Benjamin Miller

The first light of dawn shows dew hanging on the spiderwebs draped between the winding tomato vines. Those threads encompass whole ecosystems, snapping through the air. My first garden? A pile of gravel along the side of a gas station parking lot. I grew marigolds in old oil cans. Their orange blooms attracted bees to them through the toxic driveway exhaust. You learn quickly that life is relentless.

I once planted a "foolproof" cactus garden in a swampy valley. The rot began to set in a matter of weeks. A nursery owner offered me sedges as well. "Work with the land, not against it," he grumbled. Now, I scour my backyard for puddles after storms. I plant iris where the water pools. You will see that, really, "messy soil" is capable of miracles.

Last spring, a client bemoaned her "dead" hydrangeas, and we investigated to reveal vole tunnels gnawing at the roots. After trapping them via castor oil-soaked rags, we went back to look at the bushes, and they came back with a double bloom. Gardening is part detective work and part incredible optimism. Steal cuttings from the lilacs on the sidewalk outside your home, lilac blooms around your yard, or bury kitchen scraps underneath raspberry canes. The earth will reward your efforts. Your turn. What is that unimproved hard patch outside your kitchen window whispering?