Traditions

Not Quite Eden

Today at the day job, someone said to me, “With all you know, you must have an amazing garden.” Wellll… not exactly.

What I have is somewhere between a museum and a science experiment. My parents built the house I live in 45 years ago and planted the yard not long after. It’s a living archive of their choices, their love, and their labor. I’m lucky to have two glorious pecan trees that now rain down abundance each fall—but I’m also still wrangling with the Chinese privet my dad planted twenty years ago and the fine little crepe myrtle roots that like to invade the sewer line every spring.

So I walk a tender line: honoring my parents’ relationship and hard work while dreaming of transforming this space into something new. A pollinator pantry. A veggie superstore. A native plant wonderland with cottage grove vibes and a touch of wild magic.

And what’s got me puttering in the raised beds this week?

PEAS. 🟢

Cooler mornings and that whisper of fall in the air mean it’s prime time to tuck in sugar snaps, snow peas, or shelling varieties. I love the ritual of pressing each seed into the soil, imagining the tendrils curling up the cattle panel fence/trellis like tiny green dancers. Bonus: peas fix nitrogen in the soil, so they’re not just charming—they’re generous. And I can eat almost everything: the little shoots, the leaves, the peas and the pods!

It’s these little experiments—these seasonal nudges—that keep the garden alive and evolving. Not perfect. Not pristine. But deeply personal. A place where memory meets momentum.