Children's gardens - or not, as the case may be (Classic Gardening) - Garden Plants and Gardening Forum

Classic Gardening · 11-08-2007, 10:14 PM

Hacking back the south facing border this afternoon, I came upon the evidence of a failed horticultural experiment. Cemented to the old weathered wall of yellow stock bricks was a white ceramic tile that had been cut, not entirely expertly, into the shape of a B. Ten yards further down was another, cut into an F.
I’d forgotten all about them, but they reminded me of the optimistic days when I believed I could get my children interested in gardening, just as I had been as a child.
As wiser parents will tell you, there is nothing more fatal than taking a flicker of interest your child demonstrates and seeking to fan the flame. You might as well snuff it out there and then.
As a child, I loved gardening, and I wanted my children to love it too.
It was the desire to win that first got me going. At our annual church fete they had a competition for children to design a garden in a seed box. I forget what the prizes were but I was overcome by a lust to win. My father helped me, bending two lengths of curtail rail into arcs, and marking out a semi-circular path in my miniature garden. Between the rails I was allowed to sprinkle a handful of gravel from our garden path. I dug up a palm-size patch of turf and had a lawn, and popped in various seedlings. I came second. Next year I entered the self-same design and came second again; a trick I repeated at least once more.
Success went to my head and I began to cultivate a border of my own on the shady, window-less wall of the house. Here I recreated full-scale my seed-box garden. But not just bigger, much better too. I bought a bag of just-add-water cement mix from that counter they used to have in Woolworths which sold all sorts of building materials and tools, and dug a pond. I caught minnows in the river in the village and newts in a farm pond. The newts quickly escaped. I planted handfuls of seed from my guinea pig’s food bowl and soon had a crop of wheat and corn.
I started building too – pilfering chipped bricks from the site where a new bungalow was taking shape, and buying more Woolies cement to create garden walls, raised beds and a patio. From somewhere I acquired a plastic heron to stand sentinel over my pond.
The end result looked like a particularly nasty TV garden-show makeover – clearly I was several decades ahead of my time. If only I’d found a Charlie Dimmock to my Titchmarsh, life might have taken a decidedly different turn.
So I like to think it was understandable that I tried to get my children interested in gardening. At first the signs were good. On the day I put the tiles up, we went and bought things to plant in what were now designated as the children’s gardens. Bea chose primulas in bright reds, yellows and orange. Fred chose three strawberry plants.
The strawberries were a big hit, fruiting and putting out runners with abandon. The runners were potted up and planted out and soon Fred had a substantial strawberry patch. He got quite proprietorial. Then he got very proprietorial. He banned his sister from eating his strawberries.
At dinner he’d look suspiciously at the fresh fruit salad. “Are we eating MY strawberries in this?” he’d demand to know, before trying to grab our bowls away from us.
I tried to intervene, and pointed out that Bea had an apple tree in her garden – an espalier Cox’s which predated the division of spoils – and that she let him eat HER apples. Fred insisted that, in fact, exactly half of the apple tree was in his garden, so she was giving him nothing.
They also objected to my planting anything in their gardens of my own, which was difficult because in their minds their plots had grown to encompass virtually the whole of one side of the garden, taking in my vegetable patch, two ponds and the mulberry tree.
But while they might be intensely defensive of their plots, their interest in them didn’t stretch to actually planting anything themselves, or looking after them. As with the dog that kids beg for and their parents have to walk, I was now my children’s gardener, but banned from enjoying any of the fruits of my labour.
Eventually I had to throw off the yolk of my serfdom, stage a one-man workers’ revolution and claim the means of production as my own. Ah well, roll on grandchildren. I’m sure they’ll see the point of gardening.
Visit my other blog here

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11-08-2007, 10:14 PM	#1
Classic Gardening Green Thumb Join Date: Dec 2007 Posts: 92	Children's gardens - or not, as the case may be (Classic Gardening) Hacking back the south facing border this afternoon, I came upon the evidence of a failed horticultural experiment. Cemented to the old weathered wall of yellow stock bricks was a white ceramic tile that had been cut, not entirely expertly, into the shape of a B. Ten yards further down was another, cut into an F. I’d forgotten all about them, but they reminded me of the optimistic days when I believed I could get my children interested in gardening, just as I had been as a child. As wiser parents will tell you, there is nothing more fatal than taking a flicker of interest your child demonstrates and seeking to fan the flame. You might as well snuff it out there and then. As a child, I loved gardening, and I wanted my children to love it too. It was the desire to win that first got me going. At our annual church fete they had a competition for children to design a garden in a seed box. I forget what the prizes were but I was overcome by a lust to win. My father helped me, bending two lengths of curtail rail into arcs, and marking out a semi-circular path in my miniature garden. Between the rails I was allowed to sprinkle a handful of gravel from our garden path. I dug up a palm-size patch of turf and had a lawn, and popped in various seedlings. I came second. Next year I entered the self-same design and came second again; a trick I repeated at least once more. Success went to my head and I began to cultivate a border of my own on the shady, window-less wall of the house. Here I recreated full-scale my seed-box garden. But not just bigger, much better too. I bought a bag of just-add-water cement mix from that counter they used to have in Woolworths which sold all sorts of building materials and tools, and dug a pond. I caught minnows in the river in the village and newts in a farm pond. The newts quickly escaped. I planted handfuls of seed from my guinea pig’s food bowl and soon had a crop of wheat and corn. I started building too – pilfering chipped bricks from the site where a new bungalow was taking shape, and buying more Woolies cement to create garden walls, raised beds and a patio. From somewhere I acquired a plastic heron to stand sentinel over my pond. The end result looked like a particularly nasty TV garden-show makeover – clearly I was several decades ahead of my time. If only I’d found a Charlie Dimmock to my Titchmarsh, life might have taken a decidedly different turn. So I like to think it was understandable that I tried to get my children interested in gardening. At first the signs were good. On the day I put the tiles up, we went and bought things to plant in what were now designated as the children’s gardens. Bea chose primulas in bright reds, yellows and orange. Fred chose three strawberry plants. The strawberries were a big hit, fruiting and putting out runners with abandon. The runners were potted up and planted out and soon Fred had a substantial strawberry patch. He got quite proprietorial. Then he got very proprietorial. He banned his sister from eating his strawberries. At dinner he’d look suspiciously at the fresh fruit salad. “Are we eating MY strawberries in this?” he’d demand to know, before trying to grab our bowls away from us. I tried to intervene, and pointed out that Bea had an apple tree in her garden – an espalier Cox’s which predated the division of spoils – and that she let him eat HER apples. Fred insisted that, in fact, exactly half of the apple tree was in his garden, so she was giving him nothing. They also objected to my planting anything in their gardens of my own, which was difficult because in their minds their plots had grown to encompass virtually the whole of one side of the garden, taking in my vegetable patch, two ponds and the mulberry tree. But while they might be intensely defensive of their plots, their interest in them didn’t stretch to actually planting anything themselves, or looking after them. As with the dog that kids beg for and their parents have to walk, I was now my children’s gardener, but banned from enjoying any of the fruits of my labour. Eventually I had to throw off the yolk of my serfdom, stage a one-man workers’ revolution and claim the means of production as my own. Ah well, roll on grandchildren. I’m sure they’ll see the point of gardening. Visit my other blog here More...

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