Dirty Fingernails

I'm a gardener wanna-be. Every year I dig and plant and water and wait. And every year I watch my little plants get eaten by someone besides me. For the last five years, I've been fighting deer and raccoons. This year, though, I have hope.

I spent six hours yesterday digging the moss and grass out from between my patio bricks and poking little thyme plants in their place. I imagine walking over the cushions of thyme and releasing the fragrance into the air. The reality will probably be less romantic, something like the fragile thyme being choked out by more moss.

I have a beautiful row of pea plants, inch-high sentinels mocking me with their delicate green leaves. Will they bear fruit? Or will they just be decorative plants along the fence line? Will my strawberry plants ever get those round red berries on them, or just grow green and strong and barren?

I've danced this dance a dozen times before. But I don't lose hope. I keep on planting and waiting. Because nothing tastes better than a tomato ripened on the vine. Nothing is as sweet as a raspberry picked and eaten in a single motion. No salad satisfies like the one that comes from seeds I drop in the dirt. No rhubarb pie equals the ones we'll be baking by summer's end.