#if I can get my sculpting supplies in there I will be ecstatic

[simplyghosting]

Well it only took my whole family leaving me home alone for 9hrs for me to get some of my own projects worked on 👍

[peaceoutofthepieces]

Sink Or Swim

tag list: @cleocc @feeling-kinda-so-so @hopelessromanticvirgo @dreamy-slytherin @adora8 @lockerfivethreefive @painfully-oblivious @poeticinemaa @jjustonemorething @saraben00 @wedarkacademia @coolguyssyndrome @hischbabe @suckerforsobbe @tayspots @starmansander @theah0lt @zoenneforever @invisibleme @chibibanane

~^~

Thursday, 17:02

Song: David Bowie - Rebel Rebel

Lucas skims his gaze over the books in front of him consideringly, with only half-hearted attention. His mind isn’t really here. It’s stuck in his room from last night, in today’s lunch period, just an hour ago. When Jens had caught him in the courtyard and walked halfway home with him, joking and teasing and acting like he had been Lucas’s best friend for years.

Lucas understands, because he also feels that simplicity in their relationship, that easy connection. The effortless flow, the familiar back and forth. It had been a startling realisation the night before, when Jens had called him out of the blue, almost giving him a heart attack at first. What wasn’t even supposed to be a call in the first place had turned into an hours-long conversation, both of their voices turning hushed and their laughter muffled as the night wore on. Lucas falls back into a state of disbelief, thinking about it now. He kind of can’t believe his luck.

He’s also beyond worried, and just a little mad at himself. Since when does he let himself get so attached so quickly?

He wants to believe that it isn’t a problem. That Jens seems just as invested in the friendship as him. That things are going well with the rest of the boys, who seem to have accepted Lucas into their circle without an ounce of hesitation. Lucas is unbelievably lucky. He should be ecstatic.

He shouldn’t be spending so much of his time thinking about just how ecstatic he is that Jens was the one to take him in.

He really, really shouldn't be spending so much of his time thinking about how pretty Jens is.

It's just his luck that the boy would have to look like that.

He needs to get his mind off of it for at least a little while, in some way, or he’ll do something completely stupid. Like call Jens again. Even though he’s just seen him. He can’t be trying to get all his happiness here from a single source. He can find ways to be happy on his own.

Which is the only thought that has brought him to the small art shop a few blocks from his apartment, only a couple-of-minutes cycle away. It’s convenient and quiet and seemingly good quality. He’s been itching to explore it since he first got here, but there’s been so much to see and so little money in his pocket. He’s simply been biding his time and reminding himself of it.

Now that he’s here, though, it’s a little hard to be interested. His gaze wanders over the supplies, unseeing, and he plucks a random book off the shelf he’s standing in front of in hopes of looking less lost. He flips it around and skims the back of it, barely registering, unable to even remember the cover. Distracted, still.

This is what makes him jump a full foot into the air at the sudden voice at his shoulder. “Ahh, one of the greatest gay icons to ever live.”

Lucas whips his head around to find that the deep voice belongs to a tall guy with a leather jacket, an easy smirk, and a startling shock of white hair. He runs his gaze over the stand, as well, not even looking at Lucas as Lucas drops his gaze back to the book in his hands, taking in Leonardo’s artfully sculpted face with furrowed brows.

“Da Vinci was gay?” Lucas finds himself questioning, unsure, twisting to look at the blonde as he finally gets his attention.

The boy shrugs, still smirking slightly as he nods at the book. “I guess we never really have any way of being sure but a lot of historians and critics are pretty sure. I can see why you’re considering the book. It’s probably all in there.”

Lucas’s brow remains furrowed as he looks at the cover again. Huh.

“You’re not an art student then?” The boy asks it lightly, his smirk having smoothed into a small smile, and Lucas simply shrugs.

“No, just...a hobby. You’re definitely an art student though.”

The boy huffs, smile widening. He holds his hands out to the sides and asks, “What gave it away?”

Lucas laughs, shaking his head slightly. The boy sticks his hand out to him and says, “Sander, by the way.”

Lucas shakes his hand, the name bouncing around in his head, sounding familiar but distant—until it suddenly clicks into place. Beautiful and blonde and artsy, with a particular amount of knowledge on the sexual orientation of a dead man. “Wait. Robbe’s Sander?”

