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My Garden of Happiness

By: Moondrift



I love gardening. The sensual feel of soil crumbling through my fingers, the tang of the earth and the maternal feeling watching things grow. 

In my teenage years my gardening began to take on something resembling a sexual nuance for me. I suppose as I see the little shoots appear above the earth, and I know that I have contributed to their nativity, I have a motherly protective feeling towards them. For me that led on to thoughts about human fertility and growth, and by extension the act that begins the process. 

I think this love of gardening began when I was still a little girl when I asked my father if I could have a little garden of my own. He gave me a small corner of our garden and a packet of seeds, and then showed me how to prepare the earth for planting.

I put in the seeds I must admit, with little confidence that they would come to anything. I could not understand how those little dried up specks could ever amount to anything.

I dutifully watered the earth and pulled up those things that my father said were weeds. I have heard it said that weeds are plants whose time has not yet come. Then one day the impossible happened, the first tiny shoots appeared above the earth and reared up to eventually become pink and white carnations.

From the moment of that miracle I was an avid gardener. My little patch of ground was gradually expanded until I grew not only flowers, but vegetables as well. My father was for ever telling people that I had a “green thumb.” Everything I planted seemed to flourish.

I was fortunate throughout my school years in that the schools I attended all had gardens. I was considered rather an “unusual girl,” because in those days, while the boys had weekly gardening hours, the girls had so-called “Domestic Science.” It was my father who persuaded the School Principal to allow me to do gardening. Thus I was the only girl at that time who gardened along with the boys.

In high school they had a proper horticultural course and this I took in my last year at school which was one year short of the final year. Then I had to leave school because my parents could not afford to let me go further. 

My ambition was to own a plant nursery, but that was far beyond my or my parent’s resources. Besides, I needed to learn more about plants and the running of a business. Instead, and for the time being, it was second best for me and I got a job in a local nursery.

I enjoyed the work and always watched carefully how things were run, for there always lurked within me the desire for that “one day” place of my own. 

I suppose I was somewhat romantic at that time as well as being nubile. As young girls often do, I had visions of marrying a man who was also a garden lover, and together we would have our own plant nursery. My vision didn’t work out quite as I hoped.

Along with my love making with soil and plants went other amatorial emotions. I was a warm blooded young female and although I managed to end my school career with my virginity in tact, there had been much kissing and fumbling with boys in the school garden tool shed, and in a few other places.

I think my sexuality was somehow connected with my gardening. Perhaps it is that the love of growing things leads on to a desire to grow something inside oneself; to be the creator of new life; to feel life growing within you, and by extension, this leads to the desire to engage in that activity which initiates the process.

It did not therefore take too much persuasion on Joe’s part to get me to open the door to paradise and let him in.

I met Joe about a year after I began work at the nursery. He was a carpenter and he came to carry out some carpentry work at the nursery. I fell for him on first sight. Tall, with dark hair with blue eyes, a happy smile and all that; he dated me the second day of his time at the nursery. I thought I was in heaven. One week later in the back of his car he was in heaven.

Shortly after that I reaped the aftermath of Joe’s visits to Paradise; I was pregnant, or so I thought.

Joe, being a fairly considerate sort of bloke, said he would marry me. This he did but, as the old saying goes, “Marry in haste repent at leisure.”

Well, perhaps “repent” is too strong a word. Joe was a good man and he tried to make me happy in his own way. He wasn’t in the least bit interested in gardening, but he found us a house that, in keeping with other houses of a previous generation, had lots of land round it, instead of the pocket handkerchief size gardens people have now. To my delight previous owners had taken no interest in the garden and it was a virtual wilderness. I had an almost pristine wasteland to develop in my own way.

The trouble was, I had fantasised a virile gardening hero to share my life with and Joe was neither gardener or virile. To be fair, and as I have discovered in the years since, Joe was like a lot of men; the first flush of passion soon faded, and the Friday night “binge” as he called it, took over.

There was me, burning with carnal lust, and Joe watching television every night and going to football matches at the weekend. If in bed at night I cocked my leg over him he would mutter something about being tired and go to sleep.

It’s strange how things work out. Mavis, my next door neighbour once confided to me that her husband wouldn’t leave her alone. “Cara,” she declared, “you’ve no idea how he pesters me. He wants it when he wakes up in the morning, when he gets home from work, then when we go to bed. I sometimes think I’ll go mad if he doesn’t keep his hands off me.”

