Like many of you, I’m a gardener because I’m bred to it. All my great-grandparents were farmers. My father kept a vegetable garden, and my mother landscaped our country home beautifully. She was a teacher, and in the summer she took my sister and me on wonderful adventures, teaching us the names of ornamental plants as we drove by houses. My husband, also bred for the garden, aids and abets my passion; he built me a small nursery and a gorgeous greenhouse, and he’s always there to provide "muscle" when I need it and go with me on pleasure jaunts to nurseries. When I’m not in the greenhouse, I read about plants; when I go to bed, I make garden plans in my head until I drift off.
Last year, my knees and ankles gave out — arthritis, sudden and crippling. I had to have the knees replaced last December. When my doctor asked me what my goals for rehabilitation were, I told him, "I have to be able to use a shovel again. That’s all I care about." Thank God for all those needy little plants in the greenhouse. They got me out of bed and back on my feet.
When my health improves I might make a living at this, but right now, I keep busy doing landscapes as gifts to family members. My addiction to propagation means I have to make many new beds to receive the population explosion!