When I moved to my present house I inherited a perennial garden.
That wasn’t my main concern. Just having a marginally affordable place to live was the important thing, because I managed to buy my house in a seller’s market (and I bet that, whenever I move, it will be a buyer’s market. Ah, well.)
The garden was an unintended responsibility, one I wasn’t sure I could meet. Actually, although the house is fairly small, there were three gardens–one in front, the sun garden; a terraced rock one on the side and one in the back, both shade gardens. I had to do a lot of reading and learning about growing flowers to rise to the occasion and do right by those gardens, since I knew virtually nothing on the subject when I first moved here.
But I think, all things considering, I’ve done rather well. Some plants died and I replaced them with others. Some thrived. I moved things around. I learned that what looks good in June or July can look crummy and bloomless in August. I learned my favorite garden joke, which I’ve written before but will repeat once more, with feeling:
Q: What’s the definition of a perennial?
A: It’s a plant that comes back every year, if it had lived.
It’s not always easy to get the garden to look good in September. But I will restrain my innate modesty to say that I think mine isn’t all that shabby right now. And, getting an even tighter grip on that innate modesty, I’m going to post a couple of photos of the front garden, taken just yesterday, when it wasn’t pouring rain, unlike today: