When I moved to Stowe Lane almost five years ago, I was mourning the loss of my garden more that I was mourning the demise of my marriage.  So, with the help of some wonderful people, I began the recreation of a garden on my little plot (if you can call a barren couple of square feet a plot) of land.

If you are a gardener, or you know a gardener, you know full well that things will inevitable get away from you.  In my case, any walk around the neighborhood resulting in impromptu weeding, whacking back and donation of any spare clumps of whatever needed to be split.

At the beginning of each season I could miraculously make stakes appear so that whoever’s whatever wouldn’t fall over and fail to bloom.  I could coerce the landscapers into weeding and the kid hired to remove the weed fabric into NOT removing the weed fabric so I wouldn’t have more weeding to do.

Bit by bit little ole me is transforming our little Stowe Ln, either on my own or by shaming (merely by example of course) some of the neighbors into putting pots of colorful whatever on their porches or decks.   Many times I wind up watering those pots but OK I asked for it, kind of.

What do I get in return, a beautiful street, a way to get dirt under my nails and the opportunity to ring someone’s doorbell to let them know they’re about to be robbed of some of their peonies.  Their reaction to such a bold statement…”They’re not my peonies they most certainly belong to you, help yourself any time.”  I know like I know that I certainly will.