I thought to myself that it might be a good idea if I took some of the pressure off her, but I didn’t really fancy her husband. Apart from that, I was still old fashioned enough to believe in the marriage vows, fidelity and all that.

And that’s another thing; it isn’t as if I’m ugly or something. I know it’s hard to be objective about your own looks, but I did notice men eyeing me off and even propositioning me sometimes.

To try and give you some idea how I am let me just say, I’m five feet six tall, I’ve got nice long ash blonde hair that I take great pride in; my skin is clear and my facial features are regular and I have large brown eyes. As far as my figure is concerned, my work keeps me in good shape and, in that respect I see as my crowning glory, my 38C bust. I mean, I really am very firm and my nipples are a fresh pink colour.

I am not claiming to be an outstanding beauty, but I’m sure I have plenty to offer in the sensual stakes. It was just that Joe, for all his initial promise as an ardent lover, when it came down to it, had a low level libido. It was almost as if he said to him self once we were married, “That’s got that aspect of life settled, so I don’t have to bother about it any more.”

To put it another way; I know that a garden needs constant maintenance and care or it gets choked with weeds and runs to seed, and so do I, but Joe couldn’t be bothered with the conservation aspect of our marriage sexually speaking.

In the light of Joe’s lack of interest I had to do some self maintenance, and after six months of frustration I got myself a dildo and got at least some relief.

Perhaps it might have been different, though I doubt it, if had been pregnant when we got hurriedly married, but I wasn’t. The doctor muttered things like “False pregnancy,” and apparently told Joe in less flattering terms it was a “Hysterical pregnancy.” Cheeky bugger! 

Joe made no protest about being “trapped” into marriage. I’m sure he loved me in his way, and in the time we had together I am fairly sure his eyes wandered to no other female. It was just that he wasn’t up to giving me what I needed in bed.

Early in my marriage I bought a book called something like, “The ABC of Love for Beginners.” It’s still around the place somewhere. As I read it I thought, “My God, I’m in for a wonderful time,” but when I tried to tell Joe about some of the things we could do, he made sounds like, “Yuck,” or said, “That’s for perverts.”

Enough said on the subject I think. 

Once married I decided on becoming at least in part the domestic female; I continued to work at the nursery but on a part time basis. This brought in extra money for us. It also gave me the time I wanted to develop my newly acquired wasteland. Over the following nine years I produced a very nice garden with flowers, vegetables and the beginnings of a small orchard; my “mini orchard” as I call it.

It was then my silly Joe fell three stories from a building scaffold and got himself killed. 

Now it might seem that I’ve complained a lot about Joe, but in most respects he was comfortable to live with and always generous. To find myself widowed when still in my twenties was to say the least very harrowing. In fact I cried on and off for over a month.

The building company he was working for, or rather, the insurance company, eventually paid out a tidy sum of money by way of compensation and this enabled me to pay off the rest of the house mortgage, with quite a bit left over.

For about two years I was in a sort of limbo, not sure what I wanted to do with my life. I got a few offers from guys who wanted to either marry or have a “relationship” with me, but despite my sexual proclivities that were as pressing as ever once I got over the worst of my distress, I didn’t fancy any of them.

Now I must backtrack to a couple of years after I got married. I was working in the garden at the front of my house one afternoon, when a young boy, probably eight or nine years old and apparently coming home from school, stopped to watch me.

I said “Hello,” and he said “Hello.” He stood watching for a few more minutes during which nothing was said, and then went on his way.

After that whenever I happened to be in the front garden in the afternoon he always stopped to look at what I was doing. The second time he came by I asked his name to which he replied, “Clive.” “My name is Cara,” I told him. “Do you like gardening?”

“I think so,” he said, “we’ve got a terrible garden.”

I knew the garden to which he referred, which was close to being the wilderness mine had been in when I started.

That ended our conversation for that day, but the next time we saw each other he asked, “Can I help you with your garden?”

I was somewhat surprised by this request because most children aren’t interested in gardens. Then I remembered my early attraction to gardening, so I said, “Yes, if you’d like to,” and I set him about doing some weeding.

I didn’t expect his interest to last, but it did, and in the coming weeks and months I began to teach him about soil preparation, planting and all that goes with raising plants.

