Yesterday, my family helped my husband and I build a pergola. It’s beautiful, and I only have a few awkward photos, most of which involve the garbage can. It’s red cedar, and small like our little misshapen patch of concrete.
My husband labored over the perfect pergola plans for months. I mean months, ever since we bought the house in November. His grand scheme for the yard is finally beginning to come to fruition. I was getting so annoyed with his obsession over the pergola that I would refuse to look at his pergola design books and his drawings. As an engineer, he knew how to build things. And build something, he did!
A few years ago my parents thrifted the patio furniture for my first grown up apartment. It’s a pretty Parisienne set, at least to an American. Bear and I intend to have a Provencal Potager garden. My father lived in France for some time and I always wanted to visit. So Bear is bringing the French countryside to our backyard.
We will have two rose teuteurs (French trellises) in our tiny garden, as well as two raised vegetable beds made out of red cedar fence pickets so I can have easy access to the garden. In the photo you can see the accessible herb garden, and there will be another on the left side past where we are growing a lemon verbena and a moon garden.
Our backyard is the smallest we’ve ever had, but I wanted it that way. I wanted it to be low maintenance, low stress. But my husband is a civil engineer and knows how to plan spaces. I’m pretty excited about the garden. Does that make me old?