The names of things, part 1

in which I discover the outdoors

This is the first part in a series on gardening. (If you’re not into gardening, I once wasn’t either.)

When I moved into this house eleven years ago, I inherited a mature garden. We never met the woman who’d lived here before us, but her name was Lunelle, and she was the house’s sole owner for more than fifty years. I read in her obituary that she loved gardening, and she’d have had to, because this lot is not easy. Though mostly flat in front, it slopes precipitously in back, a mullet of sword ferns and ivy and tree debris tumbling down a shelf of large rocks. It is a small-scale Pacific Northwest rainforest. I can tell that Lunelle tried to tame it, make it habitable: she put down railroad ties for steps and a concrete path inlaid with seashells. There were trellises and cedar fences and a gate furred with moss.