On the Tuesday night after we put in the garden, I outed myself to my parents. “We’ve put in a garden,” I said. “We’ll see how it goes.”
My Dad, who grew up on a dairy farm in St. Lawrence County, New York, let out a long, approving, “Oh!”
“A garden!” Mom said.
“Like I said, we’ll see how it goes,” I said. “No matter what, it will be interesting.”
We talked for another 25 minutes or so about non-garden-related things (the Dave Brubek performance my parents attended over the weekend, Dad’s latest adventures with the JV girls softball team he coaches, the tornado warning that drove me from the pool mid-workout), and then, because Steve and I were about ready to eat dinner, we began to say our goodbyes.
“Before we go, I want to congratulate you again on the garden,” Dad said. “I think that’s an excellent endeavor.”
I might be 32, but it’s still good to get the parental seal of approval.