“Profusion best describes the cottage garden – a place where flowers of assorted sizes, shapes, and colors spill over walls and paths, where herbs, vegetables, and berry bushes crowd among roses and fruit trees. The bloom is perpetual, as new blossoms draw attention away from any fading flowers. Planting is haphazard and cultivation is minimal, since the fullness of the beds makes it difficult for all but the most determined weeds to find a foothold. Seedlings are pampered in the beginning to assure a healthy start, and then allowed to grow freely. Plants thrive on this benign neglect.” – Marina Schinz from Visions of Paradise: Themes and Variations on the Garden

Haphazard? Minimal cultivation? Benign neglect! Ah-ha! See, there is a method to my madness; a style to the semi-controlled chaos in my yard. “You’ve got a lovely cottage garden,” sidewalk passers-by have said to me as I sit on my favorite perch on the front porch; sometimes they stop to look at the flowers in the garden along the sidewalk; other times Keith will offer them a “tour.” He’s so funny. “Let me give you a tour of the grounds,” he says. Or to me, “The grounds look nice today, Dear.” Giving the impression we actually have “grounds” to tour, instead of a ¾ acre lot in town.

A visiting friend recently exclaimed after such a tour, “You’ve brought the country right here to the middle of town.” The term “cottage garden” presents romantic images of farmhouses along a country road fronted by an old stone wall; an unpretentious village house with the open gate of a white picket fence inviting visitors up the path leading to the door; a painted lady of the Victorian era with an arch of climbing roses framing the front porch, or a centuries old stone cottage in England, barely visible through the vines covering it, and the gardens surrounding it.

Is our house a Victorian or a farmhouse? It may have started out as one, but ended up as the other. It’s changed and been added on to so many times in its one-hundred-plus years of existence, who can really tell? A house with acreage in the country, a lot in suburbia, or a brownstone in the city: the style of the house and its location is unimportant. It’s not the type of dwelling, but the abundance and variety of plantings, generous doses of color and texture that blend with simplicity which define a cottage garden.

If I have a cottage garden it was created purely by accident; some of the elements are there, but it’s not a style I set out to adopt. And whether or not it’s “lovely” is most surely debatable. Come take a walk with me, and you can decide. We’ll tour some of  “the grounds” as I tell you a little bit about one of the world’s oldest forms of gardening, and the history of how it came to be. Welcome to the cottage garden.

Enter a cottage garden and most often you’ll walk through a gate and down a path to the front door. Look! I’ve got a path … although it’s concrete. And there’s no gate to enter before you step onto the “path,” but there’s a garden along side it. This little garden along the sidewalk and front walk was created out of necessity. It’s sand; turf doesn’t grow in sand, and the sand kept eroding onto the sidewalk. There are plants that do grow in sand though; this bed is a mix of flowering perennials and herbs – chives, sage, parsley, and winter savory. The bees love the masses of tiny white flowers of winter savory; if anyone can tell me what else it’s good for I’d love to know. I planted it strictly for its looks; I’ve got no idea what to use it for in the kitchen.

Cottage gardens began as necessities, probably during medieval times. Laboring families grew the essentials: herbs used for medicinal and culinary purposes, fruits were eaten fresh, and preserved for hard winters when food was scarce. Flowers were grown as nectar sources for bees, and to use inside the house for fragrance ... because let’s face it; people during that period did not have the same type of hygiene standards we practice today. To put it bluntly, they stank. Unpleasant odors not only came from their own bodies, but also from earth privies, and domestic animals in close proximity, often right outside the door and sometimes right inside the house. Pleasant counter-smells were used to combat the offensive odors. Roses were made into rosewater, flowers and herbs were used in pomanders, which were carried and sniffed whenever unpleasant smells reached the nose, and strewing herbs – sweet smelling plants – were scattered on the earthen floors, so that their scent was released when walked upon.

I actually do have a path to the front door – it’s the servant’s entrance; the servant would be me. It was also created out of necessity, again because this patch of front yard is comprised mostly of sand. When we moved into the house, the “lawn,” which was mostly a tangle of weeds, ran up to the foundation of the house. What little grass that grew there was worn thin from us walking across it from the driveway, creating a dust-bowl whenever the wind blew. The early garden once had a boundary of brick like the path’s outer edge, but it has long since been lost as ‘Fairy’ roses, lady’s mantle, and lamb’s ears are allowed to spill over the edge. Excuse the weeds in the path please; if I had known you were coming, I’d have swept them under the bushes.

