OK, I admit it. I'm a sucker for the gardening catalogs that come around at this time of the year. It's timed so well. After the holidays, I'm so over having to travel and do what other people want me to do (no, it's not that bad) that planning next year's garden seems like such a grand, selfish, home-and-therefore-me type of gesture.
And I'm not a committed gardener, by any means. I'm more of the sort that puts forth an effort at the beginning of the season and then sits back to see what happens. I don't tweak and do lots of dead-heading, although I will weed (if for nothing else than to save me the trouble of getting the damn things out when they get big and unruly). No, I like to walk out in the mornings when I take the dog out first thing and see what's changed since the last time I've looked. That's one of the best things about gardening for me, to see this progression of flower to seed, to experience smell and color like nothing else in nature.
So I will gleefully look through the catalogs and plan and scheme about plant selection and placement. I will make a mental list that contains enough plants to cover a garden five times the one I've got, and end up buying different stuff at my local garden center anyway. It's all about hope, I guess. Hope for the next season.