For many years now I have had some form of a container garden at all of my various apartments. One year I had a tea garden with the likes of lemon balm, mint, of course, and even a little rose bush for rose hips. I guess that little rose bush taught me what a rose hip is and isn't. It's not the bud of a flower. It's not the end of a flower. It is the fruit of the rose plant and apparently the one I got didn't have any, so neither did I.
More recently, I have lived in the same apartment for the last five years. The first year I had my dad and then husband put in a small raised bed on the side of the stairs. Just two cinder blocks tall, four wide by six long, lined with black landscaping fabric and filled with dirt/peat moss mix. Looking back at that request and seeing what I have been able to accomplish since I've gotten divorced and my dad "doesn't want to get involved with my projects" anymore, it does seem rather feble of me not to have gotten out there and done it myself. In my defence, I was a new mother of a six month old baby. Any extra energy I had wasn't going to get waisted on lifting cinder blocks.
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