Some of the weeds I would have left, even if I had known you were coming. A benevolent wind blew in seeds from this common white campion; a rather pretty weed I think, so I let it stay. In the spring, poppies, forget-me-nots, and tall wild phlox bloom here. The poppies and forget-me-nots are courtesy of my neighbor’s garden, the seeds also blown in from the wind. I waited for years for the phlox to arrive – it grows everywhere around here – and last year it finally came; this year it was beautiful. The wind here isn’t wicked all the time. In earliest gardens, flowers and herbs were collected from the wild, others were traded with neighbors. The plants in a cottage garden are often considered ordinary; they’re not fussy and are the plants your grandmother’s grandmother grew. You’d never find white campion and its companions in this garden – the ditch lilies, spiderwort, and rose checker mallow – on any hot new must-have perennial list.

Because of the simplicity of the plants contained in a cottage garden, it’s often thought of as a kind of botanical archive. Cottage gardeners are credited with preserving older species and varieties of plants, allowing new generations to nostalgically fill their gardens with the plants their great-grandmothers grew.

This ‘Seven Sisters’ rose bush is a very old variety of rose, first cultivated in 1817. The woman who lived in our house for fifty years may have planted it; it may have been planted by the house’s original owners. She took it with her when she moved, though. When we bought the house from its next owners, just a sprig remained, and even that Keith accidently cut down with the lawn mower. Its size now is a testament to its indestructibility. It’s considered a collector’s rose in cultivation for nearly 200 years, but those centuries have taken a toll; there’s much debate about what is a “true” ‘Seven Sisters.’ But it’s pretty just the same. If you look hard enough at this photo, you’ll see another weed growing up from the rose bush. Long after the roses fade and petals drop, tiny white asters on tall willowy stems will bloom in autumn. Who can think a plant as a weed when it willingly gives you flowers after everything else has faded?

Speaking of weeds ... the tall torch-like thing is common mullein. Somehow I always end up with one or two a year, always in different parts of the yard. Wherever they crop up, they get to stay too ... just because I think they’re really cool. In front of it are peach and rose-colored daylilies and purple coneflower. And yes, that’s really orange and pink. Together. It’s a combination that would make most people cringe, but it’s my favorite color scheme, and you’ll see variations of it in most of these pictures.

Aside from the clash of colors, there is a lot going on in this garden. I love flowers; the family and I are also fond of fruits and vegetables. We have very little sun in our yard; most of my gardening is done in the shade. In the few areas we do have sun, as much has to be packed into the garden as possible. In his book English Gardens, Peter Coats, garden editor of House and Garden quoted a friend as saying, “A garden should be like a fat woman in a tight corset – bulging out of it.” I couldn’t agree more.

Beyond the flowers are the squash and tomato patches; the two vegetables are separated by a mulched path which allows us to get to the blueberries planted in a row along the house. They took a hard hit this winter; ice built up under the eaves, and came crashing down on the bushes. As a result, I really had to prune them hard in spring. We’ve got berries though; maybe not as much as we’d like, but we’ve been picking a handful here and there. Potatoes are planted between the blueberry bushes.

Just on the other side of the fence is a smaller garden with asparagus, chives, and parsley. I’ll be moving the blackberries to the vegetable garden in fall; they only get about half a day of sun now and would really prefer more. Vegetables will continue to be planted here next year, though I’ll be expanding the side garden along the driveway where our beans are growing now to include more. A grape vine that bears heavy clusters of the sweetest amber-colored grapes is trellised in the foreground.

(Yep – that wooden thing is another piece of “Good Junque.” It’s a neat old hand-truck my boss was getting rid of a couple of weeks ago, which somehow ended up in my yard ... which had nothing to do with me putting it in my trunk and taking it home.)

Up until about a century ago, cottage gardens contained fruits such as currants, gooseberries, and raspberries. Apple and pear trees rose above mixed beds with herbs, flowers, and vegetables. Early in the nineteenth century as people became more prosperous, the gardens turned more toward ornamental plantings. I think it’s interesting that with many people now growing their own fruits and vegetables and adding them in existing gardens, cottage gardens are returning more toward their original form.

