years ago, I’d visited her often. She had mentioned Dream-by-the-Sea and said she had let it go to seed. She had described it in great detail. The English garden was overgrown, the flagstone walkways were covered with moss, and the clematis vines were climbing up the white-stone walls and choking the triple-edged moldings. No one wanted to rent it and deal with the mold and mildew. Would I like to take care of it? Would I? Yes. I promised her that I would fix it up to become the jewel it was intended to be. She rented it to me for a song.
As a gardener, I understood the property’s potential. As an amateur photographer, I adored the light streaming through the trees. As a Carmelian... or was it Carmelite? Hmm. The latter was a religious order or type of nun. What did we call ourselves? It didn’t matter. As a native of Carmel, I appreciated the history of this particular cottage. Ansel Adams was one of my heroes; his student had been nearly as talented.
When I first moved in, I tackled the front garden, trimming the geraniums and lavender to within an inch of their lives. The larkspur had been tricky, but it had grown back after a decent thinning. The catmint, although a dry weather plant, was rampant. How I loved the aroma. In addition, I planted more delphiniums and blue-themed plants to go with the cottage’s periwinkle blue front door. I also decorated the front porch with a verdigris plant stand set with a variety of herbs, and I hung a few wind chimes—like fairies, I loved the sound of chimes and bells—plus I added a weather-resistant mission slat rocking chair. On occasion, I sat in it and watched neighbors pass by. I hadn’t tackled the backyard yet, though I had trimmed all of the plants that were touching the patio and had cleaned away the moss and algae. It was a work in progress. So far, I’d set out three fairy gardens. I wanted to place one in every nook and cranny to create places where Fiona and her friends, when the queen fairy allowed her to have some, could gather. Not all fairies lived in gardens. Some built their nesting spots in trees and vines.
Tonight, however, I wasn’t in the mood to tinker with the front or rear garden, not with the fog creeping in and not with all I had to do. Neither was I in the mood to blog about fairy gardens, which I did at least twice a week. Instead, I focused on the series of how-to videos that I intended to air on YouTube. I believed that if I could virally engage a larger audience, I might grow the business. At some point, I could even offer online workshops. But I had yet to make my first video.
After feeding Pixie and eating a cup of homemade minestrone—I’d made a pot a few days ago that would last me a week—I sauntered into the living room to flesh out my ideas for the first video. I wanted to demonstrate, step-by-step, how to make a modest fairy garden.
I moved around the room reciting what I wanted to say and imagining the items I would need: soil, succulents, ferns, maybe a miniature white gazebo and picket fence. I would add one of my favorite fairies, the kneeling girl with pink-painted wings and an angelic face. I didn’t want the presentation to be difficult beyond belief, but I wanted the fairy gardener to feel challenged.
Pixie, intrigued by the fact that I wasn’t lazing in the reading chair drinking in one of the many books in my to-be-read pile, leaped from footstool to footstool to take in my spiel.
Rounding the ocean-blue love seat, I pondered whether I would need to hire a professional photographer when I was ready to go. A steady video camera wouldn’t allow me to do close-ups, which my viewers would probably appreciate.
Making a mental note to explore that option, I settled at the antique desk beside the window and jotted down my script and a video setup to-do list, after which I networked on my laptop computer with a few other fairy garden builders in the Fairy Garden Girls Dig It chat room. We were a welcoming community and often discussed our designs.
Around two a.m., realizing I’d lost track of time, I exited the chat, slogged to the bathroom, did my ablutions, and wriggled into my footed cat-themed pajamas. Carmel could get cold