Every day, a few dollars are planted for our daughter — seeds in index funds and great companies — and compounding does the tending. Nothing is ever picked, nothing is ever sold. It simply grows, quietly, until she's tall enough to see over it.
Family and friends water it with gifts instead of toys, and every gift is written into the garden's story with the giver's name. One day she inherits both: the garden, and the record of everyone who helped it grow.
No soil. No luck. No green thumb. Just time — the one thing a child has more of than anyone.