By MAUREEN GILMER, Scripps Howard News Service

Over a century ago, somewhere on the American Great Plains, an immigrant family sat huddled in their sod home as the snow fell outside. Their single-room dwelling made out of bricks of grass sod peeled from the surface of the heartland offered little to brighten their sparse Christmas fare.

Small trees are powerful design tools that anyone can use. Whether it's a white star magnolia in spring, a magenta crepe myrtle in summer or a fiery Japanese maple in the fall, small trees are always exquisite in the landscape. They are not planted for shade like the great oaks or sycamores. Small trees act like bright, beautiful arrows that point out and accentuate landmarks in your yard.

A World War II veteran asked me to design a memorial for his fallen brothers in our local park. I could see in Jack's eyes a great sadness because so many didn't make it home, while he himself was lucky.

Patrick is the sole survivor of his Vietnam War platoon, and to this day, he struggles under a mountain of guilt that only he made it out alive.

In states with mild climates, a garden doesn't go to bed for the winter, it simply changes character. By Thanksgiving, the beds and borders are filled with plants that crave cooler temperatures. Try to grow these same plants in summer and they'll promptly wilt or become infested with wooly aphids.

I awoke in the dark of night to the sound of flapping wings and something sizable flying around and around my bedroom. "There's a bat in here," my husband said in a half-muffled voice from the bathroom. I recalled I'd gotten up earlier to let the dog out and left the front door ajar. One of our resident bats had come calling.

As a horticulture student, learning to identify trees was a real challenge. Sure, some were easy to spot, like the ginkgo with its unique fan-shaped leaves. But whole groups of trees, such as needled evergreens, can differ by such minute, subtle variations that they're particularly tough to point out.

Old trees can transform a neighborhood into glorious woodland. However, those who live in our country's wonderful older suburbs know mature trees make growing bulbs like tulips basically impossible. Rather than lament this fact, consider a different approach to bulbs that is compatible with street trees, tree groves, natural woodlands and even wild-land forest.

Over a century ago, the Industrial Revolution changed the American landscape. The rise of our great manufacturing empire lured poor, struggling farmers to the city to take jobs in factories. In coming to the city, they carried with them the knowledge of how to grow their own food, and many of them began tiny gardens filled with basil and tomatoes and oregano.

I now know you can't judge a book by its cover. I almost managed to overlook my review copy of "Backyard Medicine" by Julie Bruton-Seal and Matthew Seal (Skyhorse Publishing, 2009); however, one evening I sat down to give it a look and was pleasantly surprised to discover a first-class read.

In the driest years in the California foothills, western-redbud leaves change late in the summer. Their beautiful rounded leaves take on tones of a smoky sunset, much like the color of evening skies during fire season. These small trees with their many trunks become vivid fountains of the wild, the only bright spot in seas of gray-green chaparral.