Since the moment I could be carried outside, I have been in the garden. My grandfather not only taught agriculture internationally, but he also constantly tended to his own rose garden. I was 2 when he was perfecting his new prize rose that he bred and named after me. Then he died.Vermicomposting provides the richest fertilizerI still remember teetering gingerly along the edge of the brick walls of the fading rose gardens. If I lost balance and fell in, it was evident. A large, dark, deep depression remained in the garden soil. My knees and elbows were stained black-brown. My forearms and shins were dusted with microscopic pieces of coffee grounds, peanut husks and egg shells. The dirt was soft and irresistible to touch.
Source: Garden Dirt | Quick and Dirty