Christy, the Gardener
Shoes: Tall National Park wellies (possibly spider-infested).
Tea, English Breakfast, splash of milk, dash of sugar
Coffee, black with 1 Splenda and Half & Half
Christy is equal parts wildflower soul and determined weed-puller. Her garden is her sanctuary – a little wild, a little wonky, and full of heart. She fears her boots (spiders!) but wears them anyway, leaves tools and gloves where they fall, and believes every dead plant is just a space waiting for something wonderful.
By day, she sips tea and coffee. By evening, it’s a well-earned glass of prosecco in her favorite egg chair.
Known for: Talking to birds like they’re old friends, rearranging her entire garden layout on a whim, and accidentally overwintering six spades. Don’t worry, she will find them in the spring.
Dave, the Husband
Energy: 1,000 squirrels at once.
Dave has never met a rose bush he didn’t hate or a yard waste bin he couldn’t fill. He is helpful to a fault, loyal to the compost system, and the proud builder of Hagrid’s Board Game Café and Hagrid’s Garden Hut. He doesn’t know the difference between a plant and a weed, but he’s always willing to give it a go.
Known for: Zooming through the garden carrying various camping supplies, and enthusiastically maintaining the irrigation system that his wife is always shoveling through. He hates weed-eating and loves his Seahawks flag.
☕ Mildred Witherspoon (Gnome)
Tea: Splash of milk, one sugar.
The benevolent queen of the garden and unofficial mayor of the compost heap. Mildred is grandmotherly, generous with advice, and wields her trowel like a scepter. She adores rabbits (especially the wild one who visits at dusk) and loathes moles with the fury of a thousand overturned petunias. If you cross her, she will correct you – gently, but unmistakably.
Known for: Mistaking salt for sugar in cookies, rescuing earthworms from sidewalks, and her signature glare that could wilt a weed.
☕ Gerald Witherspoon
Coffee: Black with a heavy dose of sarcasm.
Mildred’s husband of 52 mostly-contented years. Grumbly by default, handy by design. He pretends to hate the garden but knows every plant by name (including the Latin ones). He’s the muscle behind the mulch and the brains behind the rainwater harvesting system.
Known for: Mumbling through compliments, fixing anything with baling twine, and muttering, “This is ridiculous,” while clearly enjoying himself.
☂️ Mr. Carson, the Outdoor Butler
Umbrella: Always open, even in the sun.
Stoic. Long-suffering. Eternally scandalized. A frog. Mr. Carson was once an indoor butler of great dignity, but now finds himself tragically stationed in the garden, an indignity he bears with theatrical sighs and muttered laments.
Known for: Dusting begonias, scolding the wind, and being menaced by Gandalf the dog.
🐾 Gandalf the Mini-Aussie
Attitude: Trickster wizard in a dog’s body.
A whirlwind of fur and cleverness. Gandalf views the garden as his stage and Mr. Carson as his nemesis. His hobbies include hiding gloves, chasing butterflies, and stealing the spotlight.
Known for: Ringing the garden bell for no reason and absolutely hating the leaf blower.
Charlie passed away in the Fall of 2025 at the age of 13. Rest in peace, sweet boy.
🐕🦺 Charlie the Elder
Status: Retired, opinionated.
Charlie barks. That’s it. That’s the bit. Nobody knows why. Nobody remembers when he started. But it’s tradition now. He is wise, slow, and likely the true mastermind of the entire operation. Like our intrepid gardener, he has bad knees and hates the cold.
Known for: Barking at clouds, napping under the same tree every day, and scaring off moles with a single snore.
🐉 Norbert the Dragon
Location: Always overhead.
Perched atop Hagrid’s Board Game Cafe, Norbert watches over the garden and the adjacent Hagrid’s Garden Hut. He does not move. He does not blink. He is rumored to be animatronic… but we don’t talk about it.
Known for: Guarding the dice tower, scaring away pigeons, and occasionally “breathing smoke” (courtesy of Gerald’s custom fog machine).
🪱 The Steves
Residence: Tiered compost bin
A wriggling collective of vermicomposting worms, all mysteriously named Steve. No one knows how many of them there are- possibly four, possibly forty-two, or forty-two thousand. What is known: they are picky eaters (no citrus, ever), deeply opinionated, and host the most exclusive underground tea parties in the garden. They thrive on rich gossip and even richer coffee grounds.
Known for: Brewing stronger tea than Mildred, rejecting wilted kale with flair, and arguing about Shakespeare beneath the lettuce bed.
Hagrid’s Board Game Café is no ordinary garden shed – it’s a cozy, moss-kissed refuge tucked among ferns and foxgloves, where whimsy meets warmth. Inside, the scent of damp earth and Earl Grey mingle with the soft crackle of vinyl spinning something soulful. A kettle hums patiently on a small stove while a shelf of mismatched mugs waits for company. There’s a Scrabble board ready for play, a deck of cards mid-shuffle, and a half-finished craft project that’s probably been there since the last rainy afternoon. Fairy lights twinkle overhead, and a pair of well-loved armchairs invite you to settle in for “just one more game.” Whether you’re sipping tea, swapping stories, or debating whether “gnome” counts as a double word score, Hagrid’s Board Game Café is a tiny haven of comfort and camaraderie – proof that the best adventures often happen right in your own backyard.
Hagrid’s Garden Hut Greenhouse sits tucked behind the fig tree and just beyond Hagrid’s Board Game Café – it’s a new addition to the garden. Moss creeps up its sides like a beloved old cardigan, and the windowpanes wear the gentle fog of the Pacific Northwest like a second skin. Inside, it smells of soil, thyme, and secrets, half nursery, half sanctuary. Rusty garden tools hang neatly beside twine-wrapped pots, and a few antique finds provide a touch of nostalgia. On the side, a small deck holds a rocking chair that creaks companionably when the wind blows, and the bird feeders sway with the gossip of chickadees and juncos. It’s a place where seedlings dream of spring, where gnomes occasionally nap under ferns, and where anyone – gardener, wanderer, or wizard at heart – might linger a little too long, just to listen to the rain on the glass.
The Enchanted Trowel 