When I was around six or seven, I was dad's garden helper. This meant trailing after him on those early mornings as he chose roses to snip, and put them in a bucket of water. I am not quite clear on my precise role, since I didn't actually snip the roses, or put them in the bucket, and I certainly didn't carry the bucket. However, since we had a large rose garden and a number of roses had to be chosen according to the color mom had requested for the day, it entailed a good deal of time. And to me, at age six, it was an honorable, serious, and dashed important task.
Happy birthday, Dad. I didn't inherit your green thumb, but roses always make me feel like a happy six-year-old again.