Emma Emerson Fowler is happy most of the year, as she likes to think that a sunny disposition can go a long way toward healing the hurt in this world. She makes it a point to smile at everyone she encounters as she goes about her day, in the hopes that her outgoing personality might make a difference, however small. Who knows? Maybe all that stranger at the feed-and-seed store needs is one person to look him in the eye in order to make it through the day. So Emma tries to think positive, even when she might not feel too cheery on the inside. But even Emma will admit that she is happiest when her garden is in full bloom.

Her interest in growing things began innocently enough, the first time her father took her to the farmers’ market to get Emma out of the house. Emma might technically have been classified as hyperactive, but her parents preferred to consider her exuberantly enthusiastic. They were constantly trying to find activities to entertain their only child, so that she would be occupied, of course, and also in the hopes that they might get some peace and quiet. It was on just such a Saturday that Emma’s mother thought she might explode if she did not get a few minutes to herself, and so Emma and her father had set out for Luckettville High, where every Saturday from March through October area farmers set up stands in the parking lot.

Even though she was only six at the time, and despite the fact that the Emersons did not have an agricultural background, Emma was hooked after that first visit. For whatever reason, she could not get enough of the tastes, smells, and textures offered up by nature’s bounty. She learned to distinguish silver queen tomatoes from yellow, heirloom from beefsteak. As soon as she was old enough, her parents let her plant a garden in the backyard, and she joined the 4-H Club. By the time Emma was in her teens, she was providing fruits and vegetables to the neighbors, along with a variety of flowers. At first, she didn’t charge for her services, until her father got wind of her endeavor and told her the neighbors would most likely be glad to pay her something. And he was right. So the seed was planted in Emma’s mind that one day she might be able to make a living doing something she loved: spending time outdoors.

Secretly, Emma dreamed of marrying a farmer. She even dated one for a while, if you count Alan Hopewell’s six-llama enterprise as farming. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. Turns out Alan was more interested in the mating habits of animals than the romantic interactions of human beings.

After college, Emma fell for a stockbroker named Travis Fowler. Lucky for Emma, Travis was a businessman who also happened to love the land. Soon they were tending their lives together in a small farmhouse set on ten acres just outside Luckettville, with room enough and plenty.

The previous owners had tried their hands at organic farming, but gave it up when they got an offer to invest in a start-up tech company out west.

“All the better for me,” said Emma as she and Travis got settled in. “The garden plots are already in place.”

She envisioned row after row of succulent vegetables, the perimeter lined with clay pots of lavender, chives, and tarragon. She started out with such basics as iceberg lettuce, Bradley tomatoes, and seedless cucumbers. Soon she threw a few more exotic offerings into the mix, like lemon basil, arugula, and Italian eggplant. Who knows? Maybe one day she’ll try her hand at senshu apples and chieftain potatoes, and even raise a few chickens.

Along the way, Emma honed her skills in the kitchen, and over the years she developed a reputation for serving the best home-cooked food around. When Emma’s crops were ready to be harvested, she’d spread the word at the post office, where most of the social interactions in their rural community took place.

“Y’all come over for dinner,” she’d said to the elderly couple across the way that first year. It was just the four of them that time, eating at a picnic table covered with one of Emma’s vintage tablecloths she picked up at yard sales, the kind her grandmother used. After that, every year when their little farm is at its peak, Emma and Travis throw open their doors and invite their neighbors over for a farm-to-table dinner. A tradition was born, like the best ones are, without planning or premeditation.

There will be bacon, lettuce, and tomato soup, which Emma created by accident one summer afternoon when she wanted something a little different. Her cabbage casserole has become one of Travis’s favorites, even though before marrying Emma he’d never been a fan of cabbage, calling it “too smelly” and scrunching up his face whenever she mentioned the word.

If they have a bumper crop of corn, Emma will make corn salad, and always they make sure to offer eggplant pie and squash tart for the vegetarians in the crowd, although even their meat-loving friends deem both offerings delicious. The rancher down the road always has some meat to contribute, beef or pork, depending on the kind of year he’s had. To round things out, Emma will prepare asparagus with cashew butter, slaw with walnuts and cranberries, and watermelon salad.

Eventually, one of the musicians in attendance—and there always seems to be at least one fiddle player in such a mix—starts a tune, and another, maybe a harmonica player this time, picks it up, and so on until they find their rhythm, friends and strangers alike coming together in a perfect serenade for a summer evening.