![]() Being the eight year old in the family, I typically ended up especially dirty, from digging up rocks or whatever I imagined might be buried beneath the soil and any other backyard task I had been assigned. Our backs ached from kneeling over to plant row after row of carrots, asparagus, tomatoes, and more, and dirt stained the knees of our jeans. Somewhere towards the beginning of May our whole family – my mom, dad, two sisters, and I, would spend the weekend with spades, shovels, stakes, twine, and what seemed to my eight year old mind to be hundreds of packets of seeds.Īnd when the weekend was over, the garden had begun anew for the season. Every winter the snow would blanket whatever was left from the previous season, and every spring it would melt, the ground would compost, and we would begin planting vegetables and flowers that would soon be growing beneath the soil. ![]() ![]() ![]() Growing up in a small town in rural Iowa, my family had a large garden on the far side of our back yard. ![]()
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