I come from a long line of women who heed the call of the wild -- and the free.

Let’s face it, there’s no reason we couldn’t admire a flower and head to the garden center and purchase it like respectable people. But that does not make for a very exciting story.

A few years ago, I had an experience that greatly reduced my blossom burglaring. My husband and I were living near the Presidio Naval Base in San Francisco. At the time the former officers’ housing was vacant and the charming brick homes with million-dollar views lay abandoned -- along with their gardens. Even an amateur like me could appreciate how beautiful these gardens must have been in their prime. Through the weeds and rambling vines I could picture a woman nursing the beds, pruning and gently cluck-clucking. We’re talking gorgeous heritage roses, heavenly perfumed tea roses, jungle-like thickets of calla lilies and birds of paradise, and every flavor of daffodil and hyacinth. All deserted and all alone! You see where this is going. I would walk through the yards, my bag stuffed with garden tools, and get lost in the reverie of gardening. Following that adage that the more you clip roses, the more flowers they produce, I did my duty to keep those rosebushes busy. I didn’t just pick flowers; I pruned, divided and shaped. This garden was no longer homeless -- it was mine.