Cottage gardens are generous; plants are not singled out and defined, but rather are allowed to mingle, colors blend, and both useful and ornamental plants are grown in a manner that’s does not require a lot of effort to tend. It’s an intimate type of garden, simple and without pretension. Space is the only limiting factor; there are no restrictions about what to plant, or where to plant it – anything can be included – even if it’s pink and orange together, or an odd combination of hydrangeas and squash (see below). It’s a garden for people who love plants. It’s nostalgic and perhaps represents an idealized version our desire to return to more simple times; it’s less a particular style than it is an attitude.

And it’s not for everybody. My sister-in-law told me once that she looked at the photos in gardening books and magazines of gardens brimming with flowers and thought they looked messy. My friend, who has a gorgeous garden, likes things symmetrical and orderly and meticulously plucks blemished leaves and faded flowers from her plants. You’d never see a weed in her garden, much less one purposely allowed to grow there. If our gardens could be considered children, she’d constantly try to run a brush through my child’s hair; her child wouldn’t have a hair out of place, just tempting me to tousle it.

Whatever style of gardening you prefer, I hope you enjoyed this little tour, and the hearing a bit of history about the cottage garden. Are you tired after all that? Grab a seat and rest for a bit ... but be careful where you sit! You never quite know what you’ll find in a cottage garden.

I finished the hillside garden near the end of May. In my post, "Phase I of the Garden: The Bare Bones," I laid out the structure of the garden with shrubs – many of which can be considered groundcovers.

Groundcovers by definition can be as small as less than an inch in height, to about four feet tall. They can be herbaceous or woody, clumping or spreading. Once they are established, they require little maintenance in comparison to turf, prevent erosion, enrich the soil, and cool the air. They can be mixed, with attention given to their growth habits. Pairing plants with incompatible growth rates will result in the more aggressive spreader taking over slower growing plants.

With the shrubs planted, the garden is ready for the other groundcovers: the perennials. Perennials can be purchased in different sizes – everything from tiny plugs up to 3 gallon pots. They can be planted at any time, with the exception of plugs, which shouldn’t be planted in late fall. The roots of these small plants won’t have time to establish themselves in the soil, and the freeze and thaw cycles of winter can actually heave them from the ground. Because the garden is a large vista, I chose quarts, and 1 to 3 gallon-sized plants – anything smaller would have got lost in the expanse, and left the garden looking naked.

A common mistake when landscaping is choosing plants too small for the landscape in order to save money. Smaller plants will fill in, of course ... eventually. But until they do – especially in foundation plantings around a house – the garden will look out of proportion. When the scale is large, it’s best to budget for one or two larger plants and a few of the smaller sizes, rather than a bunch of little plants.

I mentioned in “Phase I,” that the garden is comprised of poor soils and will receive infrequent watering once the plants are established. As I did with the shrubs, I had to choose perennials that will survive these conditions. There are many plants that will tolerate dry shade and are low maintenance.

I used a mix of native and non-native perennials. There are a couple of things to keep in mind when gardening with native plants. Remember that just because a plant grows in the wild in your area, doesn’t mean it’ll grow in your garden. Soil and moisture conditions must be taken into account. Always purchase your plants from reputable sources. Digging a plant from its native habitat can disturb the ecosystem, and in many cases, these plants are protected; taking them from the area can result in fines. The natives I included are wild ginger, false Solomon’s seal, Christmas fern, and mayapple. The mayapple is an experiment; I know it normally likes a more humus-rich soil, but I wanted it for nostalgic reasons; it reminds me of walks in the woods with my Dad who showed us how to lift the umbrella-like leaves to find the flowers, and “apples” hiding beneath. For this, I broke my rule of not using soil amendments, and added compost and worm castings to enrich the soil.

Shade and drought tolerant non-natives I chose are sweet woodruff, some of the more durable hosta varieties, Chinese astilbe, crested iris, barren strawberry, lily of the valley, lady’s mantle, and corydalis lutea. Corydalis lutea is a good choice for low maintenance gardens, and can be used in a variety of conditions. Its delicate leaves and tiny flowers are deceiving; it’s extremely tough, flowering from spring to frost in both dry shade and moist, sunny areas. It reseeds freely, but is easily kept under control.

Another low maintenance choice is the ever-versatile daylily. Is there a more forgiving perennial? They require little attention, growing vigorously in most soil types, in full sun to part shade, with excellent tolerance to hot, dry weather, and come in nearly every color but blue. I’ve put a lot of varieties in this garden, some divided from other areas of the yard, and some purchased. ‘Ice Carnival,’ a heavy flowering fragrant white, is a variety I purchased for a number of reasons. First, the four pots were full enough to divide, leaving me with eight good sized plants. White is also a good choice for shade; white and yellow stand out and brighten dark areas, when the deeper reds and purples blend in and get lost.

