A garden is a lovesome thing. I took a stroll around my yard early this morning. It was chilly. The leaves, or what was left of them were shivering, and Sophie very sensibly stayed indoors. Those few leaves that are still hanging on are producing some spectacular colors, albiet in small bursts. My yard is in the midst of it's slow progression into a whispering peace. I have been strolling around my yard for the past 8 months since we moved in, trying to discern what is missing, what doesn't feel quite right.
I realized that this is the first time in 25 years that I have lived in a home where the plants don't have stories. The story of the person who gave it to me, like the roses my mother-in-law loved like children, or the velvet dahlias his grandmother was so proud of. The stories of the trips involved that inspired me to plant, or some childhood memory like the smell of grandmas green onions, or the volunteer that came up in the garden of a former house, or the fake geraniiums that I stuck in the ground in my garden in the desert because nothing else would grow.
I love a plant with a story
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