My husband, Walter, and I go on weekend adventures to peel the stress of daily life and this abysmal economy. During one jaunt, we found ourselves in an antique garden in Sutter Creek probing the curious display of metal chairs the size of matchbox. It inspired a new hobby – miniature gardening.

A miniature gardener is happy and silly. In pursuit of this absolutely useless endeavor, I scoured nurseries for dwarf-leafed plants that stay small, gently scraped mosses from cracks and crevices and endlessly shopped online for whimsical garden furniture and accessories.

My backyard is now a refuge for mythical creatures. Inside an heirloom birdcage, nymphs dine on fanciful white bistro bedecked with silver teapot on a tray sheltered by Boston ferns, baby tears and succulents. Giant mushrooms shroud a mossy path where gnomes meander amidst frogs and snails before fading behind a keyed red door perched on gnarled roots of a mature redwood.

Tiny earthen footprints lead to where fairies rest on a bench watching splatters from a birdbath or ride a bike whilst savoring wee vegetables grown in a fenced plot guarded by a thumb-size copper-wire scarecrow dressed in overalls, straw hat and green rubber boots.

Pass the pixie dust.

– Contributed by Cynthia Ruehlig