In July 2017, when we first laid eyes on this house, we knew instantly that it had a lot of problems, inside and out. But the asking price was relatively low, and we had skills. Tom thought he could deal with the inside issues, and I thought I could deal with the outside issues, so we took the plunge.

Most of the yards in this neighborhood are tiny, but this one was comparatively large, with a south-facing front and a shady back. But it was in dreadful condition, especially the backyard, which was a barren waste littered with dog droppings. Yesterday I went back to look at the real estate photos, and they were just as hideous as I remembered--bare dirt, weedy tufts, trash strewn along the fence line. It was an eyesore.

When I was outside in the drizzle yesterday, tucking transplanted bits of sweet woodruff, Japanese grass, and miniature iris among the maple roots before the heavier rains rolled in, I thought about the ugly yard I'd first seen eight years ago. There's stil so much to do on this place, inside and out, and of course the plantings aren't close to maturity yet. Yet instead of a grim wasteland, there's the promise of arbor. Pale woodruff blossoms shimmer against the grass. Viburnum and smoke bush and Japanese maple unfurl their tender leaves. A clematis climbs a trellis. Chairs gather. A clothesline drips with rain.

Once this place was charmless. Now it has a quirky, homemade, unfinished beauty. It is enthusiastic and imperfect, and it looks exactly like something made by me.