Hostages

We now have Maine hostas in our backyard in Massachusetts. The other day we returned with a trunkful of transplants, not asking if they wanted to be moved but assuming they needed to be saved from the increasingly domesticated deer. If plants had wishes, I'd guess they would not care to be hacked (literally: with pitchfork, spade and knife) out of their homes even though their fate as deer salad was probable. I thought I heard faint cries of "Anything but Massachusetts!" from the trunk as we drove away from Owls Head.

We tried to be kind. Yes, their taking was brutal, but we did leave some considerable amount of cousins and siblings in place. (Well, that was less kindness than backache; some of the hostas had been there for 20 years, and their rootballs were huge.) I had spent some hours among the roots and rocks to prepare their new soft bed, which sits under a familiar umbrella of pines and hemlocks. We planted them tenderly, fed and watered them immediately, and overnight a lovely rain fell as if ordered for their delectation. They are still small and undeveloped, to be sure, coming from 200 miles nearer to winter. But I have no doubt that in their new effete and citified setting, their strong Maine genes will produce champions and cross-fertilize to enormous effect.

What else could we hijack from Maine to improve the broodstock in Massachusetts? How about some courteous drivers? Friendly customer service? Living within one's means? A working legislature?

See what taking hostages across state lines can get you into?