Page 112 of Dream Chaser
Mom lifts a little starter tray of baby greens. “Even the strongest seedlings can’t thrive if they’re overwatered. But with enough light and time?—”
“—they grow,” Dad finishes, reaching over to squeeze my hand.
“I’m not saying it’s a big thing,” I rush to clarify. “It might not be. It might be nothing. Or everything. I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to know,” Mom says. “But we’ll be here. If it blossoms or breaks, we’ve got you.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing because she seriously gives great advice. She’s wise so wise, but also a wise ass. I am so sure this is one of those times.
I nod once. “Thanks.”
I look around. “I know we’ve done this before, but my focus was in a lot of different directions.”
Dad chuckles. “When isn’t it?”
Mom elbows him. “Pot meet kettle.”
I pull out my phone and open my Notes app. “We’re at the end of January. For our zone—five—we’ve planted the following seeds … For herbs: parsley, oregano, thyme, chives, and sage.” I glance up, and she smiles and nods. “We transplant in?—”
“April or May, depending on frost,” Dad answers.
“That’s right,” Mom says before taking a sip. “They love cool starts.”
“Staggered starts?”
They both nod.
“Lot of ground to fill,” Dad adds.
“Perfect, perfect.” I continue, “Veggies: onions, leeks, celery, and celeriac. Seeds planted same transplant time.”
“All slow maturing—they need more time.”
I glance up. Surely, she’s not talking about me.
She taps a finger on a packet of heirloom onion seeds.
I look back down. “For flowers: lisianthus, snapdragons, and we are doing eucalyptus, right?”
“We are, and probably more than we’ll need, but …” Mom lifts a shoulder.
I look around. “I just feel like we need to do more.”
“That’s because everything in January has to earn its keep. Nothing fast, nothing flimsy. These are your hardy introverts. They take their time and build strong roots. Just like people, right?” Mom smiles.
I swear to God she’s messing with me.
“We’re also prepping thespace. Sanitizing trays, mixing soil, checking our heat mats and grow lights. Come February? That’s when we bring in the brassicas—broccoli, cauliflower, kale. Then March? Tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, zinnias, basil. That’s when it starts to feel like a party in here.” Dad chuckles. “And when that field is ready for transplant? We’re going to have waves of color and food. Lettuce and radishes direct-seeded in April. Tomatoes and peppers going out in May. Flowers tucked in-between to make the pollinators feel welcome.”
I feel that excitement I had when we first talked about this coming back. “It’s kind of wild, isn’t it? All of it starting with these teeny, stubborn seeds.”
“All great things do, kid.” Dad winks.
I roll my eyes. “I just feel like now I have all this time and there’s more I can do.”
“There is. You’ve gotta get your people. Co-op, you divide tasks, split resources, share profits if there is any after everyone gets their take. Be good to have extra hands when these go to ground.”
“Especially since Mags won’t be here now,” Mom reminds me.
