“There is music in the garden among the flowers and the trees, and when our hearts listen closely, we can hear it.” quote by Flavia
My lifelong love of gardens began with Dad’s backyard vegetable garden.
What I remember most about that garden was the compost pile. Dad’s compost pile was nothing but an open loosely stacked heap, slightly taller than the top of my head. I suppose he knew what he was doing because we always had an abundance of rich, dark soil to mix into our existing rows. As Dad turned the pile each night or two, a dozen luscious, juicy earthworms wiggled vigorously, protesting the disturbance amid the newly turned earth. They’d quickly burrow back into their moist, dark haven.
I watched Dad wield the sturdy, long-handled fork with its metal tines and wooden shaft, wishing I was tall enough and strong enough to turn the pile. I wanted to rustle those worms and make them squirm just like Dad did.
He’d come home from the office, quickly change his clothes and work in the garden most nights until sundown. He’d leave the fork stuck straight up in the top of the compost heap, signaling the end of another Michigan summer day.