I almost forgot, and I can’t believe I almost forgot, to post about this fine piece of journalism.

The anti-grass gardener is one of my oldest and bestest friends. Don’t let his speaking of native plants and gardening throw you. He grew up with a regular old lawn in the suburbs of Boston, far away from the sage and sunshine of the East Bay.

It’s funny reading in a paper about his garden, since it’s a bit interwoven in my head with Pat’s dying, and at the time of cultivation I missed some of the details. When Kevin was house shopping and then moving, and my mother had died, he called regularly to discuss home-owning and whatnot.

Since I know that behind his math-ish/professor-ish/repressed Boston Irish Catholic exterior, he’s actually sensitive, and, I know that he knows first hand how losing a parent feels, I suspect advice on home buying was a ruse for calling. He was just making sure I wasn’t wallowing too deeply in the abyss of mourning.

So, I’m vaguely aware that he was up at all hours tilling and weeding and doing whatever gardeners do, when he first moved in to his house. But, the details and reasons were lost.

It is a beautiful garden. I’m envious of the Meyer lemon tree, and the scent of the mixed spices of various sages is rather lovely.

Unfortunately, I won’t be able to show up on the tour and mock him (or support him, depending on our moods), since it’s the same day as M. and my first ever barbeque. Ah well.