
a needed break by bringing them lunch. The
three of us make a unique triangle of mem-
ory, with the sun on our backs, though. we
are always somewhat sheltered by the pme.
I know they are forever surprised to see me
out there , in a place I once ne.ver leTftheayndnethveenr
never returned to for some time.
ask me to stay, and I never do for very long,
but I take my time walking out to them. I take
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