From the front stoop to the hoop house is 100 steps, downhill. I am usually carrying something awkward – two full watering cans, a flat of tomato seedlings, a box of dahlia tubers, or a bucket of daffodils for my little farmstand. It’s all I can do to get down there without dropping something or snagging the wayward lichen-covered branch of the oak tree that sprawls across my path.
But when I walk back up the hill (I do this back-and-forth thing at least half a dozen times a day – it’s soothing), my eyes shift downward and scour the ground for tiny wildflowers. Often, I don’t make it all the way to the top without dropping to my knees for a closer look at the magical fairy tale kingdom of Lilliputian plants thriving at my feet.