Cooksville is a tiny village of about 20+ homes at an insignificant crossroads in the middle of farmlands. There is a country store, in operation since 1846 that once sold the best pickled herring this side of Norway; a welder’s shop that makes yard art from junk, and more useful items; two churches, one that is privately owned and rented out, and one with about 500 members plus a graveyard; and an exhorbitantly priced but picturesque B&B. The major source of economy, however, is apparently based on the sale of hosta plants.
Hosta is a shade-loving perennial that comes in a variety of stem and leaf colors, sizes, and shapes. It can be planted in areas where nothing else will grow and look beautiful all spring, summer, and fall. Hosta propagate easily and have a stalk with blue or white flowers that appear in the late summer.
I first noticed the booming sale of this apparently coveted plant from the homemade but carefully lettered sign reading: HOSTAS. Planks on sawhorses displayed potted hostas across a yard near the road. A week later, an additional sign appeared next to the 4-way Stop: hostas ->. I was confused. ” HOSTAS” straight ahead on Tolles Road? Or “hostas” to the right on SR59?
Yesterday, the stop sign hosta poster had an small additional notation: Do not be fooled. Fooled? By hosta sales? I turned right. There along another citizen’s drive, hostas of many sizes marched in their pots toward a couple seated at a table with an umbrella for shade and a cashbox.
Oh, oh. It is a hostile hosta war! I hope both entrepreneurs sell all their hostas and make a pile of dough. In this economy, everyone needs a break. I hope the “war” doesn’t get ugly. This is a very tiny village, and hard feelings can affect everyone.
Meanwhile, I am making a business plan for my own hosta business at home. If hostas are that hot, being the CEO of a peaceful hosta sales operation may be just the ticket. It’s a thought.