I suppose in part my interest in Clive arose from the fact that I wanted to have children, but Joe’s Friday night “binges” never seemed to have the desired outcome. Of course “one day” we would have tests to try and find out if anything was wrong, but “one day” never seemed to arrive; and then, of course, it was too late.

So I had the pleasure of teaching a young boy about gardening and gradually came to see him as a surrogate son. In fact if I had a son I would have liked him to be like Clive, polite and as our friendship grew, affectionate.

I introduced Clive to my back garden. This was in two sections; in the first half I grew flowers and vegetables, and in the second and bottom half of the garden was my mini orchard and this served also as my private haven. I had had erected a high brush fence around the orchard, and to there I would retire when I wanted solitude. Even Joe hesitated to disturb me there.

Joe also got to know Clive, and in his shed he taught him the rudiments of carpentry. They made seed boxes for me and rather elegant planter boxes. So Clive was in and out of our place quite frequently.

Once he entered high school I saw less of Clive as his studies took up more time, but like me, he took horticulture as one of his subjects. He was better placed financially than I had been since his parents were financially better off than mine. He had as his objective attendance at our State Horticultural College.

Of course we still saw Clive, and when Joe was killed he was badly shaken, and to some extent it was the sharing of our grief that made it a bit easier. 

During the two years that followed Joe’s death Clive began his studies at the Horticultural College and in fact I saw somewhat more of him than when he was at high school. Mainly at weekends he would spend time working with me, giving me tips based on what he was learning at college. It was at this time imperceptibly my relationship with him began to change.

To me Clive had always been the young boy who had stopped by to watch me work. Joe and I had, as I said, come see him as a sort of substitute son. 

Now as we worked together, especially in the warm weather when Clive would be stripped down to his shorts, I began to take notice of his beautiful young body, muscular and supple. Even as I told myself not to be such a fool, I began to look upon him from a female point of view, as sexual being with needs and longings.

Clive had never given any indication that he had any sexual feelings for me. I don’t think he even knew about or wanted me as a second mother or Joe as an extra father. As far as he was concerned, he was just a friend. I knew this, but still the feelings hung around me.

I gave no indication to Clive about my new feelings for him, and I strove to bury them deep within. I told myself that such a good looking and personable young man was hardly be likely to be physically drawn to a woman some thirteen years his senior. He would want someone of his own age, and it was unlikely he would have problems in that direction.

His relationship with girls was a topic that had never arisen between us. I had assumed he had girlfriends but he never spoke of them and I never asked. 

Yet even not knowing about his possible relationships with girls, I felt jealous of them. My imagination came into play and I had mental visions of Clive coupling with some girl as she moaned her delight at his penetration. At night especially I went through agonies as I masturbated, fantasising Clive as I climaxed.

I became so disturbed by these feelings that were becoming increasingly difficult to cope with and suppress, I even began to think I should take on any man who offered himself in the hope of curing my self of this growing erotic obsession with Clive. Of course, to go down that track would probably have led to a disastrous relationship with whoever I took on, because he would only be a substitute for what I really wanted.

Those of you who have experienced what used to be quaintly called “unrequited love” will understand how I felt. Especially if you cannot give full expression to that love, you have to expend a fair amount of emotional energy hiding your feelings. This was how it was for me, and I began to feel always a bit tired and depressed.

How much does chance play in our lives? Or are we destined to have things happen to us? Is there some subtle form of communication between people so deep within us that we are unconscious of its operation?

Perhaps by this unconscious communication, if such there be, we transmit certain signals to another person and that in turn leads us and them to actions that play out that communication, give it concrete form. We may call it chance or destiny, but in fact we have unconsciously communicated and responded.

So it seems to me now as I look back on the events that took place.

I have said that a brush fence surrounded mini orchard and this was my private place, my haven of peace where I could not be overlooked. In warm weather I was in the habit of occasionally going there, and stripping myself naked, would lie on a sun lounge in the shade of a tree for and hour or two reading or contemplating, and if the mood took me, masturbating.

I can remember clearly that it was on a warm spring Wednesday afternoon that I was lying there, my book fallen from my hand, I was half dozing. 

It was one of those lovely spring days when the blossom is just coming out on the fruit trees and the air is pervaded by their fragrance. The bees and other insects were busy and honey eaters fluttered among the branches.

