My good friend Judy pulled into our driveway, jumped out of her station wagon with a shovel and a smile, and started unloading nine healthy hostas.
Judy arrived to continue her quest to make our large, urban and mainly mulched backyard green and pretty. She expected nothing in return, which is the kind of wonderful and courageous friend Judy is.
Her hostas — split from her own exquisite, expansive gardens — came in several varieties. Her plan was to add them to an area under a large maple tree, a spot where she had planted three baby hostas the summer before.
But Judy couldn't find the hostas she'd planted the summer before.
I stood behind her, practicing various expressions of surprise in case she looked my way, which she did.
"What happened to the three plants from last year?" she asked gently. "I'm sure they were right here."
I think she whispered something under her breath about how hard it is to kill this type of plant.
"You did water them, right?"