My mother has a lovely habit of taking seeds from whatever she is eating and planting them. From these off-handed excursions, she has grown lemon trees (in Buffalo!!), peach trees, ginger, and if I’m remembering correctly, a lovely pineapple shrub. So it’s not that surprising that despite the fact that my homestead was a fifth floor apartment in Manhattan, I developed a similar tradition of saving seeds from whatever legume or fruit I was eating.
What was surprising, however, was how attached I grew to these little plants. I remember the first day that I saw a little green cucumber shoot slowly unfolding itself from the ground, the first leaf uncurling on my baby cherry tree, or, most amazingly, watched the blossoming and resulting baby green bell pepper. Watching this miniature garden grow in my window box became a fascination - I tended the plants devotedly, and probably drew too much of my mood based upon how my plants were doing that day. When I moved out of New York, and realized that I would not be able to take my miniature garden with me, there may have been a few tears.
Now that I live in North Carolina, and have space outdoors, I have moved to gardens that are grander in scale, and it brings me joy, to be sure. But nothing will beat the pride and love I felt for that first window-box garden, and when I truly learned that I am a gardener.