“Your mother would like that.”
The county scheduled a formal review meeting twelve days after the inspector’s visit.
Rebecca helped us prepare.
We organized the historic property records.
Current photographs.
The inspector’s observations.
A maintenance plan.
And letters from community organizations describing the garden’s role in supplying food.
We also addressed the concerns Trent had raised.
The roadside parking needed improvement.
Some old gardening equipment had been stored near the fence.
And the compost area could be moved farther from the neighboring property.
Dad agreed to reasonable changes.
He wasn’t interested in fighting over a wheelbarrow.
He wanted to keep growing vegetables.
The garden club helped clear pathways.
A local contractor repaired a sagging section of fence.
Volunteers reorganized the storage shed.
The landscaping company suggested a row of attractive shrubs along the boundary near Trent’s deck.
Dad looked at the plan.
“Shrubs?”
I nodded.
“They’ll screen part of the garden from his view.”
He frowned.
“Why would anyone want to hide tomatoes?”
I laughed.
“Because apparently tomatoes are controversial.”
He shook his head.
Then smiled.
“All right.”
Two days before the hearing, something happened that frightened me more than the county notice.
Dad collapsed in the garden.
I was helping Maya sort tomatoes when I heard a metal bucket fall.
I turned.
Dad had dropped to one knee near the bean rows.
His hand was pressed against his chest.
For one terrifying second, I couldn’t move.
Then I ran.
“Dad!”
He looked up.
His face was pale.
“I’m all right.”
He tried standing.
I knelt beside him.
“Don’t move.”
He gave a weak smile.
“Just got dizzy.”
I wasn’t taking chances.
I called emergency services.
Within minutes, volunteers had gathered around us.
Denise brought water.
Maya cleared a path for the responders.
Andrew, the county inspector, happened to be nearby checking the property’s access arrangements and helped direct the arriving crew.
I held Dad’s hand as they examined him.
He kept apologizing.
“Sorry to cause trouble.”
I began crying.
“Dad, stop apologizing.”
His eyes softened.
Then he whispered, “Don’t let the beans go bad.”
I laughed through my tears.
Even then.
Even with paramedics beside him.
He was worried about the beans.
At the hospital, doctors evaluated him.
Fortunately, he hadn’t suffered a heart attack.
He was dehydrated and exhausted, with blood-pressure concerns that required monitoring and follow-up.
The physician was very clear.
Dad needed rest.
He needed to follow his medical plan.
And he needed to stop treating half an acre of garden like a one-man construction site.
Dad listened.
Then asked, “Can I still plant?”
The doctor smiled.
“With help, and within reasonable limits after you recover.”
