This Is Not a Happy Post
During the past year, my husband the computer geek discovered his green thumb. Gardening started as a small interest, then grew into a full-fledged hobby, even an obsession, albeit with delicious results.
He grew us tomatoes, okra, peppers, carrots, eggplant, watermelon and cantaloupe, and all kinds of herbs. He built beautiful square-foot garden beds, and involved Max in planning, if not so much in execution. He proudly took his basket and clippers out to the garden, and came back with arms and basket laden with goodies, then looked up recipes to show off his cultivations.
He gardened for stress relief and the pleasure of working with the earth. Life was good. Homemade tomato sauce and fried okra were incredible.
Then, the reality of modern-day suburban living hit our little garden like a Florida hurricane. I won’t go into all of the messy details, as you can read them on Aaron’s blog if you like that kind of drama.
End result is that we were forced to remove our vegetable garden. Aaron spent Labor Day systematically taking apart the garden he had so lovingly and carefully built and tended. It was depressing, discouraging. But, I didn’t understand exactly how much it affected him until he put it this way:
“Imagine how you’d feel if someone said you could never scrapbook again, and you had to tear up all of the scrapbooks you’d already created.”
I’d be devastated. He is. I’m so sorry Aaron.