Perhaps there was a slight noise or it may have been some instinct, but I suddenly came fully awake to see Clive standing at the end of the sun lounge, looking at me.

I had absolutely no reason to expect him to be calling on that day, but as I later learned, his afternoon lectures had been cancelled, so he decided to call in and see me. Not finding me in the house or other parts of the garden he had risked my displeasure at being disturbed and opened the gate in the brush fence and entered my sanctuary.

For a moment we stared at each other, and then I looked around desperately to find something to cover myself with. There was nothing but the pieces of clothing I had been wearing before I stripped. I reached down for them to try and cover my breasts and sex organ with them. Before I could get them I was stopped as Clive began to speak.  

His voice was very soft and low and I felt a tremor rub through me at his words.

“Please don’t Cara, you’re too lovely to be covered.

No man, not even Joe when he first saw me naked, had ever called me “lovely.” I had certainly been called other things like, “sexy,” “slinky,” “dishy” and “cute.” Once a disappointed would be seducer called me a “prickteaser,” but none had called me “lovely”.

I could see Clive’s erect penis pushing against the cloth of his trousers. I seemed to loosen up. I felt free to take a risk and let my craving for him take over. “If I’m lovely, Clive, why don’t you make me feel lovely.” 

I decided to give added force to my words and spreading my legs to expose my sex organ to him, I placed my fingers on my outer vaginal lips, and parted them as an act of invitation.

It was a risk as he might have turned and fled, but instead he still stood gazing at me.

It sounds a trifle ridiculous now, but I reinforced my invitation by saying, “Come and plant your seed in my garden, darling.”

Clive groaned and dropped to his knees in front of me, and bending forward pressed his lips to my vulva. I held his head with my hands, encouraging him to liger with his kiss and then, stroking his hair I said, “Fertilise me Clive, I’m ready for you.”

I took my hands from his head and he stood to strip himself. His beautiful light brown shaft with its blood engorged purple head stood out dripping his pre-cum. I extended my arms to him and drew him to me, and feeling for his shaft I guided him into me. 


I had anticipated a few mad thrusts into me and then he would ejaculate as Joe had done the first time we coupled, but it was not like that. 

It was the tenderest yet gratifying sexual intercourse I had ever experienced. We moved together, suiting our rhythm very gently. I felt it as a supreme experience of tender love, his shaft fitting tightly into my vaginal tunnel and I wet with my lubricant.

I knew he must be on the edge of ejaculating into me yet it seemed that by some act of will he held back. I was in similar case; my orgasm was lurking on the edge of full expression. It was as if we wanted to make this first coupling keep going so as to experience and enjoy each other for as long as possible.

When Joe was having his Friday “binge” he usually lasted about three minutes. So I was amazed that even on this first occasion Clive and I must have held back for twenty or more minutes.

“He wants me,” I thought, “and not just sexual gratification.”

The sweet pleasure of his manhood in my canal, the ecstasy he was clearly experiencing as I gripped him with my vaginal muscle finally brought us to the point where we could hold back no longer. I let my orgasm begin its journey to a climax, and cried out, “Now… please…come with me, Clive.”


My Garden of Happiness



His rhythm increased and intensified and wonderfully we exploded into orgasmic passion together. We clung to each other, each striving to get his penis into my depths. I wound my legs round him and his hands came under my buttocks and then I felt the first burst of his semen into me. His seed planted in the garden of my vaginal tunnel to hopefully send some enterprising spermatozoa on its voyage of fertilisation.

There seemed to be complete harmony between us, as if this was where and how we belonged. It was all so completely right.

Clive, as he ejaculated, gave out none of the grunts and snorts I had known with Joe. He spurted into me giving out soft gasps with each new thrust and as he ended he gave a sigh that seemed to speak of deep satisfaction.

“I had a partially humorous thought race through my mind; “Well that should get the propagation process going if anything ever will.”

We lay, still physically united, as we gradually became slowly aware of the world beyond ourselves; the hum of insects; the rustle of leaves as the soft breeze moved them; the sudden flapping of a bird taking to flight and in the far distance the sound of traffic.

We were looking deep into each other’s eyes as Clive said very softly those wonderful and dangerous words, “I love you Cara.”

I responded, “I’ve loved you for a long time, Clive.”

“I know,” he said.

