IT IS THE twilight of the season. Outside, apricot-brown oak leaves glow in the morning sunlight, while pale yellow discs of cottonwood fall in great swirls, a round of carpet on the frosted lawn. This is my garden, one which germinated within me, naturally, as a wee child; fascinated by the beauty of plants. How many of us remember Grandma’s kitchen window ledges, and the wonders there? My grandma grew African violets, and even before I could speak I would stand, mesmerized, and stare at them.