At the end of August we were blessed by a visit from two of our grandchildren — Elissa, 11 and Dylan, 6. In spite of the inevitable exhaustion, we had a great time — puttering, playing, giggling, fussing, and of course, gardening. During one of our casual talks, Elissa asked me why I liked to garden. It is an easy question. I like watching things grow, having a hand in their growth, and feeling the joy of a successful planting. (At this point, she asked why I didn't just have more kids.) But I also enjoy having good things to eat that I know are clean and healthy as well as wonderfully tasty. I like going out and picking something to throw in the pot at dinnertime and feeling smugly self-sufficient (even though sometimes the other stuff in the pot came from the supermarket).

I like looking out the window and seeing flowers in bloom, tomatoes ripening, peppers red and green. I can overlook the weeds, the tools not put away, the lattice not put up yet. As long as I can see something growing, I’m happy. That’s what it all comes down to, I guess. Gardening makes me happy. There are, of course, disappointments along the way, but there are never heartbreaks. It the tomatoes freeze or the tomatillos never set fruit or the stupid morning glory just grows and grows and never blooms, well, that’s too bad, but it doesn’t ruin my day. Just more for the compost heap.

Unlike children and other dreams for the future that can make you cry, gardens can just make you laugh or shrug or cheer. They are wonderful and serious and truly good. They can make me happy or irritated or amazed or disgusted, but they can’t make me sad.