![]() I see something so romantic and poetic in the thought of burying bulbs, putting into motion a gift for my future self: a spring brightened by gem-colored tulips. (She’s incredibly handy and wields power tools like a pro.) But I find myself wishing I’d spent more time kneeling beside her in the flower beds, asking questions, offering to be her protégé.įortunately I have Sharon, and she and I will be planting in the next two weeks. It has been fascinating to realize what I picked up about homeownership simply by watching my mom. ![]() Last December, I bought my first house-an 1830s farmette in the Delaware Valley-and the learning curve has been steep. Working with Sharon has reminded me of my mother, who is also an artist and avid gardener, always tending beds full of daffodils and arbors covered with creeping vines. I spent the pre-dawn hours searching the scientific names on Google, admiring their blossoms, imagining where they might bloom. ![]() I’ve been working with my friend Sharon, who’s an artist and also a talented gardener, to choose some to plant in the beds around my house. But this morning, what I reached for was a catalogue of flowering bulbs. Usually I turn to a book-most recently George Saunders’s A Swim in the Pond in the Rain, which is just brilliant, like a mini-MFA in writing. I’ve been waking up long before the sun, tossing a bit before giving up the ghost of sleep. A view of my writing shack and garden just before the cold set in ![]()
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