Mulching beds recently, I realized I’d run over a plant with my cart. I propped it up with an extra helping of mulch and lamented that it was my poor, beleaguered, crinum lily. If plants, like cats, have nine lives, this one was close to meeting its maker.
Years ago, my husband and I bought 20 acres of land. It was our Eden. We hoped to retire there someday. With a limited budget, we had to buy far from home, and home was already an hour commute each way. The acreage was another hour commute. Which would be fine if he was retired but we soon realized that we would never see our kids and future grandkids nor any of our friends if we chose to live that far from civilization.
But it was heaven while we had it. We built trails that coursed through ravines and heavy woods and let our city dogs run with country abandon.
We enjoyed being immersed in nature with no traffic and no neighbors.
We mounted a game camera and were delighted to see the various wildlife that populated the woods at night. Deer, coyotes, raccoons, even a bobcat, visited in our absence.
We enjoyed our workdays out on the land, clearing miles of green briar and poison ivy. We built a workshop and dreamed of a house someday. We went out every weekend and I took the dogs out on Wednesdays. We had a female boxer who knew like clockwork when it was Wednesday and would go to the closet and point to my work-clothes.
We put in a large vegetable garden, a rose bed and lots of plants.
I especially loved my pass-along plants or grandma plants, as I like to call them. These are traditional plants that thrive in your area and cuttings have been passed to generations of gardeners. Pass-along plants are nostalgia. They evoke stories about grandparents and favorite Aunts. Typically, they only bloom once and take up a lot of real estate, thereby not lending themselves to the small suburban lots found in metro areas. But I had 20 acres now. I could have all the grandma plants I wanted!
One Wednesday I thought something looked odd as I pulled in the drive. Grassy areas underneath stands of oaks looked like someone had lightly tilled them.
It was a rainy spring and the ground was saturated. But this wasn’t just soggy ground. I soon recognized the rooted-up damage was caused by feral hogs. I panicked at the thought of the destruction of my flower beds. Had the invading marauders laid waste to my heritage plants and roses?
My fears calmed as I inspected each garden and realized, the hogs had ‘turned’ the ground on the surface but left the plants intact. I had to use a hoe to cover some roots, but very little damage was done.
Except to the Crinum Lily.
Generally not found in garden centers, I discovered this treasure at a master gardener plant sale and was eager to see its milk and wine striped trumpets blooming.
I’d planted two of them in different areas and they were nowhere to be found. Maybe the hogs ate the giant bulb? Strange that they’d leave everything else intact but the crinums.
Later that day, I found the lilies! Not only had the hogs not eaten them, but they had somehow managed to re-plant them in a different location!
Amused and happy that my lilies were okay, I dug them up and put them back where I originally had them.
The next workday we saw there were more ‘turned’ areas. The hogs had been back for more midnight acorn feasting. But as before, they hadn’t damaged any of my treasured plants.
Except for the Crinums!
Again, they weren’t destroyed, but replanted in a different location!
Later, relaying the story of the hogs to my sister, she offered that these were special ‘landscaping hogs’! They approved of all my planting choices except the crinums, and they were adamant that the lilies be put in a location that pleased their swine sensibilities. Apparently, I had broken the feral hog tenets of landscaping.
Viewing the footage from the game camera, we were stunned to see several sows and no less than a dozen piglets strutting by on their midnight exploits! I’d read so much about the devastating effects the hogs can have on land. I feared my gardens couldn’t survive this plague of pigs.
But their job here was done and they moved on to more challenging landscapes.
Not surprisingly, the crinums didn’t bloom that year. One of them succumbed to the heat and lack of water. The other crippled along through the summer and I was content to let it rest and looked forward to next spring when it would shower us with beautiful blossoms.
But that wasn’t to be.
Weary of the drive, we decided that we’d be happier with a home on a much smaller acreage so we could live closer to our community. This meant we had to sell the 20 acres.
But I wouldn’t leave without all my beloved grandma plants, so I began the task of digging up, potting and storing. The surviving crinum made the cut and the bulb was saved until we could find an appropriate home.
Once relocated to our new oasis, with no hogs to consult, and the armadillos showing no sign of landscaping talent, I had to decide for myself where to put the crinum.
The first location proved disastrous. I’d managed to place it right in the prime rabbit and armadillo chasing track. The dogs trampled it regularly.
It put on a few leaves, but blossoms were out of the question. It had to be moved.
Again.
With visions of gloriously fragrant trumpets of milk and wine bursting from the strappy green leaves, I located its ideal home. Hopefully, this would be the last relocation for this bedeviled plant.
And then I ran it over with the cart.
You might think this crinum lily is doomed, but according to Felder Rushing in the charming book, Passalong Plants, crinums never die. In fact, he says, they thrive on neglect. So maybe there’s hope that I’ll see some milk and wine blossoms this year.
I think the lesson from the landscaping hogs is that sometimes you must experience a little pain in your life before you can offer glorious blossoms.
Pain can ravage and tear you down or it can be a great teacher and inspiration. Choose which you want it to be in your life. Learn from it and you will grow and thrive.
