I don’t consider myself a skilled or talented gardener. I don’t remember the names of plants or when they bloom or what goes with what. But we have a front and back yard, and therefore we have to do something. Harriet and I consult, and then we work. Move a sapling here, plant a bush there, perennials in this spot, annuals in that one, let that part of the lawn go wild, give the milkweed free reign, surrender the back corner, dig up last year’s mistakes, pull out the evil vines . . . and somehow the results give me a keen pleasure and sense of well-being: to witness the growth, to revel in the blooms, to be mesmerized by the leaves fluttering in the breeze. It’s an exquisite time of year.
