http://www.heliotropegardens.com/

Heliotrope Garden Design, Orono, MN (2025)

02/27/2023

BLACK AND WHITE GARDEN (An Occasional Series), ELEVEN. For your consideration tonight: peonies in a vase or, in this case, a Kerr jar, Apple iPhone 6-captured on June 18, 2019. Pretty down home for such a regal flower, but not out of keeping, since peonies are grown everywhere, by everyone. Blossoms of legend, fragrant or not, peonies are displayed, depending on variety, in a multitude of colors, some bold. “We may avert our eyes from nature that is ‘red in tooth and claw,’ but ahh the flowers!” wrote Allen Rogers in his book ‘Peonies’ [1998]. Shades of red, with fragrance: why not? With peonies though, there’s much more than red.

Minnesota has a rich history of peony love. Within five years after the Civil War Oliver Brand had established his peony farm and breeding efforts in Faribault. Oliver’s son A. M. Brand continued the tradition, employing a young Bob Tischler by the late 1920s. Youngster Bob decorated parade floats in Faribault with hundreds of peony blossoms then, until the banking industry crashed, ushering in the Depression, deleting most funds for peony parades.

Bob and his brother Archie bought out Brand Peony Farms in the mid-1950s, lost it for a while afterwards, and regained ownership to continue breeding efforts by the 1980s, securing their legend.

Others in Minnesota soon followed Bob’s lead: Harvey and Brigitte Buschite grew and bred peonies on a 54 acre spread (Hidden Springs in Spring Grove), purchased just last year by a younger family with peony passion and plans, the Kubes. Barb and Laverne Dunsmore’s Countryside Gardens in Delano just closed their doors after two decades or more of labor, cultivating and breeding peonies on 8 acres. Beyond Minnesota’s borders, many take the lead: Cricket Hill in CT, Klehm in IL, Caprice Farm Nursery in OR, to name a few, all offering hundreds of varieties.

Peony’s color drama does not attenuate in black and white. A peculiar softness in the blossoms seems more apparent, almost feathery to the touch and smooth as glass. The layering of petals is rose-like, ethereal, too good to be true in a living plant. Delicate shading prevails between blossom types, some fully opened, others on their way.

At the top, a solitary onion, Allium christophii (albopilosum) accompanies the peonies, like an unlit holiday sparkler intent on celebrating its good fortune free from flame. Textural composition is broken up, just one example making light of floral diversity. In black and white.

02/18/2023

BLACK AND WHITE GARDEN (An Occasional Series), TEN. Weather, always in the news, means so much in the garden, attributing its failure or success. It must have been a misty day when I grabbed this Nikon point and shoot shot of an heirloom vining bean. My archive says September 9, 1997, a time fondly remembered when I could grow pole beans with fanfare, free of intrusion from deer and rabbits.

Here, Phaseolus vulgaris 'Purple Peacock' bean is loaded with ornament, sporting a soft greenish violet blend in the leaves. The pods are dark and thin, best harvested while small when they are most succulent. Once over the stove, the heated purple flesh transforms into green.

A progression of maturity in the pods is apparent from the photograph, some bulging with beans like hastily twisted rope. Others nearby are barely born, not yet purple royalty, still embraced in flowers.

Pod pairs dangle gracefully from thin stems, like snaking school kids on a monkey bar. Droplets of moisture collect at the tips, a gift of drizzle and dew on this autumn morning.

Black and white offers a different take, more mysterious, peaceful, less playful.

02/16/2023

BLACK AND WHITE GARDEN (An Occasional Series), NINE. What about Columbine? To many of us, they are familiar friends. As much as we admire them, Columbines (Aquilegia) in antiquity were known as “a thankless flower," personifying forsaken love (how does that sound for the day after Valentines?). Texts regard it as the flower of cuckoldry, indicative of the tendency of the various species to interbreed freely. Mixing two or more varieties in the garden will result in seedlings of different strains, unlike either of the parents. It makes sense then that Columbines are known by many names: fool’s cap, granny bonnets, culverwort, doves in the ark and skull caps. Even the color of the blossom typifies something different: red signals folly, trembling or anxiety. Purple represents resolution. The familiar spurs found on some of the flowers of Columbine, like all horns, symbolize disloyalty.

