It's hard to believe that the garden is really mine. I have been hankering after a larger piece of earth to call my own for quite some time now, and as I look out onto the bowl-shaped garden,  I am fairly giddy as I mutter to myself & sketch phantom flower beds with my hands. "Penstemon 'Apple Blossom' over there, beside the Abraham Darby rose," I gesture, "And the Viburnum opulus 'Roseum' over there, above the native lupines & poppies." I must look like a crazy lady to the neighbors.

I have a plant crush on v. o. 'Roseum, which grows 10-12 ft high, with a graceful, rounded form and masses of snowball-like flowers, creamy white tinged with a rosy flush. Strong arching branches with brilliant crimson sugar maple-shaped leaves in fall. It is a delightfully old-fashioned plant, reminiscent of Victorian ladies' nosegays. I've planted mine at the top of the bowl looking into the garden, like a benevolent old governess, benignly nodding over her charges.  I can't wait to line jam jars full of them on my kitchen windowsill.

We're dealing with exceedingly poor soil up here in the Zayante sandhills. We have been amending things like crazy but the sandy soil seems to be sucking in organic matter by the wheelbarrow load and spitting back streams of dust. It's a little discouraging. I'm going to be relying heavily on the native salvias, buckeyes & the fabulous  California fuchsia (Zauschesneria californica)  to get things started out there, as well as lashings of compost & leaf mulch purloined from the wildy bits on the edge of the property.