I call my enclosed bed Grandma’s Garden because it reminds me of Grandma Hilst’s humble tumble of fruits & flowers. The rusted gate is a fitting reminder that country gardens don’t have to be pretentious to be charming. Our little patch yields abundantly–wreaths of Sweet Annie, grapevine and bittersweet, and the dried everlasting flowers to decorate them. Enough herbs to carry us flavorfully through the winter months. Seasonal decorations of broom corn and rose hips; seasonal color of peonies, zinias, larkspur, and ladies mantle.
Although we originally fenced in the garden to keep the rabbits out, one wee baby squeezed through and now lives happily squestered in his own solitary garden, resisting all efforts to herd him out. Oh well. One rabbit we can tolerate. I might change the name of the garden to Grandma’s Hutch.