For over 20 years, Heliotrope had the opportunity to care for a rock garden in Orono, designed by Betty Ann Addison of Rice Creek Gardens, Minneapolis. After a while, a village of Columbines appeared in that garden, one of which was a lovely shade of violet. I took a photograph of this on an unknown date shortly after the millennium.

When bled of color, a black and white representation imparts a distinct three-dimensional quality to the blossoms. Space seems enhanced, to a point almost where distance can be measured. It’s as if one can extend the fingers toward a diorama, expecting to hold onto the weeping, spilling petals.

In essence, the Latin derivation of Aquilegia, “aquilegus”, makes reference to a collector of water, a container, perhaps a pseudo black and white one of galvanized metal. With some imagination, the spread eagled, spilling petals liken themselves to tiny waterfalls, full of movement, dancing with gravity.

[As always, please click on the photographs for full effect....]

02/12/2023

BLACK AND WHITE GARDEN (An Occasional Series), EIGHT. No plant in the garden grows by itself. That is, a garden is a collection of plants, arranged in endless ways to suit our passions. The relationships between plants in the garden, however they are combined, can be a potent process, one that ultimately determines the experience one has while in the garden. It could be compelling. It could be off putting. The messages in the garden aren’t always clear or explainable, but we know what we know: we can appreciate beauty, in all its forms, if we see it.

In simplest terms, two plants interact with each other to create an effect. The intent of the gardener is to create the effect by placing two plants side by side, and then making a decision. Does it work?

A garden in Bearpath, designed by Heliotrope for clients who now live in Bayfield, was photographed on August 27, 2004. Two plants, each totally unlike the other, intermingle as a pseudo groundcover. The golden-leaved sweet potato (Ipomoea batatas ‘Marguerite’) was relatively new to the market back then, and has since become ever present in commercial and public plantings, commonly available everywhere. Here it is combined with a scrambling licorice plant (Helichrysum petiolare ‘Limelight’). The smooth, softly-veined arrowhead leaves of ‘Marguerite’ act as a ballast for the velvety buttons of ‘Limelight’, offering an unusual color combination. Rubbing off the fuzz reveals a more golden foliar tone in the licorice plant, something which might happen in the rain. The two plants would then tend to more closely color echo each other.

When viewed in black and white, ‘Limelight’ seems to float like a billowing cloud over ‘Marguerite’, with an impressionable softness made evident between shadows of light and darkness. ‘LImelight’ fails to follow a predictable pathway, just growing around and through the nest of sweet potato foliage any which way.

02/02/2023

BLACK AND WHITE GARDEN (An Occasional Series), SEVEN. Symmetry is a pleasurable concept, one derived from the idea that many living bodies–mammals, humans, reptiles, birds and more-- are symmetrical. It follows that placing plants in the garden with balance as a consideration is an entirely natural inclination, one that just feels right.

A blueblood client of Heliotrope referred more than once to the importance of symmetry in her garden, the idea of similar plants separated from each other, but balanced on either side by way of shape, line or mass.

Symmetry and formality have their similarities: our living spaces, for example, provide comfort to us with walls that are straight and floors that are level. Our personal arrangement within the walls may not be formal, but the structures in which we reside are almost always symmetrical, a balance that provides creature comforts. In the garden, formality goes a step further, embracing the concept of repetition of plants, enabling mirror images to the eye.

Curiously, unadulterated nature is not formal, not at all. Formality is a human concept. Perfectly aligned hedges and vegetables planted equidistantly in rows are almost never found in our natural environment. It’s compelling to realize that viewing a landscape in black and white, awash of color, invites us to consider the human element, in one instance, of how our creativity for formal placement of plants in garden making enhances symmetry and line.

Visualizing in black and white a formal garden I redesigned in Wayzata (a photograph captured with a point and shoot Nikon camera on May 4, 2006), reveals formality in exaggeration. Lines and shapes seem more prevalent. A solitary Linden tree cone watches over neatly trimmed Boxwood hedges that enclose shrubs and perennials in an arrangement of eight formal segments, one of which is shown here. A solid row of Arborvitae spheres in the background contrasts with cones and lines in the foreground, while simulating the stone-cast line of the neighboring balustrade. A narrow, vertical endpoint of ‘Blue Arrow’ Juniper offers a novel and contrasting shape to the space. Lighter B&W highlights appear at the surfaces of the woody plants, a phenomenon not easy to explain, almost like a sudden dusting of snow. Shadows at knee level define the curvaceous grid of the Boxwood, suggesting movement in a situation otherwise where everything appears serene.

