I grew up on a large dairy farm, the sixth of seven children, and the fourth girl. My time with Dad usually occurred working in the fields. The first time I skipped school to help, I was about 10 years old.  READ MORE

My wife and I have nine children living at our rural Oregon homestead. For us, teaching the ways of nature to the next generation is just as important as raising produce—small wonder we call the place Little Sprouts Farm.  READ MORE

The Summer of 1955, I was 5 years old: impressionable, imaginative, and gullible to no end. Being the youngest child and only girl, I was a bit of a tomboy. I adored my older brothers. I depended on them for much of my childhood entertainment, companionship—and education.  READ MORE

Warm and fuzzy were not two adjectives used to describe my grandmother. With two rocks in her apron pocket, she might have tipped the scales at 100 pounds.   READ MORE

As soon as the fist-sized, orange blossom revealed its beautiful face and reached towards the late-Spring sky, I knew I had made it.  READ MORE

The year was 1962. My dad and I were standing on our front lawn. Arms crossed, he surveyed the scene before him, a grim look on his face. “These weeds are a menace,” he pronounced, as if our front yard had become the beachhead for a botanical invasion.  READ MORE

I had definitely decided to give up fruit and vegetable gardening. Just flowers from now on. Oh, I’ll keep the pumpkin and gourd patch that spreads over the side yard—if the seedlings survive the beetles. And I do love straight-from-the-stalk sweet corn.  READ MORE

A couple of years ago, we moved to a place with a large lot. I borrowed my dad’s rototiller, broke up a large area, and planted rows of vegetables. Our son Paul, eight, and daughter Paula, five, helped us plant the seeds. Then we covered them and watered the garden.  READ MORE

I was 9-1/2 years old in April, 1970 when my family moved from our two-bedroom home on a tiny city lot to a brick foursquare on three acres of land. It was a compromise between my urban-raised Dad and my farm-raised Mom.  READ MORE

With an armful of potting soil, packaged seeds, and last month’s newspapers, I prepare for a day of work. No, I’m not a professional gardener or a horticulturalist. I am a public librarian and I have a roomful of eager children waiting for me. The theme of today’s program, as you probably guessed, is gardening.  READ MORE

We are just sitting down for a family dinner to celebrate Mother’s Day. My parents had six children, and we have all the families together for this special day. An appetizing meal awaits. Mom prepared a delicious brown-sugar ham, and each family brought a side dish to complement the meal. Almost unthinkingly, we avoid serious topics of conversation like work, schedules, and finances. Instead, we reminisce, sharing fond memories.  READ MORE

I grew up in Southern California during the 1950s. My father proudly built our square little bungalow alongside several others in a row on Moorpark Street in Los Angeles.   READ MORE

My wife and I were beaming. We were attending our first parent-teacher conference and receiving all sorts of accolades from Lance’s kindergarten teacher regarding our son. He was respectful, followed directions, knew all the vowel and consonant sounds, and colored within the lines.  READ MORE

Read by Matilda Longbottom   Listen Now:   I was 2 years old when I went to a family reunion at my great-grandparents’ house in Sodaville, OR. There was no food I liked to eat at the party; no chicken nuggets, no pizza, no French fries—nothing! Thus, I ran to the little garden…  READ MORE

Read by Matilda Longbottom   Listen Now:   One evening last Summer, as my husband and I took a walk around our neighborhood, we stumbled upon a beautiful sight. Coming up to the home of one of our favorite families, we noticed Gwen , their 4-1/2-year-old daughter, sitting under a weeping willow tree.…  READ MORE

Last spring, a group of gardeners here in our rural North Carolina town wanted to do a spring service project for our community. We decided to create a small garden at a local school, with six-year old children.  READ MORE

Hey, Mom,” my nine-year-old son Andy called to me from the living room. “Brett wants to know about your new plant. What is it?”  READ MORE

I am not sure if I could be considered a successful gardener or not. I certainly have the desire, and I spend my fair share of time working around the yard. Results are mixed.  READ MORE

Dad may have been a geologist at work, but the first spring in our new Baton Rouge yard, my brother Dave and I learned he was also a botanical magician. A magician who had one remarkable trick: getting us to work in the garden.  READ MORE

Giant pumpkins were my childhood. I spent count-less hours toiling alongside my brother and father in Missouri’s summer heat and humidity, because fairy godmothers aren’t real and if you want a coach-sized pumpkin, it takes work.  READ MORE

Emerson was nine months old when his family moved in—a chubby-cheeked, curly-haired baby with big blue eyes. The house his parents were remodeling was right next to my property. Only a rickety old fence and a few evergreen shrubs separated their backyard from the vegetable and flower gardens in mine.  READ MORE

My grandfather was born Henry, but everyone called him John. He felt that Henry made him sound like royalty—“and I haven’t done anything to deserve that.” Of course, I didn’t call him John or Henry—but Grandfather. Grandfather was an old-school gentleman in just about every way.  READ MORE

“Mom! He pulled my hair!” I shouted, leaning over the oak banister. I held my head in exaggerated pain. “She knocked my toys over first!” Don complained. “Will you two be quiet? I’m reading!” screamed Diane. “You’re the one making all the noise!” said Dale.   READ MORE

I really don’t think I should be the person teaching young children to garden.” These were the words I said when I was asked to serve as the Garden Leader at the Georgia elementary school where I teach. In past years, a skilled Master Gardener had told the students exactly when and how to tend the lovely vegetation that graced the children’s raised beds.  READ MORE

My son Jack is the tallest kid in his class—by quite a bit. He has an arm on him a few coaches say they’ve never seen. I first realized his strength when he was two. We were in a crowded grocery store the day before Thanksgiving.   READ MORE

My mother is a Master Gardener: she received her certification from Michigan’s Wayne State University when I was a young girl. I remember the garden being her retreat from a stressful job as a nightshift ER nurse and a failing marriage. Whenever she had free time, you’d find her weeding, watering, or tending to whatever else the gardens needed.  READ MORE

My cell phone buzzed. It was the Realtor again. What will it be this time? Good news or bad? “Hi, Betty,” I answered, bracing myself for news of another fallen contract. “We have a closing date. Start packing!” said Betty. She knew how badly I needed to sell.  READ MORE