There's something inherently satisfying about the smell of freshly cut grass on a warm summer day. It's a smell that takes me back to my own childhood, spent learning the ropes of yard work and landscaping with my father. Those memories are some of the fondest I have, and I've always wanted to pass on that love for working the land to my own sons. READ MORE
I never thought I’d be that guy. You know the type. The type of guy who is obsessed with his lawn. Not like partially obsessed, I’m talking full on Google-knows-everything-about-you stalker type obsessed. I’ve seen Gran Torino with Clint Eastwood. READ MORE
After my husband left, I was forced to take over his one chore—mowing. I figured, if he can do it, how hard can it be? We had just bought $800 worth of Bahia sod and, by golly, I wasn’t about to let that investment wither and die. READ MORE
Andy had been mowing for at least an hour when I came out, balancing a basket of wet laundry on my hip, and breathed in the day. The air was thick with the sweet scent of fresh-cut grass. Damp with dew, it stuck to my sneakers. READ MORE
During the early 1950s, my wife, Peggy, our four small children, and I lived in Ithaca, New York. Like all households, we had the chores of doing laundry, cooking, shopping, looking after the house and grounds, and getting up at night to comfort a crying child. READ MORE
Gardening wasn’t really my family’s thing. My parents grew up in New York, my mother in Queens and my father in Brooklyn. Their idea of gardening was repainting the concrete slab in the back of the house green to look like grass. READ MORE
The year was 1962. My dad and I were standing on our front lawn. Arms crossed, he surveyed the scene before him, a grim look on his face. “These weeds are a menace,” he pronounced, as if our front yard had become the beachhead for a botanical invasion. READ MORE
Down in a little stream valley in Virginia, where green comes in 48 shades and fireflies delight the senses on warm Summer evenings, a war has erupted between two otherwise sensible people. READ MORE
I love Downton Abbey. I’m willing to put up with all its foibles—the lackluster Lady Edith; the snippy Lady Mary; the continual arrests of one or the other of the Bateses; Thomas, the conniving footman—just so I can get a glimpse of aristocratic British country life in the early 20th century. READ MORE
The garden we two “Gardening Fools”—Marge and Maggie—created at the house we now share in our retirement is doing well. All except for the front yard. There it is the Sahara. READ MORE
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