02/01/2023

BLACK AND WHITE GARDEN (An Occasional Series), SIX. “Less is more” was one of the mantras of a photography teacher I once had.

It took me a while to appreciate the strength of wispiness, the idea that a shadow or a motion or even a blur might appeal. It’s trickery for the eye, which prefers to be focused. But the eye wants more. It wants to focus on color, lots of it, and the design challenge of color in the garden is to make it work.

Denying the eye of color changes its focus. Do we view our surroundings in black and white? Well, that’s a loaded question: we probably know people who do exactly that! Taken literally though, most of us with normal vision don’t see black and white in the real world. We create it through the camera’s trickery, or through manipulation on a computer.

With this photograph, taken sometime in the 1990s, I return to a garden I designed on Thomas Avenue South, Minneapolis. The plant is an ornamental (and culinary) onion, Allium tuberosum, or Garlic Chives. Native to the Shanxii province in China, Allium tuberosum has naturalized all over the world. I first saw a shorter version of the plant at the U of MN Landscape Arboretum. It needs to be deadheaded after blooming, otherwise it will come up all over the place.

By capturing the budding plant in black and white all alone against a raw cedar fence, the rigid structure of the stems first comes to mind, mirroring the vertical grain in the fence itself. It’s captivating to notice that curvaceous knots in the wood structure escape from this rigidity, fleshing out the look of globular buds on the plant. Like other garlics, certain stems also go into a curve, producing a playful aspect to the scene. Finally, dark and light wood tones of the fence mimic the dark stems and white buds of Allium tuberosum. If we could only see in black and white.

01/31/2023

BLACK AND WHITE GARDEN (An Occasional Series), FIVE. There was a time before color television, before color film, before cell phone cameras, when it was necessary, acceptable to picture ourselves in black and white, sometimes with a little date displayed on the white margin surrounding that black and white shiny memory on square paper, just to remind ourselves how old we are. Some of us have only such a record when we were children. Of course, that’s all changed now.

Seeing plants in black and white was most likely an afterthought back then; when color film became popular, the door opened for photographing gardens as they actually appeared, in real life. With such novelty, why would anyone settle for black and white?

A close up of three plants of widely varied shapes is pretty interesting when viewed in the absence of color. With color’s drama negated, shape and form come to the forefront. The background shrubbery (Japanese Yew, Taxus cuspidata) melts away at the edges, but, as well, comes into clarification in the upper left. Obviously the point of focus here is on the central Lupine, with the effect of layered petals ascending both vertically and horizontally on the stem. It seems almost surreal, an illusion of movement and rotation in front of the eye. An undercurrent of Daylily foliage (Hemerocallis) looks as though it is holding up the Lupine on soft haunches, carefully balanced, as if it were an unlikely single put-together plant.

01/23/2023

BLACK AND WHITE GARDEN (An Occasional Series), FOUR. ‘The Language of Flowers’ from 1913 calls the Crown Imperial a plant of “majesty” and “power”. The big stinky bulb, a mouse deterrent in the garden, is a native of Persia: Henry Phillips (‘Flora Historica’, 1824) refers to it as “this lily of the turbaned countries”. Charles Hervey Gray (‘Hardy Bulbs’, 1938) notes it is also a native of the Himalayas, but occurs nowhere in between (that is, between Turkey and the Himalayas). In previous posts I have described the stories fashioned from Fritillaria imperialis’ distinct nectaries, located at the base of the petals.

There is much disagreement throughout history as to the garden merit of the Crown Imperial: “...all but dull flowers…”, “...an ill dead orange color…”, “…has good effect, provided it is placed artfully”..., “...the most stately majestically graceful of any plant in being…”, “...a color to that of a boiled lobster…”, all found in the chapter “Fritillaries” in Alice M.Coats’ ‘Flowers and Their Histories’ (1956).

I took a photograph of Fritillaria imperialis ‘Rubra’ in the garden of a client on Thomas Avenue in the spring of 1999. By converting to black and white, the drama over color is mute. I am struck by the regal architecture of the plant, how straight and rigid are the stippled stems that support the emerging blossoms, the graceful, pendant curvature of how the flowers suspend from the upright stems. A shadowing behind the blossoms and beneath the leaves is apparent, as is the black coloration of the stigmas protruding from the opening of the petals. I was lucky to get the background in a diffused mist, since I didn’t own a single lens reflex, but instead used my little red Nikon point and shoot.

