FEATURES

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The only architectural changes my mother has made to her house over the years have had to do with creating the best view for her garden—installing bay windows in the living room and library and French doors in the dining room. From those windows she can see the pools of daffodils she has planted—75,000 bulbs—and her groupings of 30 or 40 white azaleas. Our house was built for Secretary of State Elihu Root in 1904 by Carrère and Hastings, who built the New York Public Library. Its broad front facade matches a 1905 picture postcard of it.

The garden has grown slowly. There was no one spring when she put it all in. It was there at my debut party in August of 1969—a friend of a friend lost her mother's diamond earring somewhere in it, and a friend of my brother's was found there in the morning totally inebriated, inert as a fallen tree limb.

Most of the flowers and shrubs have been added to over time, as have the trees—cherries, Cornus kousas, Japanese maples and many things that have been "plop" planted, like gifts from a friend that stay where you put them. (Many are gifts from friends.) Paths have been expanded, the bittersweet has been cut back and resting stops have been put into place. Statuary has also been added—pieces my mother couldn't help buying from Barbara Israel at the Winter Antiques Show or from a New Orleans auction house catalogue. (She grew up in New Orleans.) She has made a pond, too, filled with large koi.

Every year when April turns to May my mother has a party in honor of her garden, the Daffodil Party. Although weather forecasters could take their tips from this event—it's always bad weather—the party has become a ritual of spring and friendship. It used to be called the Daffodil Lunch, where guests were made to sit outside under a drafty tent and freeze, no matter how many shawls they brought.