Author's Note: I am writing this post as a series due to its length. I have thought a lot about this subject, and to put it all into one article would probably be difficult to read.
I have always enjoyed the garden. As a child there were tomatoes and green beans to sneak when the parents weren't looking and rabbits to chase out. As a young mother there was a new rosebush to be anticipated each Mother's Day morning to add to the rose garden. When we bought our own home there were the most wonderful fresh herbs growing to cook with all summer long. Gardens have almost always been a part of my life.
Mr. Farmer has always referred to our gardens as mine. "Go build a wall for your mother's garden," he'd say to the children, or "What do you want in your garden?" and so on. He chose the location. He built and rebuilt the stone walls. He purchased and planted the seeds and plants. He hauled the mulch and sprinkled the slug poison. He watered and fertilized them. All gardens, however, have always been "mine".
Ever since I noticed this trend, or perhaps because I noticed it, it became my ambition to earn the right to call a garden "my garden".
My involvement in the family gardens is continually growing with each passing year. At first my involvement was merely supervisory. I would give input on what I wanted in the garden, or I would chit chat with Mr. Farmer while he watered the garden. Little by little I became more involved in the physical work. First by turning over garden beds or, as I like to call it, jumping on a shovel. Soon I was building and rebuilding rock walls. I was making more informed decisions about the choice and locations of plants. Now, after working up to it for several years, I have planned and executed several flower beds and am very much involved in the all important vegetable garden.
I have grown to love working in my gardens... and they really are beginning to feel like they are mine.