Papa’s garden made our house different from the others. Vegetables grew during the summer – corn and carrots, beans and peas – in rows as straight as pencils. Past them, yellow squash and orange pumpkins huddled in mounds like sisters sharing secrets. Flowers bloomed in tiny rainbows along our fence–purple pansies, blue lupines, yellow marigolds, orange nasturtiums. Best of all, the red, red blossoms of my rose bush danced with every breeze.
A Green Thumb the neighbors called Papa.
“The little one, too,” they said and smiled, but their words made me hide behind Papa’s leg. I didn’t want our thumbs to turn green. Every day I checked but we were lucky. Our thumbs stayed brown, brown as ever.