Granny Moss: The Roots Beneath It All

Before Moss Mom Gardens had a name, there was my mom.

Around here, we call her Granny Moss—the original forager, gardener, healer, and heart behind it all.

She taught me the names of plants and what they’re good for—

which ones you can eat, which ones to steep for tea,

which ones carry stories older than us both.

She showed me how to garden, how to can, how to keep a pantry like a prayer of preparation.

She had a gift with animals—not just pets, but wild strays, baby birds, and backyard wanderers.

She could find four-leaf clovers in endless fields like it was a superpower.

Maybe it is.

She found treasure in what most people overlooked—

magical ringed beach stones, empty nests, tiny thimbles, chipped ceramic cats in thrift store corners.

She saw value in forgotten things and dignity in the worn and weathered.

She also gave me the treasure of words—nursery rhymes, fairy tales, and Seussical rhymes read aloud in soft voices and funny ones.

She planted the love of language in me before I even knew it was growing.

And on May Day, she taught me something magical.

We’d gather flowers from the yard—freesia, lilacs, anything blooming—

bundle them with ribbon or string,

leave them on someone’s doorstep,

knock,

and run.

Not for praise.

Just for joy.

A tiny, fragrant spell of kindness.

So mom, this is for you!

Because Granny Moss is still with me—in every tiny garden I make.

In every mossy breath, every curled fern frond, every soft and sacred foraged thing.

She taught me to see the magic in the everyday.

And that’s the heart of everything I create.