Sander’s face brightens instantly and Lucas knows he’s gotten it right. “You know Robbe?”

“Yeah, I’m in his year. I mean, only recently though.” When Sander only continues to look at him in confusion, he realises he hasn’t even introduced himself yet. “Sorry, I’m Lucas.”

Sander’s expression brightens further, though this time it’s with recognition. “As in Jens’s Lucas?”

Lucas almost drops the book in his hands as his heart gives a particularly violent thump in response to those words. He feels heat rush up his neck and into his cheeks in the space of that heartbeat, feeling a bit like a deer in headlights. What is that supposed to mean? How is he supposed to react to it?

Realising Lucas’s hesitant surprise, Sander adds, “From the party? The guy in the bathtub?”

Ah. Of course. Lucas nods with a smile and a small huff. “Interesting nickname, but yeah.”

“Sorry,” Sander laughs. “I still just find it funny, finding Jens just sitting there all chilled out. I know you’ve integrated into the rest of the group this week though right?”

Lucas nods again. “At least, I think so.”

Sander gives him a reassuring smile and a shake of his head. “Robbe already talks about you as one of them. And I gather Jens is a big enough fan, too.”

Lucas flushes again, and there’s a glint in Sander’s smile that’s just a little too knowing to make him comfortable. He clears his throat and looks back down at the book, eyes widening slightly as he catches sight of the price tag before setting it back on the shelf. “Well, I think I have a good enough education on him now to go without that.”

Sander snorts, easily adjusting to the subject change, and Lucas decides that he likes him. “You’re into photography too, right?” Lucas nods and Sander hums, doing a slow scan of the shop. “What to teach you next then, dear protégé,” he muses to himself.

Lucas raises his brows, smiling slightly. “Are you taking me in now, too?”

“What, with all that atrocious lack of knowledge on such important history? Of course. Those boys will never teach you that.”

Lucas laughs quietly, knowing he probably isn’t wrong. He has happily accepted Jens as his Antwerp guide, but an artistic, older, non-straight mentor doesn’t sound unappealing. Lucas suspects that Sander fits quite well into his preferred vibe, into his idea of a friend, and he knows the boy surely comes as a package deal anyway. Lucas feels a little like he knew him already, before this chance meeting, with how present he is with the Broerrrs. From the beginning, Lucas hasn’t expected to be friends with Robbe without eventually having the chance to befriend Sander, too.

“If that mural of your boyfriend is any indication of your skills, I’ll gladly be your protégé, if you’ll have me,” Lucas agrees.

Sander flushes now, but his smile holds a quiet pride and an overwhelming amount of love. Lucas’s heart twists at just the sight of it. “Gladly,” Sander returns. “You might even fix Jens up a bit while you’re at it.”

Lucas just huffs a small laugh and tries not to let the words affect him, again. He doesn’t need to stop thinking about Jens entirely, but he really needs to stop thinking about Jens like that. Like he’s even a possibility. “Should I refer to you as my mentor from here on out then?”

“Ugh, mentor makes it sound so formal,” Sander wrinkles his nose. “Just think of me as your...guru, or something, yeah?”

Lucas huffs again, shaking his head as he grins. “Alright, guru. Can my first lesson be on what I can get in here for less than ten euro?”

[undertaleheadcannonsfromagremlin]

Can I have some headcanons for UF, MT, UT, skelebros and Science! Sans with an S/O who likes to do art?

Ah, art is so beautiful, so many different types, so many different ways to convey things…

UT Bros

Papyrus-

* Wow, his s/o is really creative, aren’t they!

* Honestly, Papyrus loves watching them work, either when they’re drawing, painting, sculpting, or doing some other type of art, the way their eyes focus, the way they make precise, careful movements, only to create something so beautiful that is also tasteful.

* He can watch them create a masterpiece for hours, it’s so interesting to see them so focused while they’re so inspired!

* That, and he loves everything they create.

* It may take him a bit to understand that his s/o gets nervous creating while being watched, if that is how they are, but he can’t help it, he just loves seeing their creativity and the way they pour your heart, and soul into each piece of art. * He absolutely loves his s/o’s creativity, and will always compliment their works, he’d probably compliment his s/o so much that they’d be a blushing mess, but feel even more encouraged!

