I can hardly believe my good fortune. A seasoned gardener offered to mentor me this summer. He has had a successful crop of  peppers, tomatoes and kale for years. There are still a few butternut squash in his basement, and corn in the freezer.

I told him the truth. My skills are pathetic. The twelve plants I plunked in the ground last May yielded enough tomatoes to fill a bowl. A cereal bowl.

"Weeding from seven to nine a.m. twice a week should do it." Two mornings? I can be done before my three teenagers wake up and still have time for quilting. 

I kept myself from dancing but I felt like it. The failure of the past few years weighs on me. I want to have a basket of potatoes on my counter that still have dirt on them from their hiding place in the ground. The possibility of scooting over to the garden this summer to pick salad fixings makes me laugh out loud. 

Far a long time I have heard other people's success stories. They had more zucchini than they knew what to do with, more berries than they could eat. I wanted to share their triumph but I often felt like a loser. Apparently buying seed packets and getting your hands dirty was not enough. I was missing something. 

But now I have someone to show me how. Someone to gently, or not gently I don't care, recalibrate my efforts so that plants actually grow. 

Marriage mentors work that way too. They spend time with a younger couple and increase their chances of a fruitful relationship. 

There is someone who expressed doubt about my capabilities. He has material for wrinkled brows but I will not let it squash my hopes.

I want my squash to be yellow.