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MY TURN TO MOW THE GARDEN

Gardening is more than fun. It is hilarious. In fact, one time our family owned bragging rights to the tallest asparagus stalk in town. It grew to a height of about five feet, and we treated it like a friend, one who was welcome to live on in what used to be a large garden in the backyard of the home we purchased.

I was born and raised in a mining town in North-Western Quebec, 500 miles from Montreal. The only garden produce any of our neighbors grew there was rocks, hidden by a wild variety of weeds. Consequently, any small patch of grass was for tramping on, not carving out a garden patch.

Moving to the city of Sarnia, in southern Ontario meant, for the first time I would have a garden, one of many dreams I hoped to fulfill. Folks could not believe I had never grown a flower, let alone vegetables. My learning began in earnest. Thankfully my wife, Esther was not only kind but wise. She was born on a farm in New Brunswick and allowed me the opportunity to learn about black stuff that clings to the underside of your fingernails.

Troy, our youngest, volunteered to help dad with his very first garden. Together we were prepared to surprise mom with our bountiful supply. April came quickly and we couldn't wait to get cracking, setting aside more pressing chores. The lady before us had turned her whole lawn into a garden, before age slowed her steps. She turned it back into a lawn, but confided, "Don't be surprised if some vegetables still pop up once in a while."

We lovingly selected a section of the lawn and dug into our first patch of grass.

Shovels moved in unison, weeds quickly extricated, and our ten-foot square garden was quickly pummeled into submission. After smoothing the surface, we scraped loose soil into rows resembling long lines of putty, about three inches high. In order to grow the maximum amount of vegetables we decided on having ten rows about five inches apart. After running fingers through their centers, we were ready to sprinkle seed into the depressions. I could see my wife, looking through the window. Why was she smiling?

Troy opened the first bag of seeds and passed them to me. So tiny I thought, never having seen one before. As I contemplated the production of one huge carrot from these pepper specs, the wind blew them off his hand.

Each of the following bags were lovingly opened and caressed carefully into the soil. We carefully brushed the soil over seed; some fell in clumps of half a dozen, others were spaced anywhere

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