Hosta

Family: Lilaceae (Lily Family)
Genus: Hosta

I’ve been very busy lately—as I know you all are, too—and even though I want to spend every minute in the garden, my schedule barely allows enough time for thrice-weekly, twenty-minute sorties in this year’s Horsetail Eradication Campaign (HEC). (As regular readers know, I mount an annual HEC armed only with primitive manual tools, stout resolve, and an arsenal of choice words best muttered under my breath. The HEC varies not at all from year to year: the horsetail keeps growing and I keep trying to interfere with its life cycle. While I’m pleased to report that I seem to be making progress, victory is hardly at hand. The horsetail will certainly stage an offensive during the annual family vacation. This year it may have formed an alliance with the red sorrel. There are signs of activity from that camp.) Every time I pass the beds where the hostas grow, I offer them a smile and a “thank you” for showing up and taking care of themselves so competently. They ask for almost no attention from me as they go about their business of growing and looking fabulous from May to October.

I love hostas. I can’t remember when I “discovered” them but it seems they’ve been in my garden forever. I started off with a Big Blue One. Soon I added a Little Bitty Green One and a Medium Sized One with White on Its Leaves. That was how I referred to them in the days before I knew very much about plant names. I felt redeemed when I read that the European gentleman who “discovered” hostas in Japan at the end of the 17th century named the first one “the common Hosta with ‘plantain like’ leaves.” He named his second hosta “the other Hosta.” Both monikers were in Dutch and each required quite a string of words. It would be a few years before Linnaeus got a handle on a consistent system for naming plants. There’s still a measure of confusion where hostas are concerned, however. Their family name is reported differently from one reliable source to another, although most prefer Liliaceae over Funkiaceae (yes, there was a Dr. Host and a Dr. Funck). Hostas are still called “funkias” in some regions but the American Hosta Society—a dedicated bunch—rejects that name. “Hosta” it is to be, although you’ll find tags marked “plantain lily” and even “day lily” because each of the flowers on those amazing stalks lasts only one day. You can see how the Hemerocallis people might have a problem with that.

By any name, hostas are great additions to the Pacific Northwest garden. They thrive here, which is completely counterintuitive. By rights, given where they originated and their growth habit, they should like wet summers (when they’re in active growth) and dry winters (when they’re completely dormant). Go figure. They prefer shady locations, particularly the varieties with large, heart-shaped leaves. The types with narrower leaves are much more tolerant of sun. Even so, avoid planting them where they’ll have direct sunlight all day long. Do put them in soil that is very well amended with lots of organic material so that it will retain water, and plan to give your hostas a soaking every week or so during the dry summer months. Their snouts will appear in April, the leaves will unfurl by May, in June you’ll have flower stalks, and for the rest of the season you’ll enjoy that gorgeous foliage. In early October, the leaves will wither—quite suddenly. When they pull out easily, mark the spot, remove them all, and check “care for hostas” right off your list.

I know what you’re all thinking right now, so I’ll just get on with it and speak of slugs. They love hostas as much as I do, but they can be managed. The key—as with most pests—is vigilance, early and often. Start when you first see those snouts. I put down some medium-grade bark—slugs don’t like to crawl over it, which makes them grumpy and less likely to notice the circle of liquid slug-death that I draw around each plant and replenish every two weeks. Other folks have had success with copper barriers. I don’t use those because of their cost. The American Hosta Society offers an interesting solution to that, one I’ve never encountered before. They suggest using epoxy to glue pennies into a circle and laying it around the hosta. I don’t know if there are laws against that. They swear it works.

Other people have reported that deer eat their hostas. The lovely creatures wandering through my yard twice a day—like clockwork—look at my hostas, sniff dismissively, and walk on. I’ve also read that certain nematodes plague hostas in some areas, but I’ve never encountered them here. Nor are my hostas prone to any diseases, judging by their vigor and appearance.

I just sit back and watch them grow. It’s lovely to have something that deer don’t eat and aphids ignore. I take delight in the complete absence of powdery mildew, nibbled leaves, and shriveling stems. The Big Blue One, the Little Bitty Green One, and the Medium Sized One with White on Its Leaves are all still with me. When I can’t find a place for their many progeny—I divide my hostas in the fall and watch for self-sown volunteers—my friends are happy to provide them with homes.

Now if only hostas could emit some kind of otherwise harmless chemical that attacked and killed only horsetail and red sorrel…