When we arrived at our tiny little craftsman house, fresh off the plane from a honeymoon in Central America, the first thing we noticed was the yard. It was one of many little delights and surprises that our loved ones had left us as wedding gifts while we were out of the country. It was nearing dark as I carried my new bride across the threshold, but we could just barely see that someone had done something out there in the yard; it felt cleaner, fresher, and prettier. The next day’s sunrise revealed a freshly mowed lawn, some simple planters had been outlined and cleared of weeds, and a few flowers placed tastefully throughout. It was far from a complete landscaping job; it was an invitation… an invitation my wife bluntly refused.

I would not say that I am a particularly green thumbed individual. In my youth yard work was a chore: my folks were always adapting and changing their yard, and my siblings and I were pressed, rather than recruited into their labor force. In hindsight, the labor was easy and the bosses were more than generous, but to my childhood mind, gardening was a step above the gulag. But familiarity breeds a sort of contentment. By the time I left the house, I was still not anything close to an avid gardener, but I always felt most comfortable if I had something green around me. Largely unbeknownst to me, I also had a base level standard for what a yard should be. When I bought my own house, there was a joy in the process of bringing the dilapidated yard slowly from a scene of chaos and nature unchecked, to one of order (albeit loose), harmony, and beauty, even though * gasp * it was gardening.