I once had a neighbor who, upon first spotting me digging and transplanting in the little patch of dirt in front of my townhouse each Spring, would proclaim that The Killing Season had begun.
He was exaggerating, of course (of course!). Daffodils that I had planted bloomed each year. Each and every little azalea bush flourished. Even my container herb garden did OK. So it only made sense that after we moved to a space with more earth to dig in that I would try my hand at a garden.
Our first vegetable garden was mostly an accidental semi-success. I say it was accidental because the garden evolved from a pile of dirt that the Mr. had dumped into the back yard after grading it. I was sick and tired of looking at the pile, so I knocked it down and made it into a garden. It was fair--about as good as you would expect from an afterthought of a vegetable garden. There were several tomatoes, some squash, and more peppers than we could eat.
The following year--last year, I got a twee bit more serious and built a raised bed. Well, that garden was a bust, except for (again) the peppers. There were some tomatoes, but the birds ate them before I could pick them. The squash bloomed and began sprouting promising-looking fruit that would only wither and rot away days later.
This year, I decided to test our soil before embarking on any more gardening. (I know. Duh.) And now that I've seen the results, I'm amazed that anything grew.