The last reason is continuity. Whether a garden is large or small, continuity is an important element. White splashes throughout a garden pulls a large landscape such as this together, and gives the eye somewhere to rest in a smaller, busy garden.

To pull things together further, I planted the same variety of Chinese astilbe, and divided hosta that I have in the shady birch garden kitty-corner from this garden. Most perennials benefit from being divided in spring or fall every few years; daylilies and hosta division can be done at anytime during the year.

The sunny area of the garden received drought tolerant plants such as sedums, asters, coneflowers, black-eyed susans, ‘Biokovia’ perennial geranium, lamb’s ears, goldenrod, yarrow and, of course, more daylilies.

The final planting consisted of planting three good-sized American Spice Bush. The change in grade of the slope resulted in a small swale in an already low spot of the ravine. Rain water collected here, turned stagnant, and the soil became anaerobic – it stank to high-heaven. Even a trench I dug from this area to the creek didn’t alleviate the problem. The swamp-loving spice bush did the trick.

Though the planting was done, the garden was not yet complete. It wouldn’t be one of my gardens without some Good Junque in it. The heavy spring rains resulted in a swift moving current in the ravine’s creek. The rush of water unearthed an old discarded clay drainage pipe that had been buried by silt for who-knows-how-long. I dragged it out of the muck, and topped it with a similar colored birdbath top.

I’ve been eyeing a much larger discarded drainage pipe on the banks of the nursery’s pond for years, wondering how I could use it. The answer came when Keith built a new fire pit; one of his spring projects. (When he reads this, he’ll be pleased I’m mentioning it’s the “Mother of all firepits”; he’s as proud of it as I am of the garden.) The rusted lid of the old metal firepit with drainage holes drilled into it, tops the larger pipe, and became a planter.

Both the birdbath and planter sit at the two path entrances to the garden. Old bricks gathered from construction sites line the path. Stacked in a pile on the side of the garage for years, I knew I’d someday find a use for them.

The steps I started with a foundation of concrete cinderblocks in “Springtime Days with the Family” is done, completed with nearly all salvaged materials. Five pieces of flagstone and the gray concrete patio pavers that cap the concrete blocks are the only purchased products. Broken pavers, brick, and rocks I collected from the beach make up the rest of the stairs. In between some of the crevices, I planted creeping sedum, which I’m hoping will drape over the edges once it grows. That, and other perennials planted near the base of the blocks should soften the hard look of the concrete when they fill in.

I like the finished look. The stairs were built without plans except the vision I had in my head, and without measurements except eyeballing. Though nothing is plumb or square, it doesn’t matter to me – I was going for rustic, and that’s what I got. I tackled the garden the same way; I knew what plants would grow in the conditions I had, but there were no plans other than placing them where I thought they’d look good. I wanted a natural-looking landscape, and that’s what I got. It’s a process that would make professional contractors and landscape designers cringe, but it works for me. For folks who are methodical and prefer organization, having a plan on paper is a good idea whether it’s done by a professional landscaper or as a do-it-yourself project. A landscape plan gives a visual impression of what the garden will look like before installation begins.

Choose the method of planning works best for you; it’s your garden and should reflect your personality. The result should be something that looks aesthetically pleasing to your eye, is within your budget, and fits the amount of work you’re willing to put into it. After the soil was brought in, I did every bit of work myself; it was my project, and I’m pleased with the results. I started out with an ugly, broken down, concrete retaining wall ...  

…and ended up with this.

There’s still a lot of work to be done – there’s all that bare ground just begging to be filled with plants. It’ll have to wait though; I’ve already spent as much time and money as I can afford this season. Perennials currently used in some of my planters and divisions from other gardens will be added in fall, but I’m finished for now. Except ... look at the gorgeous wine color of this yarrow we just got in at the nursery the other day. Paired with sunny yellow ‘Happy Returns’ daylilies, how could I resist?

I grew up in small-town suburbia. Nice middle-class neighborhoods were surrounded by farmland, open meadows, and woods. Simply put, it was “the sticks.”

Our town was too small to have a zip-code; we “borrowed” ours from a neighboring town. It was close enough to Detroit for my Dad to make the hour and a half drive each way to work; Dad was a tool and die foreman for General Motors, a good job that enabled him to provide well for his family for the rest of his life, and for Mom thereafter. Mom grew up in Detroit; Dad was transplanted there after having spent much of his childhood in rural Pennsylvania. But by the time I was born, Detroit had changed, and the old neighborhoods weren’t considered safe anymore. I was less than a year old when they moved out to “the sticks” to give their growing family a better life.

