I’ve always wondered why so many old farm wives surrounded their houses with hostas. Why, with all that lawn available, with all those spaces around a farm house to tuck in bleeding hearts or sunflowers, or to trail petunias over the porch ledge, or to hang fuscias, would they leave their porches bare, and then just surround the house with giant-leaved plants with unspectacular flowers? Laziness? Lack of imagination?
I’ll never do that, I vowed to myself as I criticized the lackluster landscaping characteristic of Upstate New York farmsteads. What is the sense of having a house surrounded by fresh air, soil, and sunlight if not to paint it with glorious color?
I’ve kept cutting gardens with rows of sunflowers, snapdragons, bachelor buttons and cosmos to decorate my kitchen table. I’ve surrounded my kitchen door with potted herbs, filled giant planters with every blooming color imaginable. Nothing gave me more pride than to welcome a guest to my home and invite them to sit under an umbrella beside the flowers. Walking around on a June evening with the hose, visiting each plant, nourishing them with drinks of water, held its own quiet pleasure for me.
For a while.
By July, the joys of nightly care would wane. By August, I would beg the kids to do it. By Labor day, the flowers and house would be immersed in a jungle of weeds.
Every year.
And every year, by April, my optimism returns. The cycle begins again. I broadfork the cut flower garden. In May, I beg Bob to bring me a load of compost from the farm, and we shovel it out over the cut flower bed in the front field, and wheel barrow it up to the perennials around the house, then use it to fill the giant containers and the herb pots. By Memorial Day, the cutting garden will be seeded and mulched with golden straw, and the house surrounded with seedlings bearing their first blooms.
Silly old farmwives. Didn’t they know just how beautiful they could make a place? Didn’t they care?
But this past week, something snapped. Maybe it was the four surgeries I went through with Mom and Dad in the past two years, each time chewing on my lip, fearful of losing time with them. Maybe it’s the payroll, or the feed bills, and the processing bills spilling out of my inbox. Maybe its the fact that I don’t get anywhere’s near as much time alone with Bob as I’d like. Maybe it’s the (still) unfinished manuscript on my desk. Maybe it’s the fact that I feel like my little girls are growing up, and I haven’t had enough hours cuddling them. Maybe its the stew I need to make for the cafe, or the croissant dough that I need to stir up. Maybe it’s the stack of books I’m longing to read, or those back seasons of the Gilmore Girls that the girls are begging Bob and me to watch with them.
But I’m suddenly aware of something. There are things I like to do: I like to stand in my cafe kitchen, chopping garlic, searing meat. I like the challenge of seeing how to make the farm more profitable. I like feeding my customers, I like to see their smiles, to hear their stories.
But at the end of the day, I want to walk down the dirt road with my dogs, my husband and my kids, watching the sunlight play on the pastures and mountainsides. I want to sit on the screen porch and listen to the thrushes call up from the woods.
And I don’t want to pinch back flowers. And I don’t want to walk around with a hose. And I don’t want to mix up fertilizer concoctions. And in the wake of taking care of people and business all day, I don’t want to take care of one more damn thing.
But the last weekend of May approaches, and I am not yet able to admit this to myself. I’m frantically scanning my calendar and scanning the weather. When will I have a free moment to get the compost? Get to the nursery? Turn over the flower beds?
On Sunday evening, we are supposed to go to a friend’s party in Middleburgh. After spending the morning and afternoon working at the cafe, we drive down. We’re too tired to go in. Instead, Bob, Saoirse and I decide to take a walk around the village, exploring every house up-close.
And down a side street, we see a house with an assortment of cars in various states of repair. Fussier people might claim house could use a little upkeep,too. But off to the side is one of the most beautiful perennial gardens I’ve ever seen. For someone, this is a love above all other loves. This tiny lawn has become a canvas of self expression.
My first reactions? Self-recrimination. Why can’t I do that?
I’m a part of this do-it-yourself-homesteading movement. We homeschool our children, can our tomatoes, hand-knit our babies’ diapers, split our own firewood, slaughter our own hogs. It all has great economic, spiritual and ecological value.
To a point.
