Every neighborhood has at least one.      From one corner of the earth to another this person isn't hard to spot.  They have been exposed to the calming, meditative, mood, and life-altering effects of gardening.  There they are, bathing in the therapeutics offered up by the delightful sights, sounds, and odors found only in a garden.       Growing up there was an old man around the corner who was always in his garden.  He had course white hair, rough, like dried sage, that poked out of his grey golfer's cap.  He carried an orange metal stool that he sat on as he pruned, and plucked, and snipped at the flowers.     He walked with a bend in his back, never leaving that half-seated position, ready to plop back onto the stool and resume his work.  The curvature of his spine was distinct, earned by decades of hard work and bending over the soil. Every once in a while I would see him working happily with his wife, but most of the time it was just him.    Seeing him out there day after day, month…