And my two younger brothers and I did have a good life – everything a kid could ask for living in small-town suburbia. We had bike adventures on the trails through the meadow known by every neighborhood kid as “The Field” at one end of the block; at the other end, we caught frogs, turtles, and got generally covered in mud at “The Creek.” We walked nearly a mile to school on the path through “The Woods,” and on snow days when that trek was cancelled, we went sledding down “The Hill.” Simple titles for uncomplicated times. I had a happy childhood growing up in the sticks; we all did, and we reminisce about it often.

After high-school, at age seventeen, I joined the Army – it was an opportunity to experience the world outside my comfort zone. It’s something that if my daughters were old enough to do now, I’d try to discourage; the world is just too volatile a place in this age. My parents might’ve had their reservations too, but they were proud, and consented to sign the forms, sending me off to see the world and find my place in it. I did find my place while I was in the Army; I met my husband while I was enlisted, and after our tours of duty were finished, we got married, and started our own family.

I’ve been home countless times since for family reunions, holidays, special occasions, or just to visit for a few days when time and scheduling allowed. It’s been nearly a decade though, since I’ve been to the old neighborhood and haunts. My brother’s house, in even a smaller town than that of our childhood, has become the hub for family gatherings; he’s got the room, that’s were the nieces and nephews live, and Mom and my other brother would come from opposite directions, all the family converging in one place.

Early this June, I returned to the place of my childhood. I began to grow uneasy the closer I got to the area I once knew like the back of my hand. I felt lost. Nothing was familiar. Two-lane roads that once sliced through farmland were now four-lane congested thoroughfares lined with strip malls on either side. I recognized the old Schwinn Bike Shop, amazed that it was still standing after all these years. Dad took me there to get my first bike that wasn’t a hand-me-down from one of my umpteen cousins. Shiny cobalt blue, with a banana seat and high sissy-bar in the back, it seemed to fly effortlessly over those trails in The Field. Long after I’d outgrown the bike, I flew effortlessly down the dirt road that veered from the main road, driving the family Suburban with my friends all piled inside.

The dirt road is still there, too, but looks out of place, veering off into woods – a bit of country in the midst of what had become city. Strip malls grew sparse on the main road, and were replace by large gated communities, one after another. Behind the gates loomed large, pretentious looking houses with golf course-like lawns and shrubs pruned into perfectly-shaped meatballs. These communities all had titles, often with the word “Knoll,” “Pointe,” or “Ridge” in them. There was a “Hidden Oaks,” and they must have been hidden them well for I saw none, which was followed by “Seven Oaks,” but I didn’t stop to count. “Who lives in all these houses?” I said aloud. Who can afford them, and where has the middle-class gone? When did all this happen?!

When did Mom get old?

The reason for my return home was nothing so festive as a family reunion, or so relaxing as a leisurely visit. Mom was in the hospital. Living in that big house where we grew up, alone now since us kids moved out and Dad died, she’d fallen. She laid in the hospital bed, looking much smaller and more frail than I remembered her being when I last saw her right after Christmas. But even now, her strength shone through, and I am proud this amazing woman is my mother. When asked by her children, nurses, or the doctors how she felt, her response was always, “Can’t complain; it does no good.” It’s her creed, and the way she’s lived her life. Faced with an amputation of her leg below the knee, she might have been afraid, but neither cried, nor felt sorry for herself. We shared family stories, laughed, and teased each other instead. Aside from the reason for the visit, and the obvious surroundings, nothing had changed – family is strength, and we had that.

I stayed with my brother although it was much longer drive than staying at Mom’s house would have been; I don’t think I could have handled the silence in the house I remember as holding so much family laughter so long ago. As is my habit at home, I sat on the front porch at dawn, drinking coffee and watching things wake up. My brother mentioned a fox with kits lives in the brush across the road and I was hoping to catch a glimpse of them in the early morning. But something was different – the view had changed from how I last remembered it. I realized I could actually see the brush. There used to be a fifteen foot strip of woods on the edge of his property; a barrier between the yard and the road. Now, only a dozen or so maples remained, and I wondered why he cut down the woods. The answer was found by looking on the other side of the road – the remains of a stand of ashes; skeleton sentinels standing as a stark reminder that this was the area of the state hit first and hardest by the Emerald Ash Borer, a foreign invader which has wiped out millions of ash trees in Michigan and other states. My brother had to take out seventeen dead ashes stricken by this exotic pest. Once I noticed them, I saw dead ashes everywhere on woodland edges during the drive from his house to the hospital.

