When I was about five years old, my Dad built a playhouse for me. It was probably about
6 by 8 feet (2-3 m.). He roofed it with cedar shingles, stained it a redwood color to match our house, and painted the door green. It had a play stove, sink, and refrigerator. It was the envy of all my friends. I think my Dad must have loved me very much to build such a special playhouse. I was a country kid growing up without neighborhood kids or siblings my own age, so it could be that he was hoping to keep me busy. That’s okay, too.
My First Garden
My playhouse was located at the end of my mom’s vegetable garden, where I could step down onto the green lawn. When it was garden planting time, Dad would plow up a tiny patch of ground behind the playhouse (outside of my mother’s beautifully manicured lawn). He would give me a couple of seed packets, and I would plant and water the seeds just like mom did.
I’m pretty sure he knew how that garden would work out. I wasn’t really committed to the project, and I would lose interest before the seeds had time to sprout. My older sister loved being in the kitchen, but I preferred to spend much of my summers out in the wheat fields with my dad. When I wasn’t out with dad, I was reading. For what it’s worth, that was my first garden – or non-garden.
I was slightly more committed to my first real garden, here in town, about 13 miles from my family’s ranch. I still started out full speed ahead every spring, but tended to lose interest as the summer progressed. However, my attention span had improved enough for me to harvest plenty of fresh vegetables, but not always enough to keep the weeds in check.
I’m still not an avid vegetable gardener, and I still have a short attention span. Flowers keep me interested longer, so that’s where I direct my attention these days.
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