Baseball Gardens

The holidays are over.  The Superbowl has come and gone.  That mountain of snow in the parking lot of Home Depot is a pile of black sludge.  A thin layer of salt perpetually frosts the cars; the roads; even, occasionally, my best pair of black slacks.  The house is cold.  My feet are cold.  Winter, it seems, has lost its sheen.

“Pitchers and catchers reported the other day,” my husband says hopefully, pulling away the curtain and frowning at the gray sky.  I nod and return my attention to the UPS truck pulling up outside our house.  I open the front door.  The driver goes to the side of his truck, grabs a huge box and skates his way up our icy sidewalk to present me with…

“Whatcha’ got there?”  My husband points at the box.


I smile and close the door.  “Seeds.”

He rolls his eyes and returns to the sports page.  “You always buy too much.”

I open the box and pull out packets of beans, corn, tomatoes, cabbage, Brussels sprouts, squash, broccoli, peas...I tear open the bag just to feel the wrinkled peas in my hand; to marvel at the memory of nature quietly going about her business as she has always done. 

Invariably, I rush the season and begin planting: First rosemary.  Then parsley.  Artichokes.  Carefully pressing two or three impossibly small seeds into the soil; my little soldiers of spring lined up in peat pots in every available window.  And then I wait, counting back the weeks from the last frost as steadily as my husband counts the days forward until Opening Day.   

My husband glances up from his paper and smirks.  I know what he’s thinking.  Too often, my garden brings disappointment.  Too much rain, perhaps, or maybe that vacation in June where we got behind and never caught up.  Just one day of neglect may leave my rosemary seedlings slumped over the soil, their withered bodies an accusation.  Too often, my husband ends up disappointed as well: player slumps; injuries; bad calls; plain dumb luck, will leave him frustrated, wanting the season to just end already.   

But every so often, his team wins a championship.  And once in awhile, in late July, I’ll discover the perfect tomato, still full of summer’s warmth when I slice it and layer it over thick wedges of homemade bread with salt and pepper and grated parmesan cheese.

And so, as the snow falls gently outside, we continue dreaming: of gardens and baseball; of angled hoes scratching the earth; of clean white baseballs whirling through the air towards the batter, patiently waiting for that perfect pitch.  Better days are coming.  It’s nearly Opening Day.  And last frost is April 15.