Years ago I was asked to give a series of lectures in Fargo, North Dakota. Now, I had never been to Fargo, and I most certainly had never been to Fargo in February, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. True to form, I arrived just after a large snowstorm; feet of snow were piled everywhere, and the high temperature hovered at a balmy -21 degrees. It was in Fargo that I was introduced to the automatic car starter – point a little gizmo out the window, and voila, your locked car starts up, bringing the cold interior up to bearable limits before you have to put your keester on the frigid leather. Clever, those Fargo folks.

However, it wasn’t the savvy of the inhabitants for avoiding cold that impressed me most about Fargo, it was the warmth of the people. Enthusiastic, friendly crowds filled my talks, eager to learn about gardening, and share their experiences. And I do mean share. One lovely lady (I never got her name) patiently stood in the book signing line after my lecture, waiting for her turn at the front. When she finally got to the table, instead of asking for a signed copy or photograph, she opened her cupped hand to reveal a half eggshell filled with earth, containing a the tiniest of geraniums. “I started it from seed,” she offered – no small feat given the minuscule size of geranium seeds – “and brought it today as a gift for you. You’ve given me so much inspiration on TV. I wanted to say thank you.” Before I could even muster my admiration for such a lovely gesture, she disappeared into the crowd. I was very much touched; despite the impracticalities of an eggshell pot, I guarded the gift with care throughout the rest of my trip, shepherding my diminutive ward through airport security and the 5-hour flight home, and finally back to Boston. There, the plant quickly outgrew its shell, maturing into a wonderful specimen with pure pink single flowers. Each spring, I take cuttings, and in June plant numerous descendants out in the annual garden, always making sure to bring the mother plant back in before frost. I don’t know the variety, and I still don’t know the name of the kind woman who grew it for me. To me, she is the Fargo lady, and the plant, the Fargo geranium, and the memory of that wonderful act of gardening kindness is more than enough.