* Probably a good idea to not let him know that he is their muse, because if he knew that- well, prepare for too many compliments, a too happy skeleton, hugs and cuddles, and finally, him wanting to hang up their art for the world to see, because their art is too perfect to keep for himself!

Sans-

* Art, huh?

* Well, he on occasion sees his s/o so invested in their art, it’s adorable seeing them so focused on creating something that held so much passion

* Usually when his s/o is done with their art, and its ready to be presented, he would tell them how it’s pretty great, expect art puns while he is complimenting your work.

* There is too many art puns now, send help

* If his s/o is ever worrying about their art not being right, or if they’re being too hard on themselves, he will pull them away from their creation; he doesn’t like seeing his s/o being so hard on themselves.

* Everything artsy you make for him, he keeps, whether they’re the new paintings hanging up on his wall, the new picture-framed drawings, or the sculptures on the shelf, his room is decorated with his s/o’s creations.

* Just know that his s/o may be their own biggest critic, but he’s their biggest fan.

UF Bros

Papyrus-

* Art? Why does his s/o like doing art?

* Lowkey doesn’t understand the point of art, at least not until he see’s one of his s/o’s projects, it was obviously inspired by him, and the way his s/o’s art captures him, both his appearance and seemingly irritated look that he usually gets at one of Sans’ puns, though there was a soft look about it, it was both the way he looked and the way his s/o portrayed him.

* His s/o is a brilliant artist, having such natural talent, observation skills and the focus and patience to perfect their art, of course he lets his s/o knows that, and how lucky they are to have him as a muse.

* Yeah, he’s not very humble that his s/o chose him of all people to be their muse, and, well, its a major ego boost for him, that his s/o is not only creating wonderful art, but it’s inspired by him.

* He will often talk about his s/o’s art to others, basically bragging about how wonderfully talented they are, and that anyone would be lucky to be even to afford their art.

* Let’s just say that with all his boasting of his s/o’s art, their pastime/passion became a way to get money, all thanks to their lovely muse.

Sans-

* Does his s/o do graffiti art and those weird art projects as well?

* He finds those the most fascinating, and if his s/o also does that, you bet his ass he will go and watch his s/o work their magic on their art.

* Would definitely ask his s/o to make him something, he’s not afraid to, though he may stumble over his words as he asks them for this, because, well, his s/o makes some of the most amazing art that he loves.

* You best believe he will get his s/o art supplies.

* He wills always encourage his s/o to take time, and to know that whatever they create, it will look amazing.

* He may or may not carry a picture that his s/o had created around with him, and if anyone ever asks or sees it, he will deny it, instantly.

* Cheesiest art pick up lines. His s/o will never escape them.

MT Bros

Papyrus-

* His s/o could make a living out of doing something so beautiful!

* He’s surprised his s/o’s art isn’t in museums or anything, because of how beautiful it is!

* His s/o’s art decorates his home, and it also decorates some hideouts in the mafia- what can he say, he loved seeing his s/o’s art while he was “working”, it was a reminder of his beautiful and wonderful s/o.

* If his s/o was willing, and if he was in an extremely good mood, you better believe that he would let his s/o gently paint his bones, he just loves seeing them so close to them, and using him as a canvas for their creations, and often times, it looked like he somehow had gotten a tattoo on his bones.

* He’d definitely beat someone within an inch of their life if they ever dared insulted his s/o’s skills in front of them; no one is allowed to treat them like that, and they will learn that the hard way.

Sans-

* His s/o is really good at capturing details whether it was via sight or description, huh?

* Now, he wasn’t the type to typically talk about things to his s/o that involved that “crowd”, wanting to have them safe and not associated with his line of work, but then again, his s/o’s skills were useful for detailed sketches of those unknown to them and a threat to them.

* His s/o’s art is valuable, they are often paid to create something, whether it was a portrait, or a specifically designed vase, they are many different types of art that his s/o was talented in.

* He will pull a few strings to get his s/o’s art career started, mainly because he loves seeing his s/o ecstatic over others enjoying their art, its a major boost of confidence for them

* Also expect some art puns, though it’s a bit rare

* He’s a smooth talker, but if you had been a long time s/o of his, you better believe he will use some cheesy artsy pick up lines on his s/o, which would usually end up in the two laughing and enjoying their cheesy bonding moment.

And finally

Science! Sans-

* Art is very different than science, but then again, there is art in science, right?

