Spring 2022

Last issue, I pondered this cover image from the very first issue of GREENPRINTS, Spring 1990 and wrote, “I like to think of that hand as mine, and the seedling this magazine as a baby tree. The hand has aged in 32 years, but the tree is in its prime, ready to grow for years to come.”  READ MORE

Cathy Gornick: A retired teacher’s aide from New Hartford, NY, she’s cherished forget-me-nots since childhood. They still make her smile.

Ellyn Siegel: After years on the East Coast, CA’s Ellyn is thrilled to now have a garden year-round. Her work appeared in Issue 127.  READ MORE

As I get older, I look back on my childhood and all the outdoor adventures my siblings and I were so fortunate to share. We were able to ramble and explore the woods and fields near our home, and one of my fondest memories brings me to my first love of flowers.  READ MORE

I’m looking for a Boyfriend Plant,” I say to the tall, handsome nursery worker who asks if he can help me. I’d been checking him out for about a month now—no wedding ring in sight—and finally got up the nerve to make an attempt at flirting.  READ MORE

As an urban child, I had never seen a cultivated garden. The closest thing I knew to one was a circular patch of dirt, bordered by a concrete curbstone, in the middle of the inner courtyard of our apartment building. It was planted with a half-dozen untrimmed privet bushes.  READ MORE

Highland Lake Inn in Flat Rock, North Carolina, was built as a private home in 1845 and named Solitude. It has shed many identities, lodged its share of famous people (like Joanne Woodward), and harbored its share of spirits on its way to becoming officially “historic.”  READ MORE

When, aged 40, I had my youngest son, I was considered an “older mother” (nowadays I would have to be another decade along to qualify), and the birth was considered somewhat risky. After it was successfully achieved, no first mother could have been more awed or elated.  READ MORE

The year was 1962. My dad and I were standing on our front lawn. Arms crossed, he surveyed the scene before him, a grim look on his face. “These weeds are a menace,” he pronounced, as if our front yard had become the beachhead for a botanical invasion.  READ MORE

Scientists—who have a tendency to stomp the poetry out of any experience—now know what makes the garden smell so luscious after a rain.  READ MORE

Snags are dead trees left standing, which is the way of the world in the woods, but not in the American landscape, where imitation of Disney World plant sculptures is the desired ideal (until the homeowner finds out how much work it is to maintain a topiary of Uncle Scrooge).  READ MORE

Lounging on the deck, I watched the sun sink behind the spruce trees in the western sky. My mind was racing with thoughts. Why didn’t he tell me? We’d become such good friends. Was it that difficult? Why didn’t he tell me?  READ MORE

I was a bunny-loving little girl. Every night—without fail—my mother would read me the Runaway Bunny or Beatrix Potter’s The Tale of Peter Rabbit. Since I had an older sister who was allergic to furry animals, the only cuddly creatures I could enjoy were in books.  READ MORE

I was 9-1/2 years old in April, 1970 when my family moved from our two-bedroom home on a tiny city lot to a brick foursquare on three acres of land. It was a compromise between my urban-raised Dad and my farm-raised Mom.  READ MORE

It’s been nine years since my husband, Marty, and I relocated to Towamensing Trails, here in the Pocono Mountains, and we have enjoyed observing nature’s wonders from our little clearing in the woods. All sorts of critters pass by our windows—from territorial hummingbirds in Spring to antlered bucks in Fall.  READ MORE

My favorite Spring garden ritual is starting my tomato seeds. In late March, I fill ten little pots with a mixture of peat and earth-scented compost. Then I press down the spongy stuff and poke a hole in the middle of each pot, loving the feel of the dark fluff, even the bits that stay under my fingernails.  READ MORE

Pruners in hand, I stood below the massive holly tree and stared up at the mishmash of green berries and pointy glossy leaves shooting from the thick, vertical canes of the dreaded Himalayan blackberry plant.  READ MORE