Introducing my son, Brook

Would you hire this guy to take care of your garden? Of course you would. Look at the light of responsibility shining in those eyes, the earnest, concentrated furrow in the brow, the hint of humor about the mouth.

Wait, that must be some other picture. Or some other guy.

So seriously, would you trust this guy? Not a chance.

Well, that's the difference between us: I did. Of course, he's my son, which may be a mitigating factor, or just an explanation.

I mean, here I am on the east coast with all my extended family, and there he is back in Bozeman, Montana, with the garden, so it seemed like a no-brainer.

It's true that he has appeared responsible enough in other areas. After all, he stuck with his high school job at Burger King for years, becoming their youngest manager at what, eighteen? And true, he hasn't asked us for a thing since he moved out at nineteen. I remember several conversations that followed this format:

“Hey, Brook, it's occurred to me that you might need towels. We do have some extras.”

“Got it covered.”

“Oh.” A bit deflated, I would make another try. “How about sheets?”

“Nope. Made a little Walmart run the other day.”

Stifling a motherly sob, I would limp away, superfluous. If I was feeling inspired, I'd come back with this gambit:

“What about chocolate chip cookies?”

“Did I hear—chocolate?” He'd come up and put his arm around me. “That's why I keep you.”

“Well, at least I know why. Get out the butter, would you?”

So it's clear that the boy (all right, man, if you insist) can take care of himself. But can he take care of a garden?

We'll see, won't we. Wednesday morning, all will be revealed.