It sometimes blows my mind to consider all the paths in my life that have lead me to this place – not just physically here in California – though that is an interesting ponder, but also doing what I do.
If the gardening season were a sentence, (like what was learned us in school) Springtime would be the capital-letter that starts the sentence, and winter is the full-stop (period to Americans) at the end. Californian gardens have bad gardening grammar.
Once upon a time a poor Mexican girl called Pepita walked with her cousin, Pedro, to the Christmas Eve Services. She was sad and upset that she had no gift for the Baby Jesus. “Don’t be sad,” said Pedro.
‘Tis a soft day – thank God. You don’t get to say that often here in sunny California, where the sun splits the trees most days – aye, splits them but doesn’t prune them! This morning the hills were