“Why did the banana go to the doctor?” Mason asks.

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Because he wasn’t peeling well.”

“Oof. Good one.” I think back to my favorite joke as a kid. I’m positive it will crack him up. “What’s worse than finding a worm in your apple?” I say.

“What?”

“Finding half a worm.”

“I don’t get it.”

I explain the joke, but he still seems puzzled. I’m helping my six-year-old neighbor put in a vegetable garden of his very own in his parents’ front yard, and I don’t care that my jokes are bombing. I’m having fun. I’m chuffed that a kid so young is sincerely interested in gardening!

I try again. “What has four wheels and flies?”

“What?”

“A garbage truck.”

He stops working and looks at me quizzically. “Is that, like, a regular joke?”

“Yeah, it’s a regular joke!”

“How can it be a joke if it’s true?”

I sigh. “You don’t like my jokes, do you?”

“They’re not funny.”

“My jokes are hilarious. I’m hilarious!”

I’m stripping sod and digging up a six-by-nine-foot plot in the sunniest part of the yard. Mason is breaking up the clods with a hammer. “I’m a dirt-murderer!” he says gleefully. He’s also tasked with removing any big rocks we find, though he’s distracted by the creatures we’re uncovering as we go. “Daddy long legs are the poisonest spiders in the world,” he says.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that, too, but I don’t think it’s true.”

“That’s what Miss Amy said.”

“Your teacher’s name is Miss Amy? Well, she does sound pretty smart.”

“Because that’s your name, too!”

Mason switches to the trowel so he can dig up earthworms. “Did you know this shovel was my grandpa’s? He died 14 years ago. He was in the army.” He clarifies, “But that’s not how he died. He smoked cigarettes.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Cigarettes are really bad, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, when I grow up, I’m only going to smoke them once in a while.”

“Hmm,” I say, “I don’t think it works like that.”

“Amy, were you alive 14 years ago?”

“Yes, I was alive 14 years ago. I’m two years older than your mom.”

“Really? She better catch up!”

When his mom, Jessica, comes out to help, Mason is rescuing worms and putting them under the dogwood tree. “Mom!” he says. “What’s worse than finding a whole worm in half an apple? Wait—.” He thinks a minute. “What’s worse than finding a bee in your flower?”

“I don’t know,” she says.

“Finding a worm in your apple.”

Together, the three of us make steady progress on the garden. The soil is compacted, but it’s loamy, and once we get some air into it, it’s soft and fluffy. This is going to be good.

***

Our efforts have attracted the attention of the four kids across the street, a brood consisting of a three-year-old girl and her big brothers, aged five, seven, and nine. “We’re making a garden!” Mason shouts. “Come over!”

The kids duck into their house to get permission, then come out, look both ways, and sprint across the street. The little girl has pigtails, the tiniest pink gardening gloves, and a red toy shovel. Her brothers are wearing big-boy gloves and wielding various implements of destruction. They descend upon the garden with shovels and mattocks and spades.

Jess goes inside to grab her camera, while I try to rein in the kids so that no one loses a toe. I’ve never been in charge of an army of gardening children, but I feel powerful. I sense the importance of the situation as we embark upon a mission to beautify and enrich our corner of Portland.

The nine-year-old is quick to impress me with his gardening knowledge, attempting to establish himself as second-in-command. “My mom wants a perennial garden,” he says. “Perennials come back every year, but annuals don’t.”

“That’s right!” I say.

He continues. “She also wants some roses and viburnamums. And, she’d like a dwarf hydrangea, but she hasn’t been able to find one at a reasonable price.”

“Hmm,” I say, “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

Not to be outdone in garden know-how, Mason chides me for using a shovel to edge the bed when my half-moon edger is lying nearby. “Why don’t you use the tool that’s made for doing that?” he asks.

Incredulous, I say, “How did you know what that tool is for?”

“Because I watch This Old House,” he replies.

I laugh and tell him my edger is too dull.

In a few hours, we’ve removed the sod, broken up the soil, hauled off the rocks, added some lime, and raked the bed smooth. We’ll be ready to plant tomorrow. “Nice work,” I tell Mason. “You’ve got a knack for this gardening stuff.” I know he’s set on being a carpenter when he grows up, but I can’t help suggesting that maybe he’ll be a landscaper one day.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Someone who designs gardens and puts them in.”

“I already am that,” he says.

Touché.