The garden is like a wedding. April is the rehearsal dinner, May the procession, June the vows, July the reception starts. Now, in late August, everyone has had too much to drink, and the plants are dancing around with lamp shades on their heads.

Mrs. Feverfew is a wanton hussy once she gets a few drinks of aged compost in her, and Mr. Monkshood is a rogue with too much sunshine on his leaves, and good grief, Mr. and Mrs. Cosmo are just crazy from the get go. Many of my guests are now sleeping on the ground and even creeping into the wrong beds, and every year at this time I consider not inviting the whole lot of them and having a calmer, more officious affair. Then in March when its gray and dark and barren, I lose my head and think that their colorful personalities would brighten my spirit. And I consult the wrong social register (i.e. seed catalog, the ultimate "plant porn") and fill out the invitations (i.e. order form). I am not the wisest hostess, it is really far too much of a fuss and bother, but I do have fun.