And then, after a point, it becomes an aspirational race just like the climb to the top of the career ladder, the chase after the better car, the pursuit of the ideal pair of shoes, the Facebook post to chronicle the dream vacation, the bragging rights to see our children landed in select schools and prestigious universities. It’s the same devil, only in a different costume: the one that tells us that, no matter what, we are not enough.
There is still one more afternoon cleared on my calendar for spring gardening. On that day, I have a leisurely lunch with Bob and the girls. The skies open up with a down pour. I go upstairs, pull the covers over my head and take a long nap. When I wake up, I go out to one of my perennial beds where a cluster of hostas have taken over. I grab a transplanting shovel from the shed and begin hacking it apart. Bob pops out, on his way to town.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Can’t this wait ’til another day?”
My hair is plastered across my face. I manage a smile at him. “It’s better for the plants if I do it in the rain,” I explain.
“You could also just wait until a sunny day and water them…” I don’t want to water anymore. He sees a certain wild-eyed look on my face. He knows better than to pursue the point.
I want the rain on me. I want it washing over me as I slam my shovel into the ground, dividing up what has suddenly become the most beautiful plant I’ve ever seen: the Hosta. She spreads her leaves wide, overpowering any weed that dares encroach. She tolerates the lawn mower clipping close, and makes the weed whacker unnecessary. She’s graceful and cool, puts up with the sun, the shade, the rain, or the lack of it. She makes things tidy, so if you take a cup of coffee out on your patio in the morning, you enjoy the coffee. You don’t think about what needs weeding, what needs dead-heading, what needs fertilizing.
In thirty minutes’ time, I pull off six small plants, walk them around to the front of the house and slam them into ground. I toss my shovel into the shed and walk back into the house. I leave the planters and the hanging baskets in a heap. I let the cut flower garden return to weeds. And the next time I go to Middleburgh, I’m going to take another walk. I want to go look at that other family’s garden. Because really, I love to see flowers. That doesn’t mean I have to grow them around my house. And while I gaze, instead of beating myself up, I’ll reflect on what seems to be my great learning challenge this year: to break the addictive cycle of taking on more, and figure out how to take on less. And still love myself. Then I’ll go home and sit on my porch and appreciate the hostas and the forest.
Clever old farm wives. I get it now
I’m glad I found alittle time to read this instead of doing one more J-O-B. You provide us sloggers with inspiration. Hosta-like things- Hell yeah!
Yup. Here’s to learning what needs shoveling and what doesn’t!
Enjoyed this one – greatly!! Last night, I spent at least an hour labeling my gardening photos so that I could figure out how to use them in my own new post, still in draft form – on gardening. I come from a different perspective – my lack of gardening ability & growing relationships – but somehow I suspect you and I value the same things in life. Well done!
Enjoyed this one – greatly!! Last night, I spent at least an hour labeling my gardening photos so that I could figure out how to use them in my own new post, still in draft form – on gardening. I come from a different perspective – my lack of gardening ability & growing relationships – but somehow I suspect you and I value the same things in life. Well done!
Many years ago I found myself accepting hosta plants from my friends and neighbors.
Now I have a “garden” of friends that automatically show up every Spring to remind me that , no matter the current challenge in my life, I have the comfort of knowing that there is a precious life force that is deeply rooted and willing to be present whenever I allow a quiet moment to reflect and enjoy! Enjoy all that life offers you and thank you for your precious, heart/mind nurturing blog.
In peace, Carol
Ha ha. Doing less. One of the great successes of my life. One of my favourite words is No. I am like the gardener in Middleburgh. I am all about the garden, but I have to give up a lot of other things in order to work in the garden, and then to enjoy it. We really can’t have it all. But we can have some things. We need to steadfastly pursue that spark which makes us who we are, so that we don’t disappear into other people’s expectations..
I hadn’t considered it a great success to achieve, but suddenly, it’s all I can think about, Jo. How do I succeed at doing less, and then, when I’m doing less, how do I manage to enjoy it without guilt, and hey — Why not improve profits at the same time?? I’m thinking if I can answer all that, I’ve definitely got a best-seller on the way…..
Hosta&forest 👍
I wasn’t able to set a picture on here of my black-eyed Susie’s growing in a patch of scrub brush and weeds, they are beautiful just that way.
