It’s 48 degrees Fahrenheit at 7 a.m. in the upper level of my hillside garden—chilly but not an outright threat to tender young early-season transplants such as basil.
Some 100 feet downhill, on a little plateau beside the spring creek flowing through the garden, it’s 41 degrees F. Had I set basil seedlings there, those warmth-dependent, super-delicate sprouts would be flopped over like shoelaces, gasping for heat and assistance.
