Many things grow in the garden that were never sown there.
~Thomas Fuller
My father was always an enthusiastic gardener. I think his Irish blood called to the earth in much the same way his own grandfather had. One of my earliest memories is standing barefoot in the freshly tilled soil, my hands blackened from digging in the ground, still a bit cold from the turning. As a small child, the garden was an amazing fairyland, full of possibility. As a teenager, though, it was often a source of conflict between the old man and me.
As a child, I loved following Dad around in the garden. I remember Daddy pushing the tiller ahead in perfectly straight lines. His gardening gloves, banana yellow, would grip the handles of the old tiller; the roar of the machine was pleasantly deafening. After a while, he would stop and pull the gloves off to wipe his brow. Daddy loved growing all sorts of things: yellow and green onions, watermelons almost as big as me, rows and rows of yellow corn, and our favorite -- ruby red tomatoes.
As I grew into a teenager, I didn't get so excited about gardening with Daddy. Instead of the magical land of possibility, it had turned into some kind of medieval(中世纪的) prison. It was one more thing on a list of demands that I imagined no one else in the world had to deal with.
Dad would say, "Tina, come help me plant the garden today. It's a beautiful morning to be outdoors."
"Aww, Dad, I was going to the movies with my friends," I would replied.
"Tina, I could sure use a hand weeding the garden today," he would remark.
"Today? Sorry, Dad, I already made plans," I would stubbornly say, digging in my heels. "Why do we have to have a garden, anyway? It's stupid. You can buy carrots for a quarter at the grocery store," I would point out. He would just smile knowingly. I usually got my way, and didn't have to help out if I really didn't want to. After all, I had better things to do with my time.
As Dad grew older, his passion for gardening never declined. After all the kids were grown and had started families of their own, Dad turned to gardening like never before. His garden took up most of his backyard, which was quite a stretch. Even when he was diagnosed with stage four kidney cancer, he still put out his garden. Still, he planted the zucchini and yellow squash, the juicy cucumbers, the spicy jalapenos, and of course, the tender tomato plants. Sometimes, I would come over to visit. He would share the rewards of his garden with me, as we would walk together through the carefully weeded rows.
But then, something changed. The cancer, bit by bit, invaded his body and stole his livelihood, his independence, his humor. Unfortunately, the doctor had run out of treatments. Hospice(临终关怀) is a whole other ballgame. Somebody has to be with the family member twenty-four hours a day. I found myself in all kinds of uncomfortable situations with Dad, and more than once I felt his anger at his helplessness. Little by little, I had to do the things he used to do. Soon I was cutting his grass, paying his bills, putting his pills in a cup, and adjusting his oxygen. These things he resisted, but I knew things were definitely changing when I began caring for the garden.
Though I had heard the words of the doctor as well, what really convinced me that Dad was dying was the state of his garden that year. That year, he only planted tomatoes. Too tired to weed them, he simply tied them with twine to the fence and let them be. So I would come over and water them occasionally, and pluck out the weeds.
Five years ago, Dad planted his last little patch of tomatoes. For the first few years after he died, I couldn't even bear to look at anyone's garden without having strong memories pour over me like cold water from a bucket. Three years ago, though, something changed, and I decided to plant my own garden. I decided I would start out with just a few tomatoes. That morning, I got out the old tiller and it roared to life, almost as if it had been waiting. After breaking up a fair amount of soil, something caught the corner of my eye and I had to smile. It was my eight-year-old son Nathan, standing barefoot in the freshly tilled soil, his hands blackened from digging in the earth.
Which word best describes the author’s feeling about gardening as a teenager?

A．uninterested	B．satisfied
C．doubtful	D．indifferent

The author’s father______.

A．devoted a lot in gardening in order to cut down the daily expenses

B．was quite angry at his daughter’s absence of gardening

C．was not as enthusiastic as before about gardening after his children’s growth

D．was probably an Irishman or had Irish blood lineage

What makes the author realize the approach of her father’s death is______.

A．what the doctor told her

B．when some one had to be with her father always

C．the state of his garden that year

D．his anger when he felt helpless

What does the underlined sentence mean?

A．It was unbearable to see other peoples’ gardens were poorly managed.

B．It was unbearable to see other peoples’ gardens were well managed.

C．Memories of Dad rushed to me the moment I saw other peoples’ gardens.

D．The idea of gardening made me feel like being in a bucket with cold water.

It can be inferred from the passage that ______.

A．dad preferred tomatoes a lot because of its wonderful taste

B．dad refused all things I did because I didn’t love gardening

C．the desertion of Dad’s garden resulted from his laziness

D．the author restarted gardening with a new understanding of it

The best title of the passage is ______.

A．Gardening benefits health

B．Dad’s tomatoes

C．Bridge the father-and-daughter gap

D．My love of gardening

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