One evening last August, as four salmon steaks marinated in olive oil and herbs, I slipped outside and into my raised-bed garden in upstate New York. I snipped lettuce, pulled green beans, and gathered four plump red tomatoes that came off the stems with the gentlest tug.

Before returning to the house, I paused beside the bed I’d designated my pollinator garden and took in the bright pink zinnias, wild yellow marigolds, purple asters, and other flowers grown from seed. 

It was a moment of pride, especially because my modest success followed decades of not gardening while living in city apartments. But in 2020, COVID hit. My husband, our two children, and I were trapped in a New York City rental apartment for months. When our lease expired, we were desperate to leave the city, though we had no car and little sense of where to go.

I had once attended parties in Woodstock and loved its fresh air, funky shops, and forests. There was an artists’ colony nearby where I could take up residence (I’ve published eight novels.) 

Done: We found a farmhouse for rent. We bought a car and bolted from the city.

“I’m going to have a garden!” I announced on the drive north. My husband did a double-take. He had occasionally teased me about my missing green thumb. But everything was becoming possible, right?

Maybe not. I soon heard a harsh term for newcomers fleeing the city for the Hudson Valley: “citidiot,” a portmanteau of “city” and “idiot.” 

In our first weeks, my husband and I asked:


• “What is that strange humming sound at twilight?” A frog chorus.


• “Where are the streetlights?” They just don’t have many here. 


• “Why is that man on all fours in the trees?” It’s a black bear.

Looking back now, these qualify as citidiot questions and didn’t bode well for my outdoor endeavors. But we were excited and undaunted.

My first gardening foray? I bought four begonias, planted them a few feet from the porch, and enjoyed two weeks of happiness. Then one morning, all the flowers had disappeared, leaving only ragged stems. It was probably deer. It’s hard to keep any size garden in Woodstock unless it’s fenced. I retreated to clay pots on the porch.

We later moved to a house that came with a fenced raised-bed garden. Tomatoes dominated the already planted garden, just as they had in my dad’s vegetable patch when I was a kid in Michigan. My life had come full circle!

I was trying to go from 0 to 60 with a medium-sized garden, but I didn’t realize it for a while. After moving there in August, I tended what someone else had begun. It was like grabbing a baton in a relay. I nurtured tomatoes, peppers, and beans, making marinara, salads, side dishes, and salsa from the harvest.

The following year, it was my turn. I bought books and scoured websites, choosing “easy” crops and flowers. The lessons came hard and fast. Lettuce overgrew. Cucumbers rotted. Carrots were yanked too soon. The flowers stopped flowering. I tied my tomatoes to so many stakes and poles that they resembled dominatrix clients. Only the strawberries and pole beans flourished. 

It dawned on me that what was called for was just… more. I wasn’t weeding, pruning, fertilizing, or watering enough. I had taken a too laissez-faire attitude. I felt as if “I’ve put these seeds and plants in rich soil — there’s good sun here and enough rain — nature will take care of it all.” But my garden needed more TLC.

With a demanding job and two children at home, I developed some buyer’s remorse. I don’t have time for this. My breakthrough came when I discovered this garden didn’t require endless hours. On weekdays, half an hour in the morning and another in the evening made a difference. I learned when to double down on weeding, how much to prune, and when to sprinkle plant food. I delegated the hose to my willing son.

I kept gardening through mistakes. I forgave myself and started again. And again.

Is everything wonderful now? No. Last summer, nocturnal invaders penetrated the fence to devour my green beans — once my sure victory! — before they could climb. On a nursery’s advice, I bought a “natural” repellent meant to deter mammals. The problem: Hey, I’m a mammal too. The smell was so stomach-turning, I dreaded this twilight ritual.

Maybe a night-time camera stationed in the garden will provide learnings I can use? We’ll see.

A garden is a treasure, but I know now that it brings challenges. You don’t solve it and achieve perfection. You pay attention — and keep going. It’s worth it.