Desiring to have a child I had never used any form of contraception with Joe, and of course I had used none with Clive and he certainly had used nothing. I had no qualms about this. If by wonderful good fortune I got pregnant through our coupling, I would rejoice.

I did not expect a man as young as Clive would want to be responsible for a child, so it was my silent decision to take full responsibility myself. If the miracle of fertilisation happened, then Clive would have to know eventually, if only by seeing my expanding body. When that time came, if it did, then I would clearly absolve him of all liability.

In the meantime I could see that Clive and I would now begin to enjoy each other’s bodies regularly. We had declared our love for each other and as we had just demonstrated, that love included sexual love. Little did I know just how much we were to enjoy each other’s bodies.

At first we tried to keep our new relationship secret, not wanting neighbour’s tongues wagging, but it soon became clear this could not be. There was no Friday night “binge.” Once set on the path of sexual union we found we wanted each other frequently. The need to say goodbye to each other after copulating, especially at night, became a torment to us.

In addition, Clive’s studies began to suffer. He was spending too much time with me and not his work. His parents began to question what he “got up to,” disappearing from the house so often.

The neighbour’s tongues wagged in any case since it became impossible to hide Clive’s visits to me from their window peaking eyes.

Finally we decided to face whatever storms might come, and Clive moved in with me. 

A storm there was. His parents raged and cursed. They especially cursed that “oversexed slut” who couldn’t keep her hands off their son. I was “ruining his life”; “his future is in tatters.” These and many other imprecations they rained down on my head.

I refused to respond in kind or defend myself, and Clive, ever the gentlemanly knight, would have flown to my defence, but I stopped him.

“Darling,” I said, “If what we are doing is right and good for us, then eventually they will come to see it. If it turns out not to be right and good, then they are probably correct in their assessment of me.”

I needed no book to discover how to make love. Clive and I played and experimented, doing things that Joe had found repugnant, including cunnilingus that in our times is almost a woman’s right to ask for, or even demand from her lover.

Clive and I never seemed to tire of exploring every nook and cranny of each other’s bodies, seeking those pleasure points that enhance and lead up to the final union, whether they be vaginal, anal, oral or that pleasure Clive enjoyed so much, coming between my breasts as I folded them over his shaft.

Then came the testing time; we had been together four months when it became clear Clive’s seed had born fruit; I was pregnant.

There seemed no point in withholding this news from Clive, and once the doctor had confirmed my condition, I told him.

He was silent for a while, then began very gently, “I’m so sorry, Cara. I didn’t realise…I mean…I didn’t think…well I suppose I thought you couldn’t get pregnant…I mean, you never said anything…I would have…”

I cut across his speech. “Clive, I’ve told you because you’d have to know some time. From the start I decided that I would not hold you responsible and try to hang on to you if this happened.”

“Do you mean right from the beginning you knew this could happen?”

“I knew and wanted it to happen.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Of course not; I couldn’t think of anything I want more than a child you helped put inside me.”

Clive went very quiet again. There was no extravagant fuss, no exaggerated protestations; he simply said, “That’s all right then. We’d better get married.”

It was my turn to become silent. Whatever I might have expected, it was not this. I was not at all sure I wanted to get married, and in any case, there was a significant age gap between us. Suppose some time in the future Clive decided he wanted someone nearer his own age? What did he really want, sex apart, a wife or a mother?

With these thoughts I said to him; “No, I won’t marry you, Clive.”

I saw the blood drain from his face as he stared at me in disbelief. 

“But you must, Cara. The child…a father…I love you…”

“Yes, I know you do, Clive, and I love you, but the answer is still no.”

“But if you love me…”

“Stay with me Clive. Be my lover and live with me. Let’s find our way together for a while, and then we’ll see.”

“You don’t think I’ll make a good husband and father, then?”

“I didn’t say that, Clive. I said let’s wait and see. You’ve still a long way to go with your studies. Complete those and then we can talk about marriage.”

“But Cara, you know that since I’ve moved in with you, since we’ve been able to make love freely, my studies have improved out of sight.”

“I know, and I still say let’s wait and see.”

We argued on for some time, but it still ended up with my refusing to marry him at that time.

I suppose I wanted to test him; to find out if he really wanted to marry me. If, when our hunger for each other had calmed down, he would still want me as his wife.

