Editor’s Note

Green thumbs aren’t hereditary. I know this because I’m the descendant of three gardening grandparents (Nana was the exception: Winner of her college’s “best dressed” award, she preferred clothes to flowers), a speed-mower of a father, and a Master Gardener mother who possesses an almost paranormal ability to turn a potted stick into a budding begonia.
 
Then … there’s me. I have trouble telling a gerbera from a geranium. From college dorms through multiple apartments, I netted a statistically non-existent houseplant survival rate. Now, after my first year in my first house, I’m facing the prospect of having to create living, breathing botany out of the meager plot of concrete urbanites call a “backyard.”
 
But I’m determined to make the gray-to-green transformation happen. Currently my inspiration includes two amazing yards of real-life home gardeners — one Main Liner who transformed an intractably steep hill into a beautiful terraced landscape, and a Chestnut Hill-er who turned her garden into a breezy outdoor living room. I’ll also require help with containers and so forth, courtesy of my two favorite venues for flora shopping, Terrain at Styer’s and City Planter. And I’m fairly sure Felix, my next-door neighbor who grows ginormous tomatoes in his tiny tract, will offer sage advice.
 
But when it comes down to hands-on cultivation, I’ll likely do what I’ve done every time I’ve needed assistance in any important area, gardening or otherwise. I’ll be calling Mom — who, like me, believes in nurture over nature.