Small hidden nooks, where only a blossom or two grow, or vast sweeping expanses of lawns, like the one at Hanbury in England (pictured below right.) It doesn't matter. As long as there are trees, green, growing things, particularly roses, a breeze through the leaves, and the smell of rich loam, I'm content.

When I was a child, I used to love to lie in the grass and watch the clouds go by. Most often I'd have a book with me and the memories of lazy summer afternoons, the scent of freshly-mown grass, and hot sun remains a constant.

At one time, we lived in the Atacama Desert, said to be the driest on earth, where the soil is so rich in nitrate, a natural fertilizer, that nothing will grow. Contrast the lush greenery of the garden photos with the landscape of the desert and you'll see why people craved greenery. My mother had soil imported and persisted and eventually had a very respectable garden. She had a small patio leading to the front door and pride of place was given to the white bench enclosing a pepper tree. That was another favorite place. The windbreak closed off the fierce winds, the sun was warm and the carnations fragrant. The private garden was a wonderful place to read, to dream, to exchange confidences -- and later, when I was a little older, to share a goodnight kiss.

When I was first married, and living in Arizona, I wanted roses. So I planted them, dreaming of lush blooms, vibrant color and masses of petals for potpourri. Well, dreams were more real than reality, and I got nowhere. However, years later, living in Scotland, we rented a house with the most marvelous garden. Lawns, a rose garden, lilacs, flower beds, vegetables and a view beyond anything. I learned my first real skills there, thanks to the generous rose grower across the street. Though the gardens were too large for me to keep up on my own, I enjoyed every single minute I spent in it.

When we returned to Arizona from Europe, I tried gardening again, but without much success. Other gardeners have made oases in the desert, but for me, even the lantana refused to grow. I did better to admire the cactus and leave it at that.

We spent many years living in the Santa Cruz mountains, surrounded by redwoods, oak and madrone. The soil was rocky and not particularly good to begin with, but over time I managed to coax various gardens to grow. Gophers loved my efforts, and rewarded me by moving in, whole families and all the relatives. I grew fruit, vegetables, roses, lots of weeds which one of my horticulturally-minded friends was kind enough to label "Native American grasses." I had a lovely, full weeping willow at the bottom of the garden which survived drought and many years of children and dogs until we had a very cold winter and it succumbed. I mourned that tree! My Chinese elm continues to shade the house though I no longer live there. Wherever I am, though, I must have trees.

Over the years, I've seen gardens I'd kill for. English cottage gardens, with hollyhocks and perennials blooming lushly. Stately topiary gardens, water gardens Monet would have loved to paint, city gardens, formal ones and fragrant rose gardens -- particularly if they have the old roses, bright geraniums spilling from a window box...

What does all this have to do with books, you ask? Well, I could create a fantasy in which I am inspired to write beautiful prose while tending my tomato plants, but that would be purple prose. Taking a book, sometimes even research material, out with me while I watch my grandsons play in the yard is more my speed, but I have to admit that there is nothing like seeing the seeds and bedding plants I planted come into fruition. The tomatoes are so heavy on the vine they are bending the supports. The herbs are doing well, particularly the basil. The fuchsia spreads a gentle pink, mauve and white canopy against the white stucco. The kids' pumpkins are bright orange globes among the leaves.

It would be nice to have a front porch, or a verandah, to sit and swing and stare at the Pacific, but since I'm not living at the beach, I'll enjoy the back yard. I lie there in the grass with my grandsons, and we watch the clouds overhead. Sometimes we see dinosaurs, sometimes we see flowers. Sometimes we read a book in the summer sun until the heat makes us drowsy. I love a garden. Especially now that the soil is rich, the weather temperate and the plants lush and healthy.

I am content.