I was willing to hand over my life, but that would have been a cop-out. I was willing to purchase the Fuller Estates. No deal.
Her mild sob reduced me to the size of a petunia. I hung my head in silence.
I have stopped keeping up with people who can grow tulips in the desert. I envy anyone who can grow a dozen species of roses and not get pricked. I'll raise my lemonade glass to the gardener who can bury a seed in the ground and get a bean stock.
The only thing that's ever been raised on my land is taxes.
One of my favorite assignments at the newspaper was reporting on gardens of the month. It was amazing to see how different people churned the earth and what came out of it.
In chatting with the owners, I have come to the conclusion that all gardeners know more than other gardeners and that it's a job that never gets done.
I begged my wife's pardon with a dozen long-stemmed roses.
She said they were just in time for my funeral.
• • •
Photographer and writer Tom Vartabedian is retired from The Haverhill Gazette. He contributes this regular column.