I’ve pretty much given up trying to grow a garden. It’s nothing but a pain in the neck—and the lumbar spine. It gives you blisters on your hands, mud on your boots, stains on your knees, sunburn on your nose and the mosquito-bitten complexion of a raspberry. I didn’t always feel this way. I used to have a romanticized, glamorous concept of hovering over tiny green shoots that reached affectionately toward my face as I coaxed them to burst forth into lush foliage and luscious fresh food.
I had always toyed with the idea of growing a few tomatoes, squashes, and beans in a charming little garden plot out back, but never had enough backyard or enough spare time to bring my dreams to fruition. Nevertheless, each time I found myself ducking into Lowe’s for a box of light bulbs, my feet dragged me involuntarily toward the gardening section.
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