by Dana Wineland O’Rourke, Contributing Writer
The plate sits ready. Two knives are selected: one sharp, one dull. You lean over the toaster making sure the bread pops up the perfect shade of golden brown. In your hand, a freshly picked, rinsed, and still warm from-the-sun red tomato you slice like a skilled surgeon. Even the mayonnaise is excited.
There’s nothing like biting into your first tomato sandwich of the season.
For fifteen years, our first home was blessed with a large, lush garden of green peppers, onions, three varieties of tomatoes, and so much zucchini that I snuck it into recipes grated and diced, hoping our kids wouldn’t notice.
The 20-year-old garden at our current home is a respectable 12-by-10 feet and crops have struggled to grow lately, despite the TLC my husband lavishes them with.
For that reason, he broke the sad news that we weren’t going to plant a garden this summer. I was disappointed, but I understood.
That just meant more weekly trips to the Monongahela Farmers Market where I am happy to purchase local tomatoes along with freshly baked bread and cookies, and other items that ride in my tote bag.
Today, I looked at our barren garden, and discovered it wasn’t empty after all. One lone plant decided to make its home there.
A daisy.
I didn’t plant it. My husband didn’t plant it. Somehow it found its way to that blank piece of Earth.
I smiled.
Daisies have always been my favorite flower.
I couldn’t wait to tell my husband about the daisy, but he just shrugged, grinned, and said it was a weed. Technically, he was correct.
I saw something entirely different. Maybe the difference between a weed and a flower depends on who is doing the looking.
As a child, I spent hours gathering dandelions. I would give a bouquet to my mother or grandmothers. Sometimes I would pull off the flowers and weave the stems into chains. I didn’t realize they were weeds, or part of the daisy family. I just thought they were bright and beautiful. And when they went to seed, I thought they were wishes waiting to be blown into the wind.
A poster with a single daisy hung in my teenage bedroom that read: “Bloom where you are planted.” It was a whisper of encouragement.
During walks through open fields in my younger days, I’d pull daisies with my right hand and shove them in my left until it was full. The largest bloom became a “He loves me, he loves me not” test. A few got braided into my hair, and the rest, if they were fortunate enough to make it all the way home, ended up in a Mason jar on my vanity.
Perhaps I always had a soft spot for weeds.
I proudly passed that passion on to all the “littles” in my life. We’ve plucked countless bouquets, lugged home dozens of nature-filled shoe boxes of leaves, rocks, and flowers, and glued paper plate wreaths with God’s handiwork.
Before I went back inside, I took a photo of the garden daisy. Not because it was especially beautiful, but because I saw a story I wanted to share.
That daisy might have been happier on a hill with a hundred other daisies or on a creek bank under a tree. Instead, it was in our quiet garden, hugging a wire fence, waiting for me to find it.
I will gladly pick my vegetables at the farmer’s market this summer and for many summers to come. It’s a good excuse to run into friends, eat a funnel cake and enjoy fresh-squeezed lemonade.
Hopefully, the daisy spreads throughout the entire 12 by10 space in our little world. A wildflower garden would be a welcome change.
Joy often arrives unexpectedly, so be sure to pay attention.
We don’t always choose where we are planted, but we can choose how we grow.
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About the author: Freelance writer Dana Wineland O’Rourke retired after wearing the many hats required for her position as a school secretary for 30 years. A lifelong resident of Monongahela, Dana has been married to Tim for 47 years. Their two sons and daughters-in-law made the family an even dozen with six grandchildren. She enjoys spending time with family, traveling, gab & grubs with friends, biking, and fitness classes at the YMCA.
