Momma, There’s a Dragon in the Morning Glories!

I do not ask you to believe, dear reader — only to remember believing.

Images created in Midjourney

Do you remember your first garden? I know I will never forget mine.

It started with my first package of seeds, though the path there held more rocky obstacles than lush flower beds.

I was less than five years old when the yearning to work in the garden first awakened in me. We were living in Buffalo, New York, where the days possible to be outside were few, and for a sickly child, sometimes rare.

I spent most of those early years in bed with colds, fevers, sore throats, and various infections with names I couldn’t pronounce. While my time outside was limited, my daydreams were only limited by my imagination.

Through my frost-covered bedroom window, past mysterious icicle shapes, I watched over our snow-blanketed garden, wrapped deep in its winter sleep, awaiting the will of spring to awaken. Alone with only my daydreams for company, I held my gardener’s faith that winter would end — even in Buffalo, New York.

I examined the garden daily through my window portal, ever searching for the first signs of spring. I marveled as the first tiny green shoots pierced the snow, then fragile buds appeared on the flowering trees and shrubs, and tender green leaves emerged on the bare branches of trees standing like skeletons all winter.

I felt as if I was observing a miracle; I was smitten.

Soon, the unforgiving black skies, ice, and snow vanished. I was anxious to trade the coal fire-fueled stagnant air inside for the crystal-clear garden air outside.

With my seashore sand pail and shovel from summer (about six weeks in a good year), I sank my shovel into the rich, aromatic dark earth. I felt the wiggling red worms and the gritty texture of the soil against my hands as I filled my pail.

Next, I watered my precious cargo. I had no idea what I was doing. But oh, how I enjoyed doing it, until I heard,

“Sharon, what are you doing outside? Please come back inside now, you don’t want to be sick again, darling!”

My mother’s low, loving voice went shrill with alarm as she pleaded.

I was going to be sick again, all right — sick of dolls, tea parties, resting, and reading. At least my volumes of fairy tales, enough to make me the envy of any library, would transport me to magical, mythical kingdoms where I would spend exalted hours bound only by my imagination.

Mother would unceremoniously return me to the torture of life inside, but never without the promise we would someday return to her home in a storybook paradise called California. There, I would have my own year-round garden, a healthy life, and endless sunshine.

Just when I thought that was impossible, Christmas came early and saved me. Santa drove a bright yellow truck instead of a sleigh, and his elves were muscle men wearing shirts that read Mayflower Moving and Storage. There were no gifts, just boxes Mom and I packed without ribbons and bows. I didn’t care. Deliverance was at hand, and paradise just beyond.

We settled easily into our first home in the Coachella Valley, a part of the Southern California desert. This was long before music festivals, but we had sun, sand, and movie stars from Hollywood’s Golden Age in nearby Palm Springs.

I helped my mother with the interior decorating. And my father handled the landscaping, which included a section in the backyard, two feet wide by six feet long, designated as Sharon’s Garden.

Dad removed the grass and turned the soil, then officially handed Mom and me the shovel, rake, and hoe. It was a heart-stopping moment in my young life. Alice may have had Wonderland, but I had my own garden.

Long before there was a term “born to shop,” I experienced it as part of my DNA. “Errand day,” unlike “washing day” and “baking day,” was special. One particular errand day became extraordinary when Mom added a new stop: Kohler’s Feed Store. I had no way of knowing my life in the garden — dragons and all — was about to unfold.

As we parked our car in front of Kohler’s, I could not believe my eyes. On the sidewalk stood long, well-worn wooden tables topped with trays of every imaginable type of flowering plant. Each tray was fitted with aging, wood-handled metal trowels used to cut away the plants customers selected. There were no plastic six-packs or self-service here.

I was in awe of the spectacle of color and intoxicated by the variety of scents perfuming the air as I wandered along the tables. Crimson geraniums on sturdy stems, dense with earthy fragrance, stood beside marigolds in deep orange and gold. Dissimilar yet compelling, elegant pastel snapdragons found an invisible breeze. Nearby, multi-colored giggle-faced pansies appeared to share a silent joke among themselves.

My odyssey ended when I felt my mother’s hand in mine, guiding me forward as our adventure continued inside.

Newborn chattering chickens and peeping ducks sped toward us on the shelves of an unusual edifice: a five-foot-tall and three-foot-square aluminum unit on wheels. Its navigator was Mr. Kohler himself. He carefully parked his cargo near a pen of young rabbits asleep in a pile, gently stroking them as he walked toward us.

While Mom and Mr. K. exchanged stories about old times in the Coachella Valley, a warm glow of nostalgia filled the shop — just the veil I needed to launch another adventure alone.

I occasionally looked back at Mr. Kohler as I explored the shop. It was easy to imagine he and his shop stepped off the front cover of the Saturday Evening Post. Or that I had drifted into a Norman Rockwell painting.

He was short and slight, with gentle blue eyes, a whisper-soft voice, and a radiant, welcoming smile. The top of his head was skin-bald, with wisps of white hair sneaking out from beneath his tattered visor. Round metal-rimmed spectacles, in need of a wash, rested low on his nose.

That day, and I suspect on many other days, he wore a collarless striped shirt, with its sleeves rolled back reluctantly tucked into creaseless, suspendered trousers. His shoes, partially knotted and tied, long without a shine, carried dust from mysterious sources visited before my birth. He was a worker and the soul of his shop. The bond between the two was seamless.

