Vermont is not a state noted for sun. In fact, sunshine-wise, we’re nearly the gloomiest state in the nation, second only to dank and lightless Washington, where apparently nobody in  …

I was talking recently with another grandmother. She had heard that you can raise your children either as if you were a “carpenter” or as if you were a “gardener.”  …

I am not a fan of bugs, specifically, Japanese beetles. I attribute my strong feelings to one particular incident I refer to as “Dances with Beetles.”  …

It’s 1950, and like the boy Cyparissus, whom she’ll soon discover, little Patty Westerford falls in love with her pet deer. Hers is made of twigs, though it’s every bit  …

The third time my father tried to commit suicide was the summer my mother worked hardest on our garden. He was in a mental hospital, and it was a typical  …

Warm and fuzzy were not two adjectives used to describe my grandmother. With two rocks in her apron pocket, she might have tipped the scales at 100 pounds.  …

My love of gardening was infused in me by my mother. When I was a child, she got me started growing pumpkins at our California home. When I was in  …

In the middle of my eleventh year—in 1958—I experienced an epiphany of sorts. For some unknown reason, I discovered that I liked flowers. I decided to join Speedy Seeders, a  …

I have to confess I like the smell of dirt. As a gardener and especially during the Winter months, I find myself longing not so much for the calming scent  …

In the weeks following my divorce, my once neat Toronto flower garden turned into a near jungle. The grass stood at least a foot high. Flowerbeds were overgrown with weeds.  …