I hated every minute of it, digging in the smelly dirt in spring, planting the tiny seeds in rows, and weeding the plants while sweat poured down my face. I wanted to spend the summer with my friends. But instead, I spent every Saturday and my summer vacations working in my mom's large vegetable garden. My mom was determined that l would learn how to plant and harvest a proper garden. I grew up and left home, happy to leave that old vegetable garden behind. But a few years later, living in a little house with my husband, I looked out of the back window and saw a big sunny spot. "That might be a good place for a vegetable garden," I thought, surprising even myself. I could hear Mom's voice in my head "Put the peas in rows, and the lettuce in bunches. Leave room between the tomatoes and cucumbers so they can spread. Pulling weeds right after it rains is easier." Over the years, with each new house I've moved to, the first thing I've looked for is room for a garden in the backyard. As a teenager I would complain, sitting down to a table full of fresh vegetables from the garden, but now I exclaim to my own three teens, "Look at all this food you will never eat something so good and fresh picked from your own backyard!" Now a third of my small backyard is a vegetable garden, and every year it grows just a bit bigger. When my son Simon was five, his eyes became wide as he helped me pick peas and beans one morning. "Wow! Mom, we have so much free food!" So, thanks, Mom, for knowing more than I did, about how much I would love digging in the dirt. Thank you for teaching me when I was unteachable and for somehow sparking  an interest that would lead to a lifetime joy. What might be the best title for the passage?
The smelly dirt. My small backyard My happy vacations. Our vegetable gardens.