When we first moved into the house, the faeries weren’t there. In fact, pretty much nothing was there. It was a new house, part of a tract, on top of a hill, and hidden from the street by two other houses. It had a big lot, and a small rocky hillock that rose at a 45 degree angle behind it. The house itself was on fill populated by mud, clay, rocks and fire ants.

We moved in during February, in the midst of a drenching downpour. When you walked in what would be the yard, the mud and clay would build up on your feet until you actually would get taller and taller. It had to be scraped off with a knife.

I loved the idea of gardening. Here was virgin territory. I had no idea of what I was doing.

My husband hired a worker who claimed to be a gardener to do some of the preliminary work. This consisted mainly of gathering up the biggest rocks and rototilling the area, planting some trees, and seeding what we hoped would be a lawn.

Personally, I don’t like lawns. I think they are boring, a waste of water and fertilizer, and a real pain to upkeep. But with two young daughters, I wanted to fit in with the neighbors and not be as weirdly different as I usually was. I agreed with putting in the lawn and left my creativity to flower beds.