Each spring we grow a garden. It was something I admit not liking all that much as a youth. Mostly because I felt like my dad made us do it. The endless sweaty hours of planting and weeding and watering were torture. When it came time to pick the beans, the rows stretched on forever. Imagine my surprise that when I had my own house, I found myself actually wanting to grow a garden. I turned to my dad, the expert gardener, for advice. Never mind that I had been working the family garden plot for years, this time it was different. I was planting MY garden and I wanted to do it right. The garden plot became a thing of pride that I looked forward to each year. I showed it off to my dad and felt the satisfaction of our hard labor. Not to mention the incomparable freshness and taste of home grown veggies. Dad is gone now and my garden expert is now my older brother. He paid more attention than I did I guess and he helps me a lot. As for the actual gardening, I hear the same grumbles and excuses from my kids that I so willingly piled upon my dad. "It's too hot, it's too hard, I hate gardening!" But the kernel is planted and someday, when they have homes of their own, I just know that I'll get that phone call. The one where the voice on the other end asks "Dad, can you help me plant a garden?"
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