* There is a way to combine art and science, with different types of chemical reactions, and using chemical compounds in paint can change up the art game for his s/o completely, and he would of course supervise/help!

* It was a way of combing both of their passions together, so they both can create something beautiful, and something they’re proud of!

* And yes, this only happens every so often, not all the time, but when it happens- expect there to be lots of passion, lots of laughs, and more importantly, expect his s/o and Sans having such a wonderful time together.

* When his s/o creates their usual art, he can’t help but admire it, spotting familiarities between each piece of their s/o’s art, it’s like a little bit of them were placed in each one of their creations, which he loved.

* God, he loves his s/o, he can’t help but keep their art nearby when he was working on projects, the art a reminder that he needs to get home on time because he has a wonderful person waiting for him.

And most importantly, know that whatever you make, they all will love it, it was created by you, and they will always be reminded of you.

Should they get nicknames or naw?

And if you think they should, should I make up my own, or use common ones?

[wendyimmiller]

It’s Over: Ending 19 Wonderful Years in the Nursery Business  by  Bob Hill

As anyone who has ever opened a small, home-grown retail nursery can tell you, the economic reality for such is straight out of the veteran horse gambler’s prayer: Lord, I hope I break even, I need the money.

So it went as we opened our Hidden Hill Nursery & Sculpture Garden 19 years ago on a hopeful wing, happy ignorance and a prayer. History was not in my favor. My obligatory role as a newspaper columnist had always been to make cheerful fun of capitalists, not become one.

Yet I had grown to love plants; a sweet addiction with no known cure – had I even been interested in one. I had eight acres of relatively open Southern Indiana land and an old barn, a modicum of plant knowledge and a yen for the nursery business.

I had growing connections to the specialty wholesale nurseries and companies that catered to the needs of we the possessed; tiny exotic hostas, glorious blooming shrubs, weeping trees, stone owls and fountains from which water fell in rhythmic wonder.

My plant enablers would be located in Tennessee, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, West Virginia, North Carolina, the Pacific Northwest, and Wisconsin. They would supply me with the plants and owls and fountains unavailable at the local box stores, the very products for which my equally possessed customers would lust. Could our newly graveled parking lot contain the rush of customers?

My business, as I became much too fond of saying, was a hobby run amuck. It was mine. It would be free from those silly, too-constraining economic rules faced by other small businesses. Little thought was given to supply and demand, inventory control, balance sheets, insurance needs, digital knowledge, accounting expertise, employee payrolls, mandatory taxes, water bills, famine, pestilence, plant death and one-year-guarantee customer destruction.

We were off; our race begun. Our land – which included our 1860s farmhouse – became our retail nursery and living plant museum. It was soon home to Persian ironwood, ‘Wolf Eyes’ dogwood, weeping katsura, weeping ginkgo, weeping Alaskan cedar, balsam fir, Cedar of Lebanon, ‘Summer Chocolate’ mimosa, striped-bark maple and variegated zelkova. We sold and grew croton ‘Alabamensis,’ paperbark maple, sweet shrub ‘Michael Lindsey,’ sweetgum ‘Slender Silhouette’ and the lovely and historic Franklinia.

Our shrubs included bright-yellow kerria, pale-yellow weigela, purple beautyberry, red-berried deciduous holly, red-and-yellow berried viburnum, purple lespedeza, pale-pink buttonbush globes and feisty white bottlebrush flowers.

Our perennial selection offered Arum for the winter, moved on in spring to hard-to-find cultivars of hellebores, candytuft, pinks, astilbe, heuchera, phlox, iris and peony. Summer brought the more freaky cultivars; daisy, coneflower, coreopsis, hardy hibiscus, rudbeckia, geranium, bee balm and allium – with new echinacea cultivars showing up every 15 minutes.

Hidden Hill in fall

Fall brought helenium, Japanese anemone, Korean mums, asters, solidago, balloon flowers, caryopteris, sage, sedum and chelone. Then the Arum repeated itself; the plant parade come full cycle. We were all about fun and whimsey and plant knowledge and fine, hard-to-find plants.

On we rolled, year after year, but only open four days a week from April to October. Our fan base grew. Our eight-acre arboretum flourished. We added ponds, new gardens, music events, horticultural classes, whimsical art, theatrical art and beautiful, lovingly created art.

