During a winterlong hiatus away from my desk, I signed up for aerobic workouts with a personal trainer. Five months later, I’m in great shape for gardening season, except for the exhausted wheezing and screaming muscles.

Every morning, a blur of black and brown fur streaks across our backyard with a blue squeaky ball clamped in his mouth. That’s my trainer, Duffy, our 60-pound Bernedoodle puppy, whose favorite words are “Ball time.” His repeated gallops have flattened the grass behind the raised beds and made a perfect dirt path for our games of fetch. Unfortunately, I’m the one who pants along behind him and actually does the fetching. After 20 minutes of throwing and retrieving the slobbery balls, I’m ready to race the Bernedoodle to the water bowl.

In January, I enrolled in and later almost flunked out of Dragon School. My 8-year-old grandchild, Sam, is the school’s founder, principal and only teacher. Sam accepted me on a probationary basis and assigned me to the lowest possible class. Dragons for Dummies was the vibe I got. My mandatory school uniform was a black, child-size hooded cloak and a lightweight plastic bat, required for combat training. In PE class, Sam whipped off 20 squats and a dozen push-ups without hyperventilating and then said, “Do it.” The squats were no problem, but my teacher was not happy when I whined, complained and cheated on the push-ups.

Swinging a plastic weapon at balloons and soccer balls, which substituted for real dragons, was tricky but crucial for survival. Dragons are quick and fierce. I knew this because I’d spent two hours online, researching and writing a paper on 12 species of dragons. After I finished a formal presentation, Sam complimented me on my work, but then scanned the report and noted that my data on the 12th dragon needed more detail. I’ve studied with university professors who were less intimidating.

I almost flunked out for sure when I tried to fly on a dragon. The red and purple beast took me soaring high above the Fort Russell neighborhood in Moscow, but it bucked me off just before we reached the ground. A car slowed and the driver stared as I landed with an awkward thump on the school’s front lawn. Maybe she had never seen a 75-year-old grandma make a hard landing off the back of a dragon. I was also nearly as hopeless at riding double with Sam on a kitchen broom. I tried to match Sam’s quick pace while we trotted around the block, but inevitably I slid off the end of the broomstick. By then I was accustomed to the neighbors’ snorts and grins.

When the first crocus, daffodils and tulips appeared in my front-yard garden this spring, I realized how much I need the beauty and peace of my “Church of Dirt and Flowers.” The tulips bloomed in paintbox colors for weeks, but they finally dropped the last of their petals as the summer perennials began to flower. Our apple tree is slow to bloom and produces tiny, sour balls of fruit, but its branches are ideal for hanging bird feeders.

One morning I looked out the kitchen window and noticed a brown and yellow pine siskin, hanging upside down and frantically beating its wings against a feeder. I hurried outside and, as I moved closer, realized that the tiny bird’s head was wedged between the perch and the bird feeder’s sharp edge. Gently, so gently, I used my fingertip to ease the siskin’s head upright and onto the perch. When it fluttered its wings and flew off, I whispered a thank you to the garden goddess.

In May, impetuous gardeners tend to make long lists of summer projects. My own list is two pages long, but on Thursdays, the projects can wait. I’ve been promoted to the next level at Dragon School, and Sam says our Thursday classes will be harder than ever.

Craft Rozen, an introvert by nature, writes about gardening from her home in Moscow. She may be contacted at scraftroze@aol.com.