For all I know, she may have brought that original plant with her from Mississippi. My father continued the tradition and made his own fig preserves, sweet beyond all reason in that fine Southern tradition, but so wonderful. Not too far from the fig trees are the English boxwoods that my mother planted and nurtured for decades. Not one for blooming plants, she would probably list boxwood, holly, and cherry laurel among her Top 10. I could never figure that one out, but eventually I grew to love the boxwood too.
Gardens are strange things.
And I think I ve figured out why. You might not be able to control the horror on the evening news or the maniac who almost ran into you on Union Avenue, but you can control that bed of irises. Your garden is your little world, you re in charge, and don t let anybody ever forget it. Now, I must admit, I haven t always been interested in gardens. It must be genetic many of my ancestors were farmers.