It’s been a diary of memories and mental notes, of my grandmother’s gardens, and my mother’s gardens, the gardens of family friends

Something about the simplicity of the wood in its natural state. As if there was no stain, no varnish, no layers. Naked and beautiful.

It was the idea of texture that started it all

The shed was nearly buried by overgrown grasses, fallen branches, a rusting horse trailer, and a slapped-together, bent-wire dog run.