Owen Hartley is a US-based writer who covers gardens, backyards, and old houses, and the things families keep in them long after they’ve stopped being useful.
He writes about the cast-iron pan that’s been in three kitchens, the workbench nobody wants to clear out, the rosebush someone planted before the kids were born. He also writes about animals: the family dog, the barn cat, and the strays that show up on the porch and quietly move in.
Every summer my grandmother carried the same box turtle across the road by her garden, sometimes three times in one week, always in the direction it was already walking. She insisted she wasn’t rescuing anyone, just giving a neighbor a ride. These 9 animal rescue stories started in ordinary backyards, and most of the rescuers say the same thing she did.
Every October I drive six hours to my grandmother’s, and I time it so the last hour runs through the hills at peak color. She never asks how the drive was, only how the trees were, so I have learned to pull over and take a picture. These 18 leaf-peeping photos made other people pull over too.
When I volunteered at an animal shelter in high school, the last cage in the row usually held a black cat, and its card always showed the most days. People said black cats looked bad in photos, and I never believed it. These 12 black cats waited longer than they should have at the shelter, until someone finally looked twice.
My first apartment came with a backyard that was mostly gravel and one stubborn dandelion. I put three tomato plants in buckets, and not one of them made it to August. Every backyard garden has an ugly first year. These 13 gardeners started with bare dirt, sand or a weedy slope, and ended up with the yard their neighbors slow down for.
The week I moved into my first apartment, my grandmother handed me the chipped yellow bowl I used to hold for her tomatoes every August. She said she had another one. She didn’t. A bowl like that remembers more than any photo album. These 14 kitchen heirlooms, from a cast-iron skillet to a stained recipe card, have outlived the kitchens they started in, and their families still cook with them.
My grandmother had a rule: any stray who showed up on her porch three days in a row had picked us, not the other way around. I thought it was a joke until a gray tabby started sleeping on her porch swing the August I helped with her tomatoes. Nobody in these 12 stories was planning on a new pet. These stray cats and dogs decided for them.
When I was nine, I planted an acorn in a yogurt cup at my grandmother’s, and she moved it to her backyard fence, where it wouldn’t argue with the tomatoes. Every October, along with the frost report, she tells me how much taller than her roof it has gotten. Tree planting is the slowest kind of gardening I know. These 13 trees started just as small, and somebody kept the photos.
Every October my grandmother calls me the night the forecast says frost, and the next morning she calls again to report how many green tomatoes she carried inside. Last year it was 41, lined up on a newspaper along her windowsill. These 12 gardeners raced the first frost the same way, and not all of them won.
