Chapter 34T
he Mary garden blooms wherever the deer have spared it. “I forgot to set the pinwheels out,” Connie says. “All that work! And less than half the flowers to show for it.”
Rita points to the army of potted plants marching along the grass. “These all for the farm stand?”
“Yes. From here,” Connie sticks a plastic tag into a pot then lays a trowel at a plant several feet away, “to here are the Brandywine Reds.” Connie hands Rita a marking pencil and a handful of tags. “I’ll label the Cherokee Purples. I’ve set aside some to grow just for the Snow Goose. Augustus placed a standing order.”
The plants give off a spicy scent as the morning heats up. Trays of three-inch pots cover the picnic table, its benches; dozens more are scattered on the grass. Chives, thyme, savory, marjoram,
