He’d stop neighbors. “I’ve got tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, and potatoes,” he’d say, looking as proud as a 4-H winner. “Want some?”
But this year, our idyll was threatened. When the seed catalogs arrived in the mail, I handed them to Tommy. Instead of snatching them, he pointed to the coffee table. I dropped them there.
Later, when I saw him stuff them, unopened, in the straw basket on the side of the couch, I asked, “Too much work?”
“Yes” was the nod. I wondered: had the lapses in his brain that ended his speech, also turned his cherished pastime into something too complex. I didn’t press him further.
Then, something changed. It started with the cemetery. “Honey,” I said, “we have to get plants for my parents’ graves.” This was our annual Mother’s Day ritual. We’d buy a few cubes of Zinnia, pack a kit with a kneeling pad, spade, water bottle, and Wet-Naps, and head out for Waldheim.
At Home Depot, instead of stopping at the few posies for the graves, Tommy placed three hanging baskets and several flats of assorted flowers in his cart. “Front porch for the baskets?” I asked him. “Back deck railings?” He nodded, “yes.” My heart lifted.
The next day I saw him heading out the door. “Where are you going?” I asked. Then, I wrote, “Walk” “Bike” on a Post-it. I waited for him to circle an answer. He shook his head, “no” at each.
He took the pad and pencil and wrote “herb” under my two guesses. I knew what he meant. A landscape nursery was only a few blocks from our house.
“The garden center!” I said. “You’re going to the garden center? Vegetables?” He nodded, “yes.”
“I’ll go with you,” I said, grabbing my sunglasses.
Soon, the plants that line the sill will be embedded in backyard soil. My green-thumbed husband will water, tend, and reap vegetables for his buddies, our neighbors, and our table. We’re keeping our fingers crossed.
Produce would be nice, too.
©2013 Elaine Soloway for SeniorWomen.com
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