Birdie's Book Read Free Page B

wrapping the scarf around and around my neck. “As I am sure you know, Birdie,
Helleborus niger
is the only true white hellebore. Legend says it sprouted from the tears of a girl who cried in the snow in Bethlehem because she had no gift to give the Baby Jesus.”
    Evergreens peeked out from under the snow, and rose hips dangled from a hedge like orange and red ornaments. We started down a path, and Mo pointed to the far right. “That’s my rock garden with succulent plants,” she said. “And over to the left are my vegetable beds.”
    There was a kitchen garden with scraggly blackberries and raspberries still winding alongbamboo teepees, contrasting with limey green brussels sprouts hanging from frozen stalks. Everything looked Christmasy in a pleasantly natural way.
    â€œI’ll have some early peas in a few months,” Mo went on, tucking a few rose hips into her pocket (no doubt to make a nice pot of tea later). “There will be summer squash and Fourth of July cucumbers and lots of flowers, of course.”
    The greenhouse rose like a castle. It was a playing field’s distance behind the house. Its windows were fogged up, and steam rose from vents in the back corners.
    â€œSo, what plants do you grow in there for your business?” I asked.
    â€œI experiment with different things. I love to experiment, don’t you?” said Mo. “I meant to tell you, I’m wired for the Internet here, so you can e-mail anytime. I sell my specialties online, and locally, too. I’ve got the finest white tea in this hemisphere;
Camilla sinensis
grows right in my New Jersey backyard.” She chuckled. “An unlikely spot, no?”
    â€œUnlikely?” I repeated, pulling my scarf up. More like
impossible
, since tea usually grows in subtropical places like hot, humid Cambodia.
    â€œThen there are my year-round herbals—I’vegot some secret recipes for those.” She winked and went on, “Lavender, chamomile, and peppermint. Can you name all of them botanically?”
    â€œLet’s see,” I said, rising to the challenge.
“Lavandula, Anthemis, Mentha.”
    â€œWell, aren’t you
something
!” she exclaimed.
    I smiled shyly, but I could feel myself glowing inside.
    â€œOkay, on to the maze!” Granny Mo said.
    I followed Mo as she headed down the path, past the spectacular greenhouse.
Darn!
I thought. I’d been hoping to duck inside. It was now bitter cold as the sun sank to the horizon, and icy snow sprayed off the trees and hills with every gust of wind.
    â€œNo time for tinkering today,” Mo shouted, her words trailing back to me in a frosty cloud.
    The path rose up, up, up, and I was trying to watch my footing on the icy patches as I followed along. Suddenly I came to a screeching halt. The land plunged into a twenty-foot-deep ravine. There was a wooden bridge connecting my side to the lower land on the other side. Did I tell you that I don’t like heights? I stood there telling myself:
You’re not in Califa anymore. You’ll have to get used to ice and all kinds of slippery slopes
.
    â€œCome on, Birdie!” Mo called from up ahead.“Just take it slow. One step at a time.”
    I reached down and wiped the snow off the soles of my boots. Now I’d have traction. I took a step and grabbed the handrail, which felt very solid. But when I looked down at that ravine, my whole body started shaking.
    â€œGood girl!” Mo shouted, encouraging me. But as she watched, she could see I wasn’t moving. She stomped back over the bridge through the snow like it was nothing and put her hand on mine. “This part of the yard where it drops is called the ‘ha-ha,’” she said. I shivered, not seeing the humor. “In Ireland they use ha-has to keep the sheep in the pasture and out of the garden.” As she talked, I took my gaze off the drop and looked across the bridge. There was a