I’m
in the middle of a project. Involves what I suppose you could
sum up as a combination of yardwork, gardening, memories and,
likely the most important of all, recovery efforts.
All
of which is simply a fancy list of thoughts to say I’m moving
a few hosta plants around. And, as with most things I set off
to attempt, I’m approaching it from a strange point of view and
there is a story.
The
project itself is fairly basic. I’ve got some hosta, deer are
eating it, and I want to move some so it has a chance to recover.
I’m not looking for immediate results. Just replant, let this
season play out, and then hopefully next year be rewarded with
growing plants. In two or three years, take those plants out into
the yard. (And sure, likely be disappointed as the deer enjoy
the buffet without leaving so much as a thank you card. Start
again. Repeat.)
Since
deer and other assorted visitors to the yard are part of the problem,
I came upon a few thoughts that essentially eliminated just a
simple moving of plants from one spot to another. I decided to
set up some planters in a spot where the deer don’t wander around.
So,
here we are, with me setting up some deck boxes. Small holes in
the bottom, with a layer or crushed rock to assist with drainage.
Decent soil added. All set for heading out, digging up the hosta,
replanting it and finishing step one of the process.
Here’s
the story…
Just
over twenty years ago, Terry and I bought our first house. Lots
of trees. Nice yard, with a fence around the back it so the dogs
could run around and be outside. Lady and Travis loved it.
One
thing they loved in particular was some hosta growing against
the garage. It was an absolutely wonderful place for taking a
nap. So wonderful, the plants were quickly getting worn down.
Nana
had hosta along the front of her house, if we meander for a moment
back to my childhood. From those days at my grandmother’s until
we bought ours, I really don’t remember seeing it often. (Though,
as we all know, hosta is a fairly common landscaping presence.)
But in my mind, this hosta in our yard was already special because
it connected to my memories of my youth.
Terry
and I decided to save the hosta, and dug up a good portion of
it. We replanted it in several spots around the house, places
where the dogs didn’t nap, and it flourished. (All while maintaining
a presence in the backyard that would arrive early in the spring,
provide a few weeks of great slumbers, and then more or less be
gone while the rest of our hosta thrived and flowered.)
We
moved about ten years ago, and brought some of our plants with
us. That included several batches of the hosta. Over time, some
of that hosta was brought to our sons’ houses. (Side note, turns
out some of it continues to provide great napping spots for two
dogs.)
The
hosta in my yard wasn’t purchased and planted a few weeks ago.
It is literally part of an intricate and long web of memories
and meaning. It connects Terry and I. It joins the early days
of our lives together with today. It maps a journey of a lifetime,
tracing this house back to our first. All four of our dogs are
intertwined with the stories of the hosta in my front yard. And
those stories are expanding to new properties and the wave of
dogs in our families.
Our
family tree, parents to children (and eventually, grandchildren),
is united to the same hosta. Three couples, four houses, three
states, and ten dogs.
Quite
a run.
And
so, while I am fine with the deer enjoying a snack, I will do
what I can to preserve the hosta and grow the plants back to a
large presence at my house. Might take a summer or two (or more).
Eventually could add some new properties (and more dogs) to the
history.
A
history that means something to me.