Several years ago, early in July, I wrote a column about the flowerpots on my small-ish deck.  I could substitute this year’s date and simply send in the same column again, as not much has changed about my gardening.

This is what I planned for that season:  I planned to dispose of nearly all my little pots and plant three large pots.  I would have plenty of flowers but still have room to walk and could actually find room on the deck for a second chair.

This is what I planned for this season:  See above.
Something comes over me when I venture into a garden shop. I frequently chat with other women in those shops. They usually agree that the lure of little six-packs of annuals, potted dahlias or flats of lobelia keeps pulling them back for another look--and another purchase. 

I am not alone! I feel empowered! 

I resume perusing end-of-season markdown petunias.   I have vowed not to buy one more everyday-boring petunia, but then I take pity on half a dozen wilting but sweet-smelling purple ones. Surely, I can give them life, plant them somewhere.

My mother loved to garden.  She pulled weeds, pinched off old blooms. Every temperate summer evening after dinner, she went outside and moved dreamily along the length of the flowerbeds with the hose, spraying her plants with water.

I suspect that was her favorite time of day. These days we have more efficient ways to water, but that was a long time ago.
My mother would be amazed that I seemingly try to plant an entire flowerbed of blooms on a little condo deck. 

She would be pleased by every single pot, I am sure, and would set about pinching off spent blossoms and inspecting for slugs. 

Then I think she would sit in my old red Adirondack chair drinking iced tea, paging through a magazine and appreciating the color and fragrance surrounding her.  I would sit nearby, crowded into the folding canvas chair wedged between two planters!

I envy people who still have their own moms to share their gardens with—to shop for plants together and sit at the end of the day among the blossoms, chatting while the sun heads for the western horizon.

I suspect it is because of my mother that into July I keep buying plants to tuck in here and there--that’s what she did. 

These summer evenings bring her often to my mind. 

I lug my watering can from bathtub to deck, envisioning the fan-shaped water falling from the hose sprinkler attachment onto my mother’s plants.

I may need to go to Ace Hardware and get another bag of potting soil.  I just bought an entire flat of homeless and unhappy bright yellow marigolds, on sale for $2.47! 

How could I pass those up? 
My mom would have bought them immediately.