When I first moved down from Barrow to Anchorage and realized the size of the yard for which I was responsible, I panicked a little. In Barrow, being responsible for a yard meant making sure the dead car, two partial skidoos and sundry pieces of what once had been an ATM were neatly stacked. In Anchorage, it was clear that maintaining a yard would involve green living things.
A friend assured me that as time went by I would become more and more comfortable with my yard, until I reached the point where I couldn’t wait for spring to arrive