A great favorite in Easter week. Enjoy!
I’m dedicating this story to the child within each of us.
My first garden had everything we children needed: tall trees with big outstretched arms, a wide stream and acres of fields to play in. All this stood beside and behind a tiny pink farmhouse where a mother and father and five children lived.
A pink farmhouse? Yes.
Seven people in a tiny pink house? How tiny?
Two bedrooms, two front rooms.
Must have been crowded, I hear you thinking.
But this was a land of mild temperatures and hot sun. Children spent many of their waking hours outside. Nature – the wildness of it, the near-danger of it, the freedom of it – was our garden. A child’s own garden.
It wasn’t until our family moved to our grandmother’s much larger house in a nearby village that the first memories of a flower garden — the kind…
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