Boulton

At this time of year, I always take heart in the little rituals that, combined, make the season of Christmas special and important. Every year, I look forward to cookie decorating with my son, nephews and niece, at my mom’s house.

A gardener who is anxious to protect a more sensitive or demanding variety never welcomes fluctuating temperatures.

My burning bush refuses to burn. A flat out refusal to blush and an earlier-than-usual letting go of leaves is decidedly perplexing. Two years ago, I planted a pair of euonymus in front of my house.

I am hopelessly in love with autumn. Everything is beautiful and cozy. It’s also endlessly busy, which makes being home all the more sublime. A boiling kettle might send me into a frenzy and a blazing tree against a blue sky renders me helpless.

Today, I am longing to be somewhere else. You know what that’s like: typically, you’re seated at a desk with piles of papers with which to deal; you glance out the window and note the long, grey streaking rain. Sigh.

For some reason, this seemingly insignificant line from Anne of Green Gables has stuck with me throughout the years. Every fall, I think of it.

My partner John and his cousin Matt built me a garden box this summer that runs the length of our carport. The idea was that, once planted, we would enjoy privacy from our neighbours and more green to enjoy year round.

The Garlic Festival, or what I colloquially refer to as “The Collective of Bad Breath and Beady Pores,” was everything it promised to be — colourful, fragrant, and busy. And every year, I am inspired to grow more of the bulb. It’s easy, you know.

I’ve decided that I’ve got to grow a fruit tree. It’s inexcusable really. I mean, come mid-August, I’m hanging out under the bowers of neighbouring trees, hoping for offers to collect fallen fruit. My friend, Ms.

I never knew it could be so easy to domesticate an animal. All it takes is a consistent supply of food and a reasonable amount of trust.