My gardening friends are at it all year long — marking up nursery catalogs seven or eight months in advance of the first crocus, ordering seeds and buying potting mix to fill the egg cartons they’ve been saving for months, counting the days until planting can commence.
As a gardener, however, I am aimless, careless, unreliable, impulsive, slap-dash and impatient: I am feckless — a word I never used before — either out loud or in print. I took to perennials — flowers, succulents, ferns and grasses — as investments in regular, unearned returns. And after ruining too many sneakers, I broke my own 11th commandment, “Thou shalt not wear Crocs,” classifying them as garden tools rather than footwear.
One year, the hostas got so big and spread so wide, I dug up roots and leaves from around the edges and planted bits in bare spots. But it wasn’t long before the transplants started to take over, so I moved them to the valley of the shadow — where they prospered.
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