Our first planting began with four tired raised beds, last season’s hot peppers dried and dead and stubborn in the soil. Time to go. Mamasita and Danny Boy arrived with arms full: cucumbers, squash seeds, cherry tomato plants, watermelon seedlings and a clutch of blackberry canes. They didn’t fuss — they just stuck each one into the ground, firmed the soil, and nodded as if this small ceremony would settle everything.

They called it the test. “Watch the suckers,” they said, pointing at the tomato plants’ gangly side shoots. We learned to pinch them off, to trim away dead leaves and those telltale holes where something had been feasting. We learned to look close — the first caterpillar we found was fat and green under a leaf; we picked it off with careful fingers and set it aside.

Days stitched into weeks. Watering became part of our rhythm. Only one squash leaf rose to the surface, but cucumbers sent out tendrils and wrapped themselves around the trellis. The cherry tomatoes offered their first shy clusters. Blackberries pushed new canes, promising future bounty. Every new leaf felt like proof that we were doing something right.

After the main plants took hold, we sowed carrot seeds in a neat row and tucked strawberries along the edge — just to see what happens, we said. The dirt held their promise quietly. Fingers shook soil loose over seeds, and hope rested in those shallow furrows.

Standing back, hands dusty, we felt planted ourselves. There was that simple, electric excitement — the kind that comes before harvest and long after the learning. Here we go, we said, watching green unfurl and grow.