Andrew Oldham explains how much to his relief, his teenage son has started volunteering for a local community garden
Asa toddler, my son (little D) was always in the garden. In hindsight, he was there for the strawberries and even today, whenever I come in from the veg patch, he asks if there are any ready. Back then, we nicknamed him Houtini because he would often escape our hands whilst his mouth was full of something: cucumbers, tomatoes, even potatoes were not safe from him but as he has grown older, more subject to peer pressure and technology, his time in the garden has become less and his love of his smartphone has become greater, leaving Carol and I as the proverbial technological orphans.
He has, as he says, been ‘force fed’ gardens
Where parents go, children must follow, even if they don’t want to, that’s just the law. Looking back at my own teenage years, my parents were not travellers and I got off lightly compared to my wife, Carol who saw every fishing river in the country, and can still reel off places that she loved and hated including a spell of sitting on a deckchair in the middle of a river with chickenpox. D has not gotten off lightly and between my love of gardening and Carol’s love of antiques, he has spent a childhood somewhere between soil and being told not to touch things with his dirty hands. Even this summer, we took him all over London and Brittany visiting gardens, junk shops and watching him retreat further and further into his smartphone.
I hoped one day this grounding in gardening would blossom
Carol and I lie in bed at night, listing the ways this could happen: when he has his own children, when he discovers the importance of mental health, when green spaces dwindle, when the end of the world comes. The usual chaotic ramblings and concerns of any parent that veers from the sane to the irrational.
Concerns suddenly start to melt
When D decides he wants to do the Duke of Edinburgh Bronze Award through his school. Part of DoE involves volunteering. The idea of working in a charity shop leaves him cold. The idea of working with kids brings him out in a cold sweat, in his own words, ‘I spend enough time with them already!’ Then one breakfast, casually, in passing, I suggest Incredible Edible Saddleworth.
I do not push, cajole, threaten, bargain, or plead. No smartphones are taken away, no time cut from his PlayStation until he does as he is told and sows seeds! I merely mention, ‘Oh, there’s always that growing co-op in Uppermill. They grow lots of strawberries.’ I step back, drop the microphone, and leave the building. Elvis has nothin