And I had plenty of drive-time while staying at my brother’s house those couple of weeks. He lives about 45 minutes away from the hospital, down one of the most winding, hilly roads I’ve driven in a long time. It was a pretty drive through woods, farmland, and a couple of sleepy, one-stoplight towns – similar to those drives on that dirt road I barrelled down as a teenager, and same kind scenery I see everyday where I live now. Despite the reason – or maybe because of it – it was the most relaxing part of the day. He asked me the last time we made the drive together before I came home if I was tired of it. Nope – windows and sunroof open, and tunes blaring to drown out my singing, I wasn’t tired of it at all; I enjoyed it.

Leonard – 1 square mile; population 350 – was one of the two one-stoplight towns I passed through each day. A banner stretched across the road announced the upcoming Strawberry Festival in July (at home Shelby and her friend were on the corner selling quarts of strawberries just picked from her friend’s uncle’s farm). The town was a stop on the old Pontiac, Oxford and Northern rail line during railroading’s heyday in the 1800s. The P.O. & N, dubbed the Polly Ann, had been converted “Rails to Trails.” It was the town’s only change that my brother knew had occurred here since he was a kid. The Leonard Market was still there on the corner same as it always was, a big white-washed brick building with wide-planked floors, advertising deli sandwiches, cold pop, milk, bread, and Walt’s Crawlers. I never knew Leonard existed – it was outside the realm of my small childhood kingdom. I never knew my brother had ties to this tiny, little town; his friend Joe’s family owned property there – 40 acres of farmland they dreamed of retiring to one day. My brother spent summer days here, selling field corn for 5 cents an ear from a stand on the road – corn they’d pilfered from the neighboring farmer’s field the night before. I’m sure they knew better – eight-year olds probably don’t know the difference between sweet corn and field corn, but they certainly know better than to snitch corn – or anything else.

The cottonwoods were in bloom while I was there; their fluff flew through the air so thick at times, it seemed like a snowy day in January instead of nearly the beginning of summer. Driving through a fluff-snowstorm, I noticed a sign on the side of the rode: Watch for drifting snow, and it struck me as a funny coincidence. The seasons have changed, but the sign is still accurate. Fluff-drifts flew in a whirlwind as I sped past. It reminded me of the mammoth cottonwood at home in South Haven. Dating back to the Civil War Era, it was a town landmark until a few years ago, when town officials decided it posed a risk to cars parked along the street, and pedestrians walking along the sidewalk. People protested cutting it down. Professional opinions were sought, debated, and in the end, all that remains of the grand old tree is a large “wheel” of its trunk housed in the Historical Society’s building.

One morning, I skipped my usual coffee on the front porch and took a long walk down the country dirt road that my brother’s house is on instead. It was a beautiful walk – everything was still misty and fresh from the night’s rain. Early summer roadside “weeds” bloomed in ditches – ox-eye daisies, hawk-weed and sweet red clover are some of my favorites, and white anemones lit-up darkened areas where trees arched over the road. I saw a mocking bird, recognized a yellow bird to be some type of warbler but gave up trying to identify it; I’m more familiar with the bright yellow gold finches at the feeder at home. A Great Blue Heron flew directly in front of me, up from the flooded ditch as I walked by.

I reflected as I walked. So much had changed since I was a kid, safe and naive in my little slice of small town suburbia. The world is in constant motion; nothing remains the same forever. Battle lines are drawn and wars are fought; boundaries merge, and new countries are developed. The state of the economy changes; long-standing companies file for bankruptcy, and others emerge victorious. Life goes on. Trees die, but new ones grow in their place. People get old, babies are born, children still sell produce from roadside stands, and their parents seek to provide them with a better life then they themselves knew.

Change is inevitable. Some changes are welcomed; some can be fought and reversed. Some are immediate, and others creep up on you gradually and unnoticed, until wham! There they are glaring at you in the face, and you wonder how it all happened. Sometimes you drag your heels, kicking and screaming all the way. There are times though, as Mom says, you “can’t complain; it does no good. Sometimes you’ve just got to flow with the tide, and accept where it takes you.”