Nearly 25 years ago, after I moved back to St. Louis from New York, my father gifted me a garden.
Wow! The most wonderful present imaginable, right?
Wrong. It was a weed bed bordering the swimming pool. I spent years cursing it. We had butterfly bushes the size of Buicks and that horrid climbing vine that clung to everything. Occasionally, I would get the area into shape, only to miss a few weeks and start back at zero. Then, in 2007, my dad died, and my brother and sister-in-law built a new house where the old one had been. I redid the garden as a housewarming present—and planned to hand it off to them.
But now, I don’t want to. I spent long, hot days burrowing down to Middle Earth to pull up plants and insidious ground cover that dated back to the Depression. Once the beds were completely clean, I added dwarf spruces, boxwoods, liriopes, lilacs, Rose of Sharon bushes, snowdrift asters, hostas, ferns, a Japanese maple, and a Chinese maple. It’s not a landscape architect’s vision, but it’s mine. It’s very orderly, very tidy, and now, I’m chomping at the bit to pull out the pruning shears and get working.
I’m not the only one itching to dig. Hopefully, this issue will help you succeed. We found the city’s best gardening classes and the pros’ favorite gardening books. We cover treehouses, barbecues, and even bugs. At long last, the time has come to fling open the windows and install the screens. Enjoy—and get outdoors.
