Underneath an endless sky, I have no concept of time. I gather kale and purple lettuce and baby spinach and the first onions from my garden. Perfect onions, like the ones momma grew on our farm when I was a kid.
Such a bountiful first harvest surprises me, especially the onions—fat, white bulbs topped with hearty greens and a tangle of roots filled with soil. Soil I worked with my hands. The same hands that string words together day after day. All day. Except when they are busy in the garden.
Even my husband is impressed. That onion came from our garden?
Everything came from our garden. Well, except the tomatoes. No tomatoes yet.
He stares, amazed.
And then while eating freshly harvested salad, I tell him about the email I received only an hour before. It was a good rejection letter, if there can be such a thing. She said I had a “light, delightful style” and her “decision was troublesome”… like maybe she almost said yes to publishing my book…
I ramble. Frustrated. Disheartened.
My husband listens. Condoles. She doesn’t realize what she’s missing…
I laugh yet don’t feel like laughing. I know I can sell my book. I told her that.
I can’t believe this came from our garden, he says.
Well, I may never publish my book, but I can grow a perfect onion. And that’s worth something.
You should tell her that too.
Grace Grits and Gardening
“Life is an onion – you peel it year by year and sometimes cry.”
― Carl Sandburg