Ruins you could live in

In the days before camera phones, I rented a one-bedroom apartment in an old rowhouse with an overgrown backyard by Barter’s Hill. I don’t mean it had untended grass. I mean it was a jungle of knotweed. A full-on Here be Rhubarb Monsters kind of wilderness.

My thing started with a desire just to clear the back deck so I could have a little fresh air stoop to sit on. I picked up a set of gardening shears at Templeton’s on Water Street and chopped away at the knotweed. Each morning I sat on that cleared stoop to drink my coffee, I’d survey the wild growth and pick out another spot I could clear away. By the time summer came around, the yard was cleared out and I had put a little patio swing in there.