Gardening Seats on Wheels

Rolling Garden Seat with Wheels & Two Change-Out Turnbars - with Backrest & Storage

Ergonomic Gardening Tool Favorites - Ideal for Use with Garden Seats

I feel in love with gardening after my family moved to a house in South Carolina from a big city apartment in Florida. The prior owners of the house left us two gifts: an outside clothes line and a small garden plot. While the clothes line did little to elicit my appreciation, the garden plot excited my eleven~year~old senses and opened up a new world for me. Kind of like nature's welcome mat.

I couldn't wait for spring. Although my first~ever snow had been the state's "worst ever in 40 years" by adult standards, it bestowed upon us kids an unexpected break from school and a week's worth of sledding until our toes were near frostbite.

But spring finally marched in to the beat of an oh~so~slow drum.

I learned about zones and temperature and germination from the back of the watermelon seed pack I bought at Woolworth's downtown. Computers were still something from NASA or top secret agents, so I relied on our neighbor, C.B. who warned of slugs and mealy bugs and such. C.B. worked for the railroad but he seemed knowledgeable enough and he made really sweet tea.

I turned the soil as I was directed. C.B. said any soil that's not orange is rich; this was some rich dirt and I was proud of it.

The seeds went in and I planted them far apart like C.B. said. If I did that, he advised, the part on the package about transplanting could be skipped. So, I was a "skipper" and I chuckled at the thought as I patted the last seed in the last row.

I watered and waited.

The seedlings, as I came to know them, were the marvel I imagined. A miracle. Borne of the sun, the rain and the rich dirt.

And the seedlings grew faster than the weeds I battled on a weekly basis. Then the yellow flowers. Flowers?

I hurried over to C.B.'s, certain the seed people had made a mistake and put flower seed in the package. I'd heard about yellow bells or butter cups ~ something like that. I didn't want butter flowers; I wanted watermelons.

C.B. laughed. And I was sure the other neighbors could hear through the screen door. "Them there flowers are yer watermelons!" This was getting complicated. C.B. had the patience of a saint and I learned about bees and bugs and such and how flowers turn to watermelons. I was beginning to think watermelons and tadpoles were related. Like cousins who know magic or something.

True to C.B.'s word, the flowers "turnt" to watermelons and I marveled at how teeny they were. It seemed impossible these pea~sized striped specks would one day be dinosaur fruit.

I dreamed of the Fourth of July, the county fair and watermelon stands. Maybe I would be in the newspaper. Or win a ribbon or something.

But my watermelons would only grow to cantaloupe size before they perished from fungi.

I was heartbroken. I'd learned about seedlings, slugs and yellow flowers but the fungus wasn't part of my agenda; it wasn't in my dreams of fairs and watermelon ribbons.

Indeed, I'd learned a lesson about nature, but I could have learned something else about nature, like gravity or neap tides, not fungus, not my watermelons!

The following year I settled on radishes and tomatoes with explosive success, and C.B. showed me his recipe for tomato sandwiches: tomatoes, salt, pepper and toast. He said to add bacon if I was feeling brave. ~Wendy Hughes