OUT IN THE GARDEN

Plantsman Riddle unfolds the leisurely story of his garden’s evolution—both in his mind and on the ground—in a honeyed, but never cloying, voice.

Elements of memoir creep into his tale as persistently as the local volunteers who creep into his garden to soften and warm what otherwise is a history of the small garden at Riddle’s Catskill home. He provides enough background material to give readers a fair image of himself, but it is his garden that gets the lion’s share of attention. Riddle has a horticultural background—he studied it in college and spent a year in England at Hillier’s; he writes a magazine garden column for Elle Décor; and he admits to a phase of garden snobbery: “Had you been so bold as to suggest that my future garden would include beanpoles, a birdbath, and a rubber tire planter, I would have lost my sense of humor, called you feebleminded, and pitched a fit.” Of course, he loosens his corset, and they all make it into his modest garden, not as campy gestures but as endearments, and end up working for him and the space. Riddle discusses his influences, from Rosemary Verey to Russell Page; his experimentation with annuals; his use of understatement to create intimacy and charm; and the garden features—beckoning rather than overwhelming—that form a group portrait of his family and the friends who have died from AIDS. Earthbound details slow the going at times, but the sheer amount of thinking and doing will forewarn prospective gardeners of the commitment they must make to realize even a fraction of their desires.

Riddle pays gardeners a high compliment: He makes you eager to get out in the garden, fill your hands with dirt, and grab the weeder with relish.