I've been on a bit of an Updike kick since he died. These are the writers I admire the most: the ones who leave behind an astonishing assortment of novels, essays, poetry collections, New Yorker articles, and the like.
So I picked up his 1997 novel Toward the End of Time at the library. It's not for everyone; it's the rambling thoughts of a dirty old man in the year 2020, after the United States has sunk into a decline brought about by war with China and a general collapse of the government and financial system.
I mean, how far-fetched is that?
But the great thing about this novel is that the protagonist's wife is a serious, hard-core gardener. While he shuffles around the house wondering whether a man his age would still have the sexual potency to make it with his daughter-in-law, she is outside vigorously going after the deer and moving forsythia bushes around the landscape. Updike is all about the details, and he really nails this garden.
I submit the following for your consideration: