Summer

I took time out from Einstein to read The Massachusetts Gardener’s Companion from cover to cover. When I bought my house, I hoped I’d become obsessed with gardening (I feel I can always use another obsession, especially one that includes exercise and being outdoors) but couldn’t know until I did it. My mother was a gardener by profession—studied horticulture in college, worked for gardeners and florists—but as a child I was just annoyed that our garage smelled like manure. The only thing I learned from her is that Pachysandra is a hardy ground cover that spreads easily; she brought it with her when we moved from Philadelphia to Chicago. Oh, and she thought Swiss chard was food for the gods. When I was ten I couldn’t understand how anyone could rhapsodize over a vegetable, but I do now that I grow my own. So this thing that people have been doing forever to sustain themselves is a new miracle for me: you put seeds into the ground, soon they’re little green dots, and then—presto!—salad. Call it the city person’s fascination with free food. And now that I hardly ever have to go to the store, I have more time to paint.