We bought our house and unbeknownst to us it apparently included a hosta farm. A farm that truly had no rhyme or reason. Crazy hosta designs in the middle of the yard, thousands of hostas in every flower bed, literally hostas as far as the eye could see.
When we built our garage two years ago I needed to move most of them and thus crowded them together around a lilac bush and called it a day.
That doesn’t work so much for me now as it did then. You know, when I was tired, hot and overwhelmed by the shear number of plants I was some how dedicated to saving for “later.”
When do I ever save anything for later? But somehow, these hostas made the list. I knew that one day when things in construction-land calmed down I would want them.
That day came last week. Whilst home on one of my glorious stay-cations I decided I would plant these lovelies along the garage and the hideous concrete wall in the backyard.
Here, in some kind of chronological picture order, is proof that I moved 30,000 ka-jillion hostas:
By day’s end, I felt completely insane from all the splitting and carrying and planting and digging and splitting and carrying and planting…
At least the husband was nice enough to rota-til (is that how you spell it?) along my walls, so the planting actually went pretty swiftly. Of course, someone thought that all that lovely, turned over, cool dirt was there for her to lie down in.
Precious doesn’t cover it.
In the end, they are moved and ready to expand and cover the ugliness that was, and I am moving on to the next home project.
Tune in next week for the new, L thought it was a good idea to paint the house by herself this summer, episode of “That Damn House!”