I found my mom in the back of the shop, under the glow of a fifties flamingo-pink, neon-rimmed clock that read Kohler’s Feed Store. She was selecting small packets from an aging, misshapen, rusted metal display rack that read Burpee’s Seeds in faded letters along the top.

She placed a handful of the seed packets in my hands and left me to consider my choice. But once I saw the heavenly blue morning glories — my search was over.

After a sleepless night of a thousand hours, I broke my record for speed-eating breakfast, and Mom and I began the “preparation” of our soil and Gardening Lesson One. As we mixed, measured, and amended our soil, I felt more like a sorcerer’s apprentice than a student.

My packet of seeds was burning a hole in my pail as we constructed our trellis of twine and carefully spaced nails along the top and bottom of our wooden fence. As we wove the twine and nails in a zigzag pattern Picasso himself might have admired, I heard the horrible news: the plot had to cook with the soil amendments until it was “ready.”

I busied myself daily for what seemed like hundreds of years as the former grass-and-weed tenants returned to reclaim their home, until my Mom declared the soil “ready” and we planted my coveted seeds.

There were no parades, French horns, or interviews on talk shows. But I felt like some kind of heroine or at least a garden princess.

That night, I was certain the goddess of darkness would draw her carriage across the sky, hanging the moon and stars in place as usual. And in the glow, the night fairies would attach the vines to the trellis and cover it with morning glory flowers.

Instead, the next morning, I was horrified to find the same well-amended soil and more weeds. It was time for Gardening Lesson Two.

After the germination and growth lesson, I began to suspect that a labor dispute between the night fairies and the garden fairies had caused this delay. So I continued to water, weed, and wait for resolution.

Every morning, after school and just before bed, I studied each particle of soil, hoping for signs of life. When suddenly, without any fanfare, the ground moved aside, and tiny, determined green arms reached for the sky. I was a green mom!

The best part was sharing this mystical moment with my Mom, who was less mystified but proud.

As quickly as the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings, the vines grabbed the trellis, flooding it with flowers covering the fence — and my world — in a blaze of heavenly blue glory.

Images created in Midjourney

Each morning, I watered my garden and admired the never-ending array of flowers now heavy on the vine and cascading over the fence.

Until one sunny morning, when I was startled by a visitor stretched out on the ground in front of me.

He was about six feet long, his back marked with a beautiful diamond pattern and something resembling dried corn kernels attached to the end of his tail. At first, he lay asleep, enjoying the early morning sun.

But when he stirred, opening his eyes slightly and beginning to make music with his tail, something of a rattle or a hum, I tiptoed away. I didn’t want to wake him further and was anxious to tell Mom about our sleeping dragon with the musical tail.

I burst into the kitchen, where Mom was preparing breakfast, almost unable to speak with excitement.

“Mom, Mom, please come quickly to my garden!” I shouted.

“Let’s eat breakfast first,” she answered with little interest until I continued.

“But, but, he might be gone, I mean, he might wake up and go back into his secret cave, or another garden. Please come now!” I pleaded, pulling at her apron.

“Who are you talking about, dear?” she asked.

“The dragon the garden fairies left in my morning glories to protect them from evil witches who would steal their beauty! He is about six feet long, with a beautiful diamond pattern on his back, and can make music with his…”

My mother interrupted me mid-gush.

“Darling, I want you to stay in the house until I return. OK?”

Her voice quivered. Her hands shook. She hugged me more tightly than usual and departed so suddenly that she left breakfast cooking on the stove.

I watched as my mother went to our next-door neighbor’s house. Our neighbor, Ernest Tripp, was a former Green Beret. He continued to live a military life long after his discharge, wearing battle fatigues and combat boots as his daily attire.

He kept a loaded rifle beside his back door and handled life with battle precision, if only trimming a hedge. He did not walk; he stomped. I was afraid to look him in the eye because I imagined he could kill me with a glance.

When my mother returned, she rushed me into the car. An imaginary errand had arisen, and we had to leave immediately. As we pulled away, I saw Mr. Tripp, rifle in hand, with a large canvas bag, headed for my garden.

We were not far from home when two shots clearly rang out.

“Did Mr. Tripp kill my dragon? Who will protect my flowers from evil witches? What will happen to my garden fairies? I don’t understand! I just don’t understand!” I sobbed.

“Darling, I don’t have answers to those questions. But if your dragon isn’t in your garden tomorrow, perhaps he is needed somewhere else. Or maybe he returned to his secret cave.” Mother attempted to calm me with reason.

No amount of reason could stop my tears or help me understand why anyone would kill my dragon and leave my garden, and its fairies, unprotected.

The next day, my mother suggested we go to the library, my favorite place next to Kohler’s Feed Store. Together, we checked out books on reptiles common to the Southern California desert — snakes, and more specifically, diamondback rattlesnakes.

Books in hand, we headed for the ice cream shop. Mom read aloud, I studied the pictures, and I ate my hot fudge sundae. Somewhere in between the comfort of her voice, the vivid pictures, and my ice cream, I reluctantly realized that garden fairies can make mistakes.

My garden remained safe from evil witches then and even to this day.

— Sharon Radice Pearson

The Besotted Gardener