Have you ever planted onions with 6-year-olds?

A few nods, yes?

Six-year-old twins?

A few fewer nods, yes?

Six-year-old twin boys?

Hello? Anyone?

Picture Mother’s Day 2003, a beautiful, breezy May day, when you hear Auntie Jan say: “Who would like to go outside and plant onions with me?”

After a chorus of “me, me, me” from my nephews Benjamin and Caleb, we thundered outside, our progress slowing enough to grab my gloves and the box of onion plants on our way to the barn in search of a bucket to fill with rainwater.

The little red wagon – hanging high on the barn wall – flashed like a neon sign as we entered the building, bucket long forgotten by two-thirds of the onion-planting party.

I focused on getting a hole-free pail while the boys “discussed” who would pull and who would ride, once Auntie Jan got the wagon down, of course.

When they pealed out of the barn and started rolling straight for my car, I ever-so-politely suggested that they follow me to get the water.

I got to the rain barrel and the boys rumbled to a stop. I took one look at the spigot, realized it was positioned incorrectly and determined that I didn’t know how to fix it, especially with a nearly full barrel of water waiting to gush with the flow of gravity.

I twisted the handle around and then up and down while Benjamin held the bucket under the dripping spigot. I tried again and a geyser erupted, spraying the two of us.

I yelped, he didn’t.

Once the bucket was half full, I had the boys place the bunches of onions in the water. We negotiated who would carry the bucket (I won) and who would ride in the wagon (I didn’t wait to see).

The boys began looping around the back yard, falling in and out of the wagon. Six-year-old tempers flared over pulling prowess, direction and speed. I ever-so-politely hollered across the yard at the duo, reminding them of our exciting task, because didn’t they want to come pick onions in Auntie Jan’s garden this summer?

It would seem they would rather pick carrots.

To appease my assistants, I said we’d be planting carrots later. Today was onion day.

I readied the first small trench in the raised bed as the boys asked if they could pull “weeds.” No, I replied, those are strawberry plants.

We concentrated on the first bunch of onions, separating them and sticking them into the trench before pulling the dirt around the tiny bulbs. A small scuffle broke out over who would dig the next trench with the trowel until one discovered that hands-only digging seemed to work, too.

Soon we had a large ditch I had to fill back in.

About this time, Caleb discovered another “weed,” but this one looked more like a lupine. I suggested we move it to a flower bed behind us. Trowel in hand, he dug the little sprout up, shaking most of the dirt off the roots before placing it in his palm.

Benjamin picked the spot, took the trowel and started digging the hole. “Look, Auntie Jan, a worm!” he said.

In the midst of our digging, my niece Cassandra arrived to ask for some chives. I pointed to the barrel planters by the shed and off she went. I was attempting to admire the worm and look for Caleb’s sprout when I realized: no Caleb; he was busy yanking on a fistful of chives. I called Caleb back only to discover the sprout was missing.

It still hasn’t been found.

I returned to my onions and Cassandra returned to the house. The boys decided they wanted to pick some daffodils for their mom. I agreed and they dithered over which was the best bloom. They each selected a couple and headed for the house.

It was here that things started to get a little crazy and my memory a little hazy. I was poking plants into the ground as quickly as I could. The boys were running back and forth, asking to pick more flowers – this time with faces straight up if you please, a near impossibility with daffodils, although we managed to find some with a definite tilt that passed inspection.

At some point, Benjamin returned without Caleb, asked if he could move a strawberry plant to the hole he’d dug and proceeded to push the trowel around his chosen plant. We moved the plant without incident but with decidedly fewer roots than it had that morning. We tossed in a worm for good measure.

I recall being abandoned only to find that the boys were taking a bubble-blowing break.

Soap bubbles floated across the back lawn with cries of “Look, Auntie Jan,” and I, feeling a wee bit frantic, separated onions and applauded strings of roving bubbles.

Benjamin finally went inside, but Caleb came racing to me again. He asked if he could pick more daffodils.

“I love daffodils,” he said, his eyes fixed on the golden and ivory blooms at his feet.

He picked more – for Cassandra, his grandmother and his other aunt – and stood there smelling them while I finished up. He complained that the flowers had stopped smelling, so I told him that he had to come up for air once in a while and the smell would return.

It worked (aunts are geniuses).

He disappeared again, only to return to ask for more daffodils.

For whom were these, I queried, wondering how many he and Benjamin had collected.

These, it would seem, were for Caleb. “I love daffodils,” he said again. “They smell nice.”

So Caleb and I walked to the front yard where he proceeded to pick the biggest, most golden King Alfred daffodil and one of the prettiest pheasant’s eye narcissus. He selected two others and sniffed all with great appreciation, declaring that one of them smelled like shaving cream.

To my 6-year-old daffodil aficionado, I am sure it did.

And the onions? You know, they all got planted despite the distractions and the fact that they only smelled like onions.

Janine Pineo is a NEWS copy desk editor and systems editor. Her e-mail is jpineo@bangordailynews.net.