The Christian calendar is terse, a tweet with a hundred-character limit. Christmas falls in the depth of December, Good Friday and Easter come at the start of spring. Birth and death (and resurrection) span no more than a single season. These are the bullet points of any biography or gravestone, but in between comes life, where we do stuff.
Gardeners inhabit the living portion of the calendar. The time beforehand is passed scanning catalogues. These offer images of hope — descriptions of heirloom varieties, pictures of children holding produce as big as their heads. Gardens never actually come up quite that …
This article appears as “Salad Days” in the May 17, 2021, print edition of National Review.
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