By the time a little girl reaches age two, the process and ritual of making friends is well underway. Even in its most infantile state, socialization among others is of utmost importance in our development as human beings. When you’re that little it doesn’t matter who you play with, girls or boys, it’s all just fun.

But by the ripe old age of four-or-five-years-old, we begin gravitating to our same gender for friendship. It’s because we inevitability have more in common, and usually don’t get ridiculed for doing “girl things” by other girls (at least at that age).

It was my sophomore year in high school when I adopted my first mantra: “Living well is the best revenge.” I was at an age where very little was comfortable, my confidence waivered on an hourly basis. Moments could be wrecked by someone not acknowledging me in the hall between classes, or finding out about a party, and then finding out I wasn’t invited. A friend’s older sister threw out those words: “Living well is the best revenge.” Little did she know I would take them to heart, wear them like a shield and start to build a lifetime arsenal filled by the power of the pen.

I never mind helping my mother with anything. She is 87 years old and still goes out daily to work in her yard, weather permitting. She has done so much for me and my family throughout my life, I am willing to do anything for her. If it weren’t for her standing up for me, and being a role model of a strong woman, my life would have a very different outcome.

I love my mother and consider her my best friend. So, it is not only my daughterly duty to show up to help, it is what friends do for each other. I truly believe this with all my heart except there is one thing looming between us. It’s the garage—her garage to be exact. She has asked my sister, Martha, and me for more than two years to help clean out her garage. Quite frankly, I would rather wear my pajamas to Wal-Mart and let people take pictures of me than take on this task.

I can’t help but smile as I drive around daily seeing the colorful, visual explosion of red bud trees, Bradford pears, azaleas, and all the glorious blooms of the season. With the exception of pollen, which is a necessary evil, this is my favorite time of the year. It’s when we all come out of our shells on Doldrums Lane and shake off the heaviness of winter to open up to the power of sunshine. It is the time of year where growth likes to show out a bit, bloom fully and bask.

Ah. It almost appears that I am no longer talking about flowers and indeed I’m not. I’m talking about personal growth—something just as beautiful and exciting as spring in full bloom!

As I was checking out at the grocery store, the young cashier held up one of my items and asked me what it was. “It’s a yellow squash,” I said. She proceeded to search for the item number so she could ring it up.

“Is it butternut squash,” she asked?

“No. It is yellow squash. It may be under summer squash or crookneck squash,” I replied.

As she continued to peruse the sheet of paper for the item code, it dawned on me she must not eat vegetables—a sign of the times—at least not any form of squash. I understood how this girl could make it to her 20s and not have ever eaten squash, but to never be in an environment to even be able to identify it is beyond pathetic. Am I the only one who ever purchased squash through her register line? Even more puzzling: How does one get through 12 grades of school in America and not know what squash is?