My mother was a gardener. She lived in the same house on the same substantial suburban block for 52 years and developed the sort of front yard the neighbours admired and the sort of back yard monks would be happy to meditate in. My motherÂs only major gardening error of judgement was to ask her three strapping 20-something sons to lay the brick flooring of her new fernery. After a weekend of hard toil, my mother thanked her sons, and then called in some professionals to undo the damage.
My father and stepmother were gardeners ... see the full post here.