Sitting alone in a folding chair on a sunny afternoon in the middle of a babbling creek, a tired gardener’s mind tends to wander, and to wander, and then finally, to go blessedly blank.
Then, the mind wanders some more before an image takes shape and solidifies: I sit on the edge of my truck tailgate smiling as friends mill about the garden laughing as they discover one flower more beautiful than the last. This isn’t Heaven. It’s Groundhog Hill.
Ladies and Gentlemen, Zinnia Fest is upon us.