I assured him of my ongoing faithfulness to him and this seemed to placate him somewhat, and if that night we were both less ardent in our coupling, that soon passed and we were soon restored to our former passion for each other.

We continued our sexual unions until I reached the point in my pregnancy when it was no longer safe for us to carry on.

Clive was no less desirous for me, and I relieved him with my hand or by oral sex. After our baby, Robyn, was born Clive asked nothing of me for some time, allowing for my full recovery. It was a great relief to both of us when we could resume our love making, and I had decided to prevent another pregnancy for the time being, so I went on to the contraceptive pill.

I thought the presence of a baby in the house and the attention I had to pay her might have an adverse effect on Clive; on the contrary, he seemed more energetic and loving than ever, and if anything, fussed over Robyn more than I did.

Clive took Robyn to his parent’s house, and that began the reconciliation between them and me. They found Robyn irresistible, and since I had produced her, they seemed to decide I couldn’t be all bad. I went along with the new harmony, but they did persist in pressing us to get married. I remained obdurate.

As the end of Clive’s horticultural course drew to an end, I knew the moment for decision was also drawing near. He would be ready to launch out into the world; would he want me to go with him?

On the night of his graduation, leaving Robyn with Clive’s parents, I went to the ceremony with him and attended the party afterwards. It was during the party that trouble arose. 

Some if not most of the graduates got very drunk. Even before they got drunk I had been the object of male attention. Most of them knew Clive and I were lovers and that we had a baby. 

These early attentions were mild and seemed to be admiration from afar, but with the increase in intoxication things got nasty.

I had gone to the toilet, and as I returned to the main room along the passage, one of the men stopped me. He reeked of drink and he pushed me against the wall.

“So you’re the little charmer Clive’s been boasting about,” he slurred. “Stuck a kid in you, eh!” “Wouldn’t mind a bit of the action myself sweetheart. How about it? A quickie in the back room?”

He was pressing his body against me as I tried to struggle free from him. At that moment Clive appeared no doubt on the way to the toilet. He took the situation in at a glance and I saw his face flush bright red. He grabbed my assailant and tore him away from me.

“You leave my wife alone, you drunken bastard,” he roared. 

“No offence, just kidding old boy…” his victim began.

At that point Clive landed a punch on the fellow’s jaw that sent him hurtling backwards howling as he went.

The howls brought a number of people into the passage and attempts to placate Clive finally brought the scene to an end.

We left soon after and on arriving home I got a gentle lecture on the dangers of attractive women and drunken men.

One thing I took careful note of was the fact Clive made no suggestion that I was in anyway at fault. I have known husbands who, finding their wives in such a situation, accuse them of having “led him on.” I was deeply touched that Clive had such certainty in my fidelity to him.

I decided that the moment had arrived, so when Clive finished his fatherly advice I said, “You called me your wife, you lied, how much longer do I have to wait for it to be the truth?”

I think the lecture was due to go on for a little longer, so Clive was caught in mid verbal stride, so to speak.

Trying to realign his thoughts he started to stammer out, “B…b...but I asked you ages ago.”

“Well ask me now you silly man.”

“Okay, will you bloody well marry me?”

“Yes, I bloody well will.”

“Ah.”

“Is that all you’ve got to say?”

“Well what am I supposed to say?”

“Thank me for accepting the offer.”

I had managed to keep a straight face during this little exchange, but now laughter overwhelmed.

Clive looked puzzled for a moment, and then he too joined in the laughter, gasping as he did so, “Thank you for accepting my offer.”

That night there was a very special sort of loving.

Clive began his working life like me, working in a plant nursery. He had an incredibly wide knowledge of plants and trees but within his working environment he found himself constricted.

We had married soon after he began work, and I started to contemplate the money that was left over from Joe’s compensation. It was a long way short of what would be required to purchase our own nursery, but Clive and I talked things over and we approached the bank.

After much humming and hawing we got our loan and, after hunting around for a while found a place for sale. It had been run by an elderly couple who were past coping with it, so it was in a pretty bad way. We bought it for less than we would have to pay for a place in good order, but we were pleased in that we could develop things the way we wanted.

That is fairly much the story up to the present. We’ve got the place pretty well thriving and, along the way we have grown a couple more very personal little plants, Robert and Diane.

Clive and I got a great deal of pleasure planting those two.