Articles by Pat Stone

Harvesting Wood

Harvesting Wood

I’m out in the forest alone—well, I do have my chain saw and beat-up pickup for company. I smell the crisp, fresh air. I bask in the November sun, whose  
(almost) Ground Zero

(almost) Ground Zero

We interrupt our regularly scheduled garden story . . . because we have been severely interrupted ourselves. By Hurricane Helene. North Carolina’s Asheville—and our outlying community of Fairview—were the areas  
(almost) Ground Zero

(almost) Ground Zero

Illustrated by Nick Gray *For everyone who has been asking how Pat Stone is doing in Asheville - we heard from him and here is his first hand account. North Carolina’s Asheville—and  
Growing Points

Growing Points

Shep Ogden, the fellow who started The Cook’s Garden seed company, happened to drop by last Summer, the day after the neighbor’s cows broke through the fence and chomped all  
Even Adam

Even Adam

Countess Elizabeth von Armin wrote, “If Eve had had a spade in paradise and known what to do with it, we should not have had all that said business of  
Requiem for a Rototiller

Requiem for a Rototiller

Oh, she’s dead. She is dead. I mean, she’s had her cantankerous moments before. Those times when she wouldn’t start no matter what. The days when she sputtered around all  
Peas Don’t Like Me

Peas Don’t Like Me

Peas don't like me. I mean it. It's not my fault. I like them. There's nothing more symbolic of early-summer gar­dening success than grazing along a row of twining pea  
Weather Gossip

Weather Gossip

What is the number one conversation topic of all gardeners? You know it: weather. We all know what Mark twain said: “Everyone talks about the weather, but nobody does anything  
Transplanting: The Tender Act

Transplanting: The Tender Act

Trowel out a hole … grab a root ball … set the plant in … tamp the dirt back in … water it all in … One. It’s a wet,  
Gardeners Aren’t Crazy

Gardeners Aren’t Crazy

It happens every year. Every Spring. I forget all my failures. I forget the tomato seedlings that cooked in the cold frame last May. I forget the waves of weeds