There are days when I no longer feel like a gardener. There are days when I feel more like a fashion photographer, coordinating colors, waiting for the perfect light, and soothing the tender egos. As I take out the camera, they’re on — strutting and seductive as they all aim to get the cover of Vogue or Elle or Better Homes and Gardens.
“Yes. That’s the shot.”
I am a creature of habit, and Sunday morning is my time to go food shopping. I am the second person in the supermarket. Because I live in a bustling and over-crowded suburbanopolis, this 7:00 am ritual creates the illusion for me that I actually live in a small town. I get to visit with Sue the cashier, and Diana behind the deli counter. I also get to say good morning to the first shopper in the store.
But on this particular Sunday, the parking lot filled up early. All men. As they stumbled from their cars and walked slowly and stiffly to the doors, it looked like a scene from Morning of the Living Dead (if there was such a movie). This is Mother’s Day.
If your family is anything like mine, Mother’s Day is the unofficial start of planting season — at least that’s how it is here on Long Island. Every nursery and garden shop is packed with flats and bushes and shrubs and hanging baskets. And that idea led me to think about gardening and mothers. Continue reading