It’s a surprise to see how light plays off the black and white representation, even though I have seen this phenomenon many times. It helps to click on each photo to get a more detailed view!

01/17/2023

BLACK AND WHITE GARDEN (An Occasional Series), THREE. The species Hosta montana is native to Japan, growing extensively over a range of areas: open fields, along roadsides, in deep woods. A variant or sport of the solid green species is H. m. ‘Aureomarginata’, a plant with moderately waved and deeply veined green leaves, but margined gold. It’s a stunner in the garden, with a crisp, mounded demeanor, ultimately growing over two feet tall and six feet or more wide.

At midmorning on May 25, 2015, using a point-and-shoot Nikon Coolpix S8100, I photographed a prized specimen of Hosta montana ‘Aureomarginata' in a client’s garden in Medina. It is interplanted with Ostrich Fern, Matteuccia struthiopteris (aka M. pensylvanica) which earlier in the month had unfurled its large, edible fronds (fiddleheads) that taste somewhat like asparagus. As can be seen, the fern spreads easily with underground runners, and if left alone will travel and weave into neighboring plants, as is the case here.

A black and white translation of the color photograph signals a fascinating mix of patterns between the two plants, with fern foliage rising vertically, ballet-like at the plant’s base, ending with a slight curl at the tips. The fine, verdant foliage offers contradistinction to the hosta leaves, a remarkable differentiation of form considering the variegation of the hosta plant. As I look at the wide leaves, the odd but unpredictable patterns resemble watery waves, spilling over edges and points in between.

Moreover, enhanced by black and white, a speckling of light and dark is ever-present and seemingly random, captured in one form over a few seconds, only to be changed altogether in the recurring breeze, with brighter areas tracking the leaf edges.

01/13/2023

BLACK AND WHITE GARDEN (An Occasional Series), TWO. Switching the same photograph between its color mode to black and white mode opens up some quirky surprises, at least for me. How? Here’s the process. It’s best to hide one photo with your hand as you look at the other, and vice versa, back and forth, black and white to color and back again, so that dissimilarities (which may at first be subtle), can be visualized.

What’s alluring about this measure is that the black and white version tells us in a different way how a group of seemingly differentiated plants can be placed as suitable companions in the garden without quite understanding how that works. That is, our eyes alone, without the distraction of color, reveal to us if a particular group of neighboring plants is pleasing to the eye. Most of us know when we are shown a group of plants together whether or not the planting is satisfying, at least visually. Black and white, if given the opportunity, enhances the decision in its unique way, allowing the expression of factors other than just color to be the qualifier.

The color photograph seen here was taken midsummer in a client’s Kenwood garden, July 6, 2018. Three neighboring annuals, none of which are blooming in the photo, are placed together in a straight, longitudinal series of repeating rectangles lining a fence at the edge of a driveway of red brick. The topmost plant is Muehlenbeckia axillaris (Wire Vine). A central succulent is surrounded by an unusual dwarf Coleus, Solenostemon scutellarioides ‘Aurora Black Cherry’. Despite the unusual color of the Coleus, the focal point (for most of us anyway) is squarely on the succulent at the center.

This phenomenon is enhanced and confirmed by viewing the black and white: the succulent’s smooth, wide-lipped texture draws the eye, with dapples of shade across expansive leaves. The tiny orb-like leaves of Wire Vine at the top act as a foil for the equally busy river of veins in the dwarf coleus surrounding the succulent and, surprisingly, it all seems to work. Moreover, the two plants in the arrangement with the smaller leaves cast no shadows.

01/11/2023

THE BLACK AND WHITE GARDEN (An Occasional Series), ONE. It's said by those in the know that, as a phenomenon, visual details used with a camera are revealed more willingly than those seen in real life. I won't say. It seems that the crux of the matter is this: we have to be willing to take the time to SEE. In the garden, visualizing particulars that stick in the craw, particularly if we are limited to plants, is really hard. There's a reason why public gardens cater to the public by offering more than just foliage, blossoms and bark.

Another thought: when a large amount of color becomes candy for the eyes, it seems to me that the details blur out. It may be that good garden design can remedy that.

