When I was very small, it was a community garden, with tall vines and silver pie plates mounted on stakes. At the house where I spent most of my childhood, it was a big vegetable garden, with carrots and onions and peas, tomatoes and beans and more zucchini than we could stand. We had raspberry bushes, a cherry tree and flower patches all over.

I do not have my mother’s green thumb. I looked up the term — "an unusual ability to make plants grow" — and considered my track record. My houseplants always die. I’ve never grown anything from a seed. And my last attempt at a vegetable garden was a disaster, except for the tomatoes.

I am in awe of people with green thumbs. They start seeds in little brown pots. They can nurture withered clearance plants into thriving, hanging miracles. Then they clone these plants by clipping off pieces and rooting them in water.

I asked my mother how long she’s had a green thumb. She said: When I started having kids. You know, the whole nurturing thing.

I sighed. My oldest daughter will be 8 in June, so I think if I was going to have the gift, I’d have noticed by now.

I can talk the talk. Growing up with a green-thumbed mother, I got book-smart about gardening even if I didn’t inherit the knack. I can recognize at least two dozen flower varieties. I know rhubarb leaves are bad, ladybugs are good, and the best time to water is in the evening. I know about deadheading.

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I joke about not having a green thumb when people give me houseplants and when I go to the greenhouse. A couple weeks ago, I went looking for Mother’s Day gifts. I couldn’t resist buying some portulacas for myself — even though I knew it was too soon to plant them outdoors, and I was afraid they would die on my watch.

A woman was watering plants. I asked about the portulacas. Oh, you can’t kill those, she said. If you kill those, you should probably just give it up.

I started putting six-packs of the brightly colored flowers into my wagon. The woman continued: You don’t even have to water them. They like it dry. So I guess you could kill them, by over-watering them.

Perfect, I said, because remembering to water the plants is one of my issues.

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My mother couldn’t give me a green thumb, but she has given me a garden.

Several years ago, she divided some of her perennials and brought me four small plants. They’ve come back every year since. Two bloom in the spring and two in mid-to-late summer: a guaranteed splash of pink, purple and red, no matter what I do or don’t do.

On Mother’s Day, she brought a basket of tools, a bag of mulch and another piece of her garden. We planted perennials together: my mother, my daughters and me. Allie, the toddler, sat in the grass and wormed her fingers through the dirt. Abby, the second-grader, squirted water into holes I dug with a hoe. Mom set the plants in, and I patted the dirt around. By the end of the afternoon, my fingers were brown. Luckily, my mother’s green thumb touched all the plants.

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I planted the portulacas in a plastic terra cotta window box. I will put it outside when the weather is warmer. For now, the plants are brightening up my kitchen with their vibrant pink and orange and yellow blooms — a little bit of outside, inside; bursts of color where before there was a pile of junk mail. I have had no trouble remembering not to water them. I walk by them a lot, and it has become a habit to reach over and pick off the shriveled flowers, crumbling them over the soil the way my mom showed me.

Looking past the portulacas and through the window, I can see my growing perennial garden in the back yard. And I realize that something is different this spring. This year, I can honestly say I’ve enjoyed lugging mulch, digging holes and pulling weeds. Usually, I’m drawn to gardening because I love the results, but for the first time I am appreciating the process.

So maybe there’s hope for me after all. Who knows? I could just be a late bloomer in the green thumb department.

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Lisa Miller is a freelance writer who lives in Oneonta. She can be reached at lisamiller44@hotmail.com.