Not only am I a planter, but I’m also a transplanter.
When four raspberry stalks and two grapevines sat lifeless for over three weeks despite sun and water, I decided to investigate. Plunging my hands into the soft soil, I gently exhumed their roots. To my surprise, white shoots had begun to emerge from the darkened tendrils, and new roots had taken hold. I stopped mid-pull, digging carefully to avoid breaking them.
Their original spot, far from the house, had seemed the best choice then. It required a full-length hose with a soaker attachment to keep them watered—a nice crutch to start their journey, but not ideal long-term. Today, all six found their forever home.
Their new resting place is a major upgrade: better-draining soil, an automatic sprinkler, and easy access right off the back porch. With at three vacations planned this summer, a hands-free garden is key.
I’m pumped about it, too. Maybe it’s because parenting took priority, but my green thumb has mostly been limited to houseplants in recent years. Sure, I worked in the yard, but my watering game was inconsistent, and my maintenance routine was lacking. Nothing really flourished.
And that has been frustrating—especially when one of my passions is working in tandem with nature to create something beautiful and delicious.
But this year? With a fig tree, grapes, kiwi, strawberries, and raspberries already in the ground, I feel like a backflip is in order. Not by me, mind you, but by someone.
Meanwhile, these dang sniffles have overstayed their welcome. Two or three days? Fine. But now that they’ve unpacked their bags, neatly folded their clothes, and settled into the guest room dresser, it’s time they start paying rent.
As for reading, The Secret Life of Sunflowers—a gripping, inspiring novel based on the true story of Johanna Bonger, Vincent van Gogh’s sister-in-law—is my book club’s pick for March. I carried my Kindle around today, thinking I’d get started, but every time I set it down, I picked up an actual plant instead.
I’ll get to it, I know I will. It just might mean a few sleepless nights before our meeting.
Lastly, do I start running again? My knee is mildly sore—nothing terrible, just that afterglow feeling of a well-placed fist socking. The debate rages on. Do I give it more rest? Or do I push through like that one person I knew, who swore running through knee pain made it disappear?
I’ll probably do nothing. The thought will sit in my back pocket, pulled out a couple of times a day.
And with that, I bid you adieu. Take care, be well, and go do great things.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 