As of yet my hands haven’t touched the dirt, only typed about that possibility with those soft pink finger pads. But they’ve gathered the few garden tools I have from the garage. Two flimsy gloves and a spade. A trowel? What do people call this? A hand shovel? Not that the words matter, only the work. Of course, I know as much about the work as I do about the words. I’ve got a lot to learn.