Judy's Garden
White Plains, New York
1965 - 2010
This is my favorite garden ever. Of course I'm biased - Judy is my mother. She started this garden in 1965, when the family moved into the big, 1904 colonial where I grew up, and it got progressively longer and wider over the years. In addition to the show-stopping mixed border, she had a vegetable garden, lots of mint and basil, a thicket of raspberries, and a trumpet vine that got so big it almost ruined the garage that supported it. Looking back, I have no idea how she did it, as she was also busy with a husband, seven children, three dogs (not simultaneously), curtain-making, sofa-covering, assorted home repairs, and a side baking business.
My mother set extremely high standards for herself and wanted everything to look perfect. With seven children, that was an utter impossibility inside, but her back yard came pretty close. Officially she would deny that was the case - her immediate response to any compliment is to point out all the imperfections - but we knew she was proud of it. Two of my sisters had weddings in the back yard and, in each case, the dates were determined by when the garden would be at its peak. Enough said.
The house was sold last year. Now 86 and suffering from severe arthritis, my mother gardens vicariously through her daughters. Somehow the perfectionist gene seems to have skipped a generation, though. We are all galloping horse gardeners.
My mother set extremely high standards for herself and wanted everything to look perfect. With seven children, that was an utter impossibility inside, but her back yard came pretty close. Officially she would deny that was the case - her immediate response to any compliment is to point out all the imperfections - but we knew she was proud of it. Two of my sisters had weddings in the back yard and, in each case, the dates were determined by when the garden would be at its peak. Enough said.
The house was sold last year. Now 86 and suffering from severe arthritis, my mother gardens vicariously through her daughters. Somehow the perfectionist gene seems to have skipped a generation, though. We are all galloping horse gardeners.