So for awhile in these posts, I will on occasion turn to the white and the black, areas of shadow, line and light, contrast and character. Fact is, prior to about 1890 this kind of photography for the garden was all there was. I'd like to return to that storied look now and again, using examples from gardens designed or maintained by Heliotrope.

But first, just to get into a super serious mood, I offer a B&W selfie of myself, what else. Please continue scrolling. More tomorrow!

01/08/2023

GOIN’ BACK 2022, FOURTEEN. Ornament in the garden takes on many forms: statuary, gates, obelisks, trellises, stone lanterns, sundials. In my experience, it’s best to not over do. After all, the element of surprise is related to the conservative presence of ornament: what appears around a hidden corner, for example, or what is revealed in a secret room is the appeal. Such experience is arguably more common in gardens that have been in existence for years, edens with historical significance,, perhaps financed in perpetuity by national trusts or organizations like the Garden Conservancy.

More than once I have been gifted by a client with an item of garden ornament no longer needed, lucky me. I recall an ornate metal bench that ended up as a focal point at the crest of a hill leading down to my own garden. After a while, when Heliotrope was asked to design the gardens at St. Paul’s Center for Victims of Torture, I decided to donate the bench. After having it restored, it was placed in a quiet area beneath some tall arborvitae in that garden.

Before the Center’s other location was closed on West River Road in Minneapolis, we had placed a concrete obelisk as a focal point in a garden not far from fraternity row at the University. We decided to install a 40-inch steel rebar at the base of the concrete globe, stuck in the ground as a security measure, since it could otherwise be easily lifted out of the garden by some (rowdy students?) and used as a bowling ball, not that we believed such an incident could actually happen. A few months went by, and sure enough, the obelisk with the metal rod had been pulled out of the ground intact and placed by the side of the garden, ripe for the taking. Today it resides in my own garden, secreted out of the way from passersby.

01/07/2023

GOIN’ BACK 2022, THIRTEEN. The Burning Bush at the focus of our garden’s welcoming point was planted at least ten years ago, maybe fifteen. It seems that in consecutive autumns when its football-shaped leaves start to turn, the plant burns brighter. I remember when the first few years (in October) tested my patience, with not much burning in evidence. I thought I might have the wrong cultivar or variety, since it was purchased as Euonymus alatus ‘Compacta’, the smaller version of a much larger shrub. Does the larger version have a brighter fall coloration? Time would tell, and it told me, “No;” the compact cultivar was plenty bright, and getting brighter. Really, there’s no other plant that comes to mind that has the fiery drama that the so-called Corky Winged Spindle Tree has.

Sad to say, Euonymus alatus ‘Compacta, an exotic (non-native) woody plant, has a reputation now for being invasive in certain areas of the country, particularly out east. My own specimen seeds around moderately beneath its canopy, but not to an extent that new seedlings cannot be easily removed. As well, I haven’t seen baby plants sprouting up further away say, from birds dispersing the seeds.

At some point I expect that nurseries will no longer carry the Burning Bush, just like what happened when the use of Buckthorn as a popular hedge plant became persona non grata. As natives and their pollinators become more important in our lives, that’s a good thing.

01/04/2023

GOIN’ BACK 2022, TWELVE. Still got those New Year’s resolutions? Some of us swear by the dry January; no alcohol for a month (but just you want ’til February 1st). Some continue the seemingly endless quest to lose a few pounds or go to the gym (hello, Noom). As an aside, why go to the gym if you garden every possible day?

But what about too many plants? Oh yeah, that. There's the collector, the gardener who has little intent on planting in drifts of harmonious color, while instead planting one of each, sometimes to great effect, and sometimes well, not. Experience, for example, tells us to avoid planting a collection of variegated hosta all together. Or maybe creating a circus of color, all mismatched in simultaneous bloom, as a cup of tea. Experience.

We’ve all experienced eyes bigger than our stomachs. What about eyes popping out of their sockets the second week of May, at the local nursery? Get in line……please. I’ll keep it short: we’re only human. We love plants. Over planting (or planting too close together) for novice or professional alike, leads us down the sorry road to garden editing, before it’s time. That healthy Cotoneaster shrub is now shading the sun-loving Rudbeckia, and it’s only year three, when plants leap instead of creep! Jeez, I thought that Bishop’s W**d would look stunning next to the Dwarf Asters, but heck, they’re taking over, and the roots just don’t come out.

