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Gardening
I was married with two young children before I had a garden of my own. I don't count various married quarter segments of ground in the service. I say garden advisedly, because what I had was four borders, each about eight feet wide and growing a variety of England's natural flora, i.e. weeds. This condition may well have continued if I had not met a most charming and intelligent lady who lived just a few doors away.
She was the keenest of gardeners and knew all the Latin names for the plants she grew. This particularly impressed me because I had childhood memories of a very patient teacher trying to instill in me the same pleasure she received from conjugating Latin verbs. A task at which she failed miserably, through no fault of hers, I hasten to add.
Well, to cut a long story short, she took me under her wing, my neighbour that is, not the fondly remembered teacher and I was introduced to the magical world of amateur gardening. I had free access to her library of books and being an avid reader I was soon soaking up details of how to become a gardener. The cream on the cake was when she introduced me to our local Garden Centre owner. Here was a man that grew plants, not just for profit but also for the pleasure it gave both him and his customers. He always found the time to chat and was ever ready with help and answers to my questions. He had a lifetimes experience to draw upon and was ever generous in imparting that experience to others. A great chap.
The bug finally bit and bit deep that first spring when the shrubs I had so carefully planted the previous autumn performed their annual miracle and began to produce the leaves and flowers of a new year.
To Be Continued:
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