Spring came late this year, and as I knelt in my garden digging up the first weeds of the season, a friend stopped by and looked quizzically at my work. “I have no idea what you’re doing,” she said. “I grew up in Jersey City.”

I’m not sure what I’m doing, either, but I’m giving it my all.

The andromeda alongside my front steps mysteriously died over the winter. I’m not sure how I killed this little plant with fiery leaves and drooping bundled blossoms, but I feel guilty about it. I blame heavy March snow for splitting the trunk of my miniature weeping maple, the showpiece of my front yard. I’ve been told it’s dead, but it looks alive to me.

I am winging it here, filling flowerpots with annuals and pruning the forsythia back to within an inch of its life. Come fall, I will bury a few daffodil bulbs and hope for the best.

Many of us move from the city to the suburbs for the open space. We imagine throwing a ball on a thick bed of grass, or drinking lemonade on a wraparound porch overlooking lush rhododendrons and peonies. But someone has to plant, mulch and prune all that foliage. For those of us who did not grow up digging in the dirt, but want to give it a try, the prospect can be intimidating.