Bottom line is that haste makes waste, right? I could throw a quote out to that effect, but you get the idea.

01/03/2023

GOIN’ BACK, 2022. ELEVEN. There is a preponderance of magnificent trees at the 28-acre free-run dog park in Orono, and so Irene and I take Yoda there as much as we can. I know the dog ignores these woody havens, despite their structural beauty. I’m sure she’s confused about the role of these trees, nothing more than safe houses for pesky squirrels. There’s no chance that such a blocky pitbull type pseudo hunter has a chance. The initial find and resulting motionless canine body’s point looks impressive as only her eyes follow such carefree rodents, gathering food and playing around mischievously, as such animals tend to do. Then Yoda begins a slow creep, step by step. Gaining access to her potential prey means nothing to these tuned in animals. At the appropriate time, the clumsy lunge begins, at which point the chattering squirrels gracefully ascend their woody towers. Yoda circles the circumference hopefully, to no avail.

The trees are the silent witnesses to such silliness. They’ll most likely remain in place long after such activity by today’s characters are gone, including ourselves, on endless repeat for the experience of footsteps and pawprints beneath.

“…stretching across the ceiling there was a vast skylight, showing the huge oak’s muscular branches and the stars sharp between them….There was a sound inside the tree like a soft,, low, constant hum, which I took to be the movement of the trees sap in its immensely slow circulation, or its long and meditative respiration, or even the way the tree sang to itself in its gladness at being so strong and so alive on a chill bright night like that one….I press my ear to it and hear the way the world and the tree seem to have found a resonance within me. It is like a triangulation—the world, the tree, and me.”
Lauren Groff
‘Annunciation’
[From a short story in The New Yorker, Feb 14 & 21, 2022]

01/01/2023

GOIN’ BACK 2022, TEN. A New Year. Once more Earth's globe has gone ‘round the sun and back, something like that. Speaking of suns, an odd sculpture came into my hands by a departing client shedding possessions in the processes of downsizing. The Sun Man shines day after day, rain or shine, even in the snow.

Whimsy, silliness, the goofball look. A garden built on comedy might overwhelm even the jolliest of us, or embarass the serious types, since a little goes a long way. But gardens need more of it, don’t you think? I haven’t placed this metal creature in the garden as yet, despite having it around for years. I just don’t know where to put it. I can see it welcoming a visitor, for example, as he or she rounds a bend, as an element of surprise, enclosed say within a tall room of Arborvitae, entered by way of a metal gate. But I don’t have a bend, or a tall room of Arborvitae, much as I would like. Maybe just absolve all queasiness and place Sun Man front and center, at the entrance and as a focal point, a laughing greeter to what lies ahead.

The matter of sophistication comes into play, right? But who cares? Isn’t that what humor hopes to dispel, pretension? Of course. This is Minnesota, the land of “you betcha” and “fer sure” and well, whatever. Maybe the high horse gardener just doesn’t quite have the right fit in these parts, square peg in a round hole. Laugh away. It might even be that that’s what the New Year needs more of. Pure and sober, unadulterated laughter Yup, fer sure. Like the Sun Man.

12/31/2022

GOIN’ BACK 2022, NINE. After tonight’s revelry, it’s a New Year. In our thoughts, we live in a garden, something we can call home. Something we can call our own. But really, what separates many of us fortunate to live somewhere other than the streets is the presence of walls and glass, simple as that. Glass and walls, physical entities so familiar to us that we refrain from second thoughts. We peruse the garden behind walls of glass, gleaning peace and pleasure, something that not all of us take for granted. A few of those less fortunate nonetheless regard it as freedom, as if all they own and the all outdoors are one. Others hope to return from where they last stepped inside, where they came from, free or not. “Now I’m so alone, just looking for a home in every place I see. I’m a freedom man, I’m a freedom man, I’m a freedom man, that’s how lucky I am.” [‘Universal Mind,’ The Doors].

The garden has no say. The garden has no care. Who is to say that those who garden have more to show than those who don’t? Blake tells us, “Some are born to sweet delight, some are born to endless night.” It changes not that the master of the garden is the gardener, rich or poor. Why?

Gardeners both off the grid and on bathe in what the soil provides. The subsistence farmer’s carrots in the root cellar feed the family just as well as the organics chilling in the SubZero. If one has seed, soil, and water one has a garden. “I’m a freedom man."

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