Blood and guts in my backyard: A half-eaten deer lay sprawled under my cypress tree. Ravens croaked the news from the tree above. Read more.
garden
My Front Yard — It’s a Happening Place
My front yard — it’s a happening place. Life forms are shooting up all over it, greedily taking up their allotted space in the universe. Read more.
My Years Are Numbered. Give Me Those Blossoms — Now
My years are numbered. Who knows, I might be at the point where I’ve got more money than time. Give me the plant that’s ready to bloom — now. Read more.
My New Year’s Resolution — Do Less. Not More. Subtract!
Now that I’m widowed, my to-do lists are twice as long as they used to be. So I’m turning tradition on its head and making my New Year’s resolution — do less! Read more.
Betty Rollin on How to Talk to a Widow
Betty Rollin on how to talk to a widow: Betty says don’t assume she’s over it just because a year has gone by. I say, ask me about my garden. Read more.
Widowed: ‘Let Us Tend Our Garden’
Translating Voltaire for my backyard: “We must cultivate our garden,” feels bossy and rife with certitude. I prefer, “Let us tend our garden.” Read more.
Help! I Can’t Remember the Names of My Flowers
I love my new flower garden. But, for the life of me, I can’t remember the tongue-twister names of my flowers: Aquilegia? Armeria? Scabiosa? Read more.