As a long-time renter, I often fantasized having my own garden; three seasons of bloom, a symphony of blossoms and butterflies. In winter, the snow would rest like lace on the dried stems and flowers. I did not allow the small discouragement, known as reality, to dissuade me from believing in my perfect garden. When my husband and I finally bought our little bungalow, I approached the garden with trowel in one hand, seed packets in the other, only to discover beneath the neat landscape, sheets of heavy plastic which, meant to foil weeds, would certainly deter my cottage garden, the one I had dreamt of for so long; foxgloves, hollyhocks, and herbs dropping their seeds to the ground in a perpetual rhythm of death and rebirth. My vision of sinking my (gloved) hands into the fertile earth was replaced by the sharp reality of scissors and shears, the sweat-inducing labor of removing heavy layers of mulch-covered plastic sheeting anchored to the ground by metal prongs. It took years to unearth all that plastic. I found an entire fern garden one spring; the fiddleheads in fetal curls unfurled their lovely fronds beneath the sun. The anemic bouquet of Black Eyed…