“Miss.” I felt a small tug at the side of my shirt, and I glanced down to see a little girl with long blonde ringlets, looking up at me earnestly. “Would you like to see my carrots?”
My heart melting, I dropped down until I was eye level with the cutie pie. “Of course, I would.” I offered her my hand. “I’m Kyra. What’s your name?”
Her plump red lips curled into a smile. “I’m Natasha. And I’m this many years old.” She held up five fingers.
“That’s very grown up.” I nodded gravely. “And I like your name. It’s strong and confident, just like you. Now will you show me your carrots?”
Natasha dragged me further down the row until we’d reached a spot where five tiny fountains of green sprang up from the black earth.
“These are the tops,” she informed me. “The carrots grow underneath. They don’t come from the top.” She spoke with authority, but also with a tinge of wonder, as though maybe she’d only recently learned this bit of knowledge herself.
“That’s very good to know, otherwise you might think your plants weren’t producing, and then you’d pull them up to find that you’ve grown carrots after all.” I sat down on the ground, crossing my legs. “Do you know, when I was a little girl living in the states, my sisters and I decided to grow carrots one year in our yard. Unfortunately, we didn’t plant them deep enough and the soil was very hard there, very packed down. So the poor carrots couldn’t grow deep into the dirt; instead, they grew outwards, so that when we harvested them, we had small, fat balls of carrots. Isn’t that silly?”
Natasha laughed. “Balls of carrots! Did that really happen?”
“It did,” I assured her, biting back a smile at the child’s skepticism. “I have pictures of them somewhere.” I craned my neck to see what else was going on in this area. “So tell me, Natasha. Do you come here with your family to take care of your plants?”
“Oh, yes.” She nodded vigorously. “We come every other day, my mummy and daddy and me. And my brother Jack, but he doesn’t like to touch the dirt. He cries sometimes.” She looked around and then pointed toward a man and a woman who were watching us from a few yards away. The man had his cell phone out, and I guessed he was snapping pictures of Natasha and me. When we both turned to look their way, he guiltily and hastily tucked the phone away.
A small boy stood between Natasha’s parents, staring down at the ground. I frowned, wondering why he wasn’t joining in with the gardening fun.
“Is that your brother, Natasha?” I jerked my head in his direction.
“Yes, that’s Jack.” In the way of children, she spoke without guile or pretense. “He has ... a sin something.”
“A what?” A bubble of worry rose. What had they told this little girl about her brother?
“Something sin something. He’s a little different than me because he has an extra ... an extra chromo—” She stumbled over the word, her brow creasing. “I don’t know. But it means he’s different. Not worse, not better, just different, and that’s okay, because we’re all different in one way or another.”
“Ah.” Now I understood.Syndromehad translated to sin something in Natasha’s brain. “I see what you mean. And yes, you’re right. We all are.” I pointed to myself. “I’m different from everyone else here at the garden, because I’m not British. I’m an American.”
“But you’re going to be a princess.” Natasha spoke with absolute assurance. “My mum told me. She said we can watch you on the television, and you’re going to wear a beautiful princess gown.” She eyed me up and down critically. “But you don’t look like a princess today.”
“That’s because you’re thinking of only certain princesses,” I countered. “Sometimes, Natasha, princessesdowear jeans and play in the dirt. Sometimes they like sneakers more than glass slippers. Sometimes they’d rather take care of plants than dance at a ball.”
She regarded me silently for a moment. “I guess that’s all right,” she conceded at last. “You’re not worse, not better, just different, and that’s okay.”
“Absolutely.” I bopped her on her small upturned nose. “Now I’d like to meet your parents—and Jack. Would you take me over and handle the introductions?”
Natasha was very enthusiastic as she presented me to her mother and father. “This is my mum and dad. Carol and Robin are their grown-up names. Mummy, this is Kyra. She’s going to be a princess, but not the kind that wears ball gowns and dances,” she announced. “She’s going to be the kind who plays in the dirt. And that’s okay.”
Her mother shot me an alarmed glance, but when she saw the merriment on my face, she relaxed. “It is, indeed, darling. Have you been showing Ms. Duncan your carrots?” She tousled her daughter’s hair. “She’s very proud of what she’s grown. She has grand plans for lots of other vegetables.”
“She’s doing a wonderful job.” I paused, dropping my gaze to the tow-headed boy who’d buried his face in his father’s legs. “This must be Jack. Natasha has told me about her brother.”
“She’s a very good big sister.” Carol rested her hand on her son’s head. “All of this is a bit overwhelming for Jack. Part of his—well, he has some sensory issues.”
I nodded. “Natasha says Jack doesn’t like digging in the dirt, so I wondered if that might be the case.”
“He’s interested, though.” Robin, Natasha’s dad, spoke up. “He follows me around at home when I’m doing the lawn and landscaping, and I think he might want to dig, but it’s the feel of the dirt, maybe.”
A seed of an idea was beginning to germinate within my brain. “I wonder if there aren’t things we could do to make gardening more appealing to Jack.” I smiled at the little boy, who was peeking one eye out at me. “I have to think that this kind of thing is something other children experience, too. I’d hate to think sensory issues keep people from learning the joy of growing food.”
“We’ve heard of a program in Australia that offers community garden plots for special needs children. They have gloves and specially-designed seats so that they don’t have to sit in the dirt if they’d rather not.” Natasha’s mom shrugged. “But I haven’t been able to find anything like that here. It would be wonderful if there could be. Jack goes to a school where most of the students have similar issues. I know they’d be very excited.”
I could almost hear Honey’s voice in my head:The right opportunity will present itself at the right time.
Aloud, I said, “I would very much like to talk about this more. If I can set up a meeting with Mr. Groves about using one of the plots here, would you come and share with us what some of the specific needs might be? Maybe some of the other parents might be interested in coming, too.”
