#$&@! My Shed Says


I’m a fraud.  A fake.  A pretender.  And the proof is in the potting shed.

Yes, this is my jewel of a potting shed – the one that takes center stage in many of my photos, the place where I find peace in the middle of winter as I start my seeds, the backyard structure that allows me to believe that I have a Martha (no need for last names here) existence.

Clearly, though, nothing could be further from the truth.

I came to the realization long ago that I am not, no matter how hard I try, Martha-esque.  I get dirty when I garden.  I have a tendency to use every pot in the kitchen when I cook (although I now know to clean as I go).  And I have been known to step on the prongs of a rake, sending the handle swinging up into the side of my head — on more than one occasion.  But it’s the condition of this shed that really says, “You, sir, are no Martha.”

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Terracotta Love: Now That’s Amore!


I’m in love with a terracotta pot.  I’m not sure if that’s even possible, but the truth is there is one pot in my collection of which I’m especially fond – and each spring when I remove it from its winter storage, it’s like reuniting with a long lost love.  I know its curves and warm tones and textures.  I accept all of it, even the irregular sizes of its pockets.  Yes, the terracotta pot of my dreams is the three-foot tall strawberry pot.  And today is the day that I am going to demonstrate my love for it.  It’s planting day.

The pot holds a place of honor in the garden, nestled among ferns and hostas and bleeding hearts.  It’s tall enough that it provides not only a focal point, but some vertical color in an area of the garden that is heavy with foliage.

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