January/February

Take A Hint. Or Not.

One of the great things about being a columnist is that when you run out of ideas you can steal them from other people. Not only the ideas, mind you, but the actual words. Especially when people write you and say things like, "My aunt spat on her tomato plants every day during the growing season for sixty-three years and you've never tasted better tomatoes". . .

March/April

They Died with Their Roots On.

There is no better part of the year for a gardener than right now, assuming you're reading this around March or April and didn't misfile your magazine and rediscover it in November. Gardeners love spring more than anything except puppies (you'd have to be a true evildoer not to like puppies) and wax eloquent with words like "rebirth," "renewal," "spring solstice" and "spring rolls." . . .

May/June

Critter Control

I had just finished an environmental talk to a local gardening group. It was the usual advice. Don't do an oil change on your car and spread the spent lubricant on your trilliums. Adding cigarette butts to your compost pile won't necessarily kill the pathogens, though it may get them addicted to nicotine. . . .

July/August

Defensive Design.

A funny thing happened to me on the way to writing one of my columns last year. I decided to draw something instead, thereby saving myself from writing about four hundred words and, simultaneously, terrorizing approximately 93% of the people who open the magazine to this page. (How do we know? We take dozens and dozens of scientific polls about every aspect of this publication. Doesn't everybody?) . . .

September/October

OCGD on the QT

A gardening story recently caught my attention. At which point, some of you might ask, “Hey, you're a garden writer. Don't most gardening stories catch your attention?” At which point, true followers of this column chuckle in disbelief that any person reading this page could be so naïve. All I can say is, “I love you, true followers. You must be very, very lonely, but I love you.” . . .

November/December

I Sure Won't Do That Again Next Year.

This is the time of year that many of us look back in our horticultural rearview mirrors the same way we would if we'd just hit a squirrel. We think about the fortunes of our gardens and grimace a little, squint a bit, and perhaps even tear up a tad. . . .