Shannon, why on earth should we buy into the modern world’s obsession with busyness? It is absurd and should be ignored like much of the rest of society’s foolishness. I am 46 and have probably less than half my precious life left to be lived. I have made a lot of foolish decisions in my life, but the ones I regret are those things I did merely because I felt I ought to. I intend to spend the rest of my life doing exactly what I want! This will be somewhat difficult as a middle-aged mother, but I feel I will be an excellent role model for my daughters!
PS Two books for you, How to be Idle and How to be Free by Tom Hodgkinson. Guilt free pursuit of the good life. Men are MUCH better at pursuing the life they want. We should take notes, rather than becoming the superwomen we think we ought to be.
I’m looking them up right now!
I just listened to the audio version of “Women Who Run with Wolves,” and I’ve been thinking about this too. There’s a passage in that book based on the tale of Baba Yaga, which mentions how women need to first check in with what we really want to eat before we approach a buffet, otherwise we will make choices that aren’t consistent with what we need to nourish ourselves. There’s a lot of other good stuff in that tale about developing discernment, “separating this from that,” etc. Also, I’ve just made peace with the hostas in my yard as well, I love how they come every year so reliably.
Thank you so much for your writing. This is truly insightful and brings me peace. Having been raised on a working dairy there’s a degree of “hard work equals strong character” ingrained in me that is hard to shake. As my husband and I prepare for our first child I find myself stepping back when that urge to start something new or do something more takes hold, because I think of how I will judge myself if the garden goes to weeds when I can’t get myself up off the ground anymore. I decided why set myself up to feel like I’m falling short in a time of life when I’m doing my most important work? This year we will have tomatoes and basil and dill, because let’s be honest those are the things we love the most. Otherwise, I’m letting go, and I’m not willing to feel bad about it!
Years ago when we were searching for a home, my husband and a friend planted hosta in front of an ‘abandoned’ farm house hoping I would fall in love with it. I did like the house, did not notice the hosta, but since it was really too small, we passed. Might have been a mistake, I’ll never know. The house we did buy had lots of hosta which I am still dividing and adding varieties.
… and so now I will arrange to have hostas planted around my house for the same basic reason you have – because there are other things I want to do besides garden!
Thank you for your inspiration!
Tanya
I downsized my flowers this past weekend. Fewer hanging containers, way fewer small pots, … More flowers planted in the ground….which my husband planted to save my new knee. The perennials fill in nicely with no help from me. Enjoyed your article. By the way, I’ll be 80 in January.
Our Willow tree is surrounded by Hostas. Our Flowering Crabapple (of 30 years) is surrounded by Hastas. Our side wall garden is overflowing with Hastas. Neighbor Bruce Wright has Hastas allover the embankment that surrounds his home.
I even stuck one in the back yard, just for drill!!!!
“Hasta Heaven” girl- that’s what you need! They are their own spirit- and they never fail. We might learn something from them. All their beauty is released from within- where it really matters.
Sounds like you need to put together one of those flashy coffee table gardening books, Ron! The Inspired Hosta Home.
I have come to love hostas for all the same reasons but much later in life at 67 years old. Good for you for discovering the beauty of hostas at a much younger age. Once again, you’ve shared a part of your life with which we all can identify whether we are a farmer or not. Many thanks and enjoy those weed free hostas. I do find they need the occasional deer repellent tho.
I have come to love hostas for all the same reasons but much later in life at 67 years old. Good for you for discovering the beauty of hostas at a much younger age. Once again, you’ve shared a part of your life with which we all can identify whether we are a farmer or not. Many thanks and enjoy those weed free hostas. I do find they need the occasional deer repellent tho.
Lived in our trailer 4 years now, and hadcthe front landscaped with perennials! Coral bells, lily-of-the valley, knockout rose, mountain pink, forsythia, daylilies, lavender, black-eyed Susan, moonbeam coeropsis, dianthus, sedum, forget-me-not, lilyturf, astilbe, and somehow, hostas did not thrive! Place looks kike a jungle, but it was done! Also have the first-showers for spring: daffodils, tulips, hyacinths, all returning faithfully every year – a once and done garden! Hosta la vista! So glad you found the perfect garden without grief. Your best garden contains all the dear souls around you!
Place looks LIKE a jungle…
The variety of hostas are as beautiful as flowers.