The other evening I wanted to send a friend in New York shots of our garden, which she’s known 40 years. The hour was late, but I gave it a try.
The garden at night is forgiving; weeds blend with other vegetation. Something about it reminds me of Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are. I expect a critter or two to appear. Birds chitter on their way to bed.
These days our garden iswilder than in my mother’s day. I’ve let plants she reserved for our playhouse garden slip their way into the main the garden: feverfew, larkspur, lysimachia and white violets. Some outlying beds are wilder too, thanks to a “darling” white-flowered plant she found in Leesburg and brought to the playhouse area. This invasive Houttuynia jumped that garden long ago and keeps popping up under flagstones, creeping closer every year to the “formal” garden.