We created a full-sized door to our meadow; joking with our customers if they didn’t use it they would disappear the following Tuesday. People would come out to just wander our eight acres; happy to be there. We were happy to have them.

Our financial advisor, a good and sensible man who would hide a cash register from his mother if he thought it necessary, did understand and accommodate my passion. Yet he would annually peer at me over his desk and suggest a little more financial caution, perhaps more thought toward our old age needs, our true retirement, our bottom line.

Janet Hill, my wife of 56 years, my forever partner in life, our company bookkeeper and diligent gardener herself, would indulge me. We created “Janet’s Garden” in her honor, a circular, quiet oasis in the middle of our larger madness with fountain, flowers, bench, large antique containers and a dangling, yellow brugmansia.

In soft summer evenings, after all the customers had left, we would ride around in a golf cart. I would admire what we had created. She would look for weeds. Her mind also began to lean toward a patio home with several thousand fewer plants to water.

The years rolled on. We were able to recruit terrific help; we all became a garden family. In the winters we would visit those consonant-laden gardens shows – CENTS and MANTS – to check out what was new in plants, fountains and stone owls. In early spring I leafed through 500 pounds of plant catalogs.

I had no desire to get bigger – just better. We looked forward to March, the potting up of the new perennial cultivars, the latest in a ridiculous series of ninebarks, the newer dogwoods and redbud trees that would arrive bare-root and eager for their new lives.

All seemed good until it didn’t. We had our devoted regulars. But on our slower days I would drop by the local Lowes and see people lined up 10 deep at two cash registers buying plants – most of them already in bloom. I had to admit Lowes’s selections looked pretty good – even if it seemed the help was 17-years-old not really looking happy to be there.

We had created a 5,000-follower Facebook presence and a 2,500-person email list as our promotion materials, but it seemed the average age of our customers was about 86. Are plant geeks dying off? Do millennials plant anything besides herbs and lettuce?

We had slowly become a nursery better known than shopped. I kept running into people who would tell me “I have always wanted to go to you place” but never showed up. I continually had to resist the urge to fire back: “Well what the hell is stopping you?”

But it was never said with bitterness. I knew I was a lousy capitalist. I had always known my dream was not economically sustainable; the box stores were open seven days a week until 9 p.m. I wanted that early evening time sharing our land with my wife in a golf cart.

The bottom-line truth outed itself a few weeks ago as I went over our years of financial statements. It followed a 95-degree September afternoon in which Janet and I had spent hours watering needy plants in black plastic pots.

We are both 75 years old. We were tired. It was time to go. The financials showed our gross income was greater five years ago than it was in 2018. We talked it over, called it quits and looked ahead to more travel, more fun with friends and family, more selective use of our now sculpted land.

Sure, some maintenance is still required. But Janet could work on her quilts and spend more time with her church ladies. I could finish writing my children’s books, maybe finally write that first bad novel. We were at total peace with our decision – Janet perhaps even closer to ecstatic.

Our closure announcement brought an outpouring on genuine affection; hundreds of people sent messages or came out to tell us how much Hidden Hill had meant to them, too. One former employee – covering all the bases – brought us a six-pack of beer and a bottle of champagne.

The horse-players prayer has it all wrong. We did much better than break even. We have our family and a growing list of friends. We have our memories. We have the satisfaction and thanks that come with building something good together. We have already won.

It’s Over: Ending 19 Wonderful Years in the Nursery Business originally appeared on Garden Rant on September 23, 2018.

from Gardening http://www.gardenrant.com/2018/09/its-over-ending-19-wonderful-years-in-the-nursery-business.html via http://www.rssmix.com/

[athertonjc]

It’s Over: Ending 19 Wonderful Years in the Nursery Business  by  Bob Hill

As anyone who has ever opened a small, home-grown retail nursery can tell you, the economic reality for such is straight out of the veteran horse gambler’s prayer: Lord, I hope I break even, I need the money.

So it went as we opened our Hidden Hill Nursery & Sculpture Garden 19 years ago on a hopeful wing, happy ignorance and a prayer. History was not in my favor. My obligatory role as a newspaper columnist had always been to make cheerful fun of capitalists, not become one.

Yet I had grown to love plants; a sweet addiction with no known cure – had I even been interested in one. I had eight acres of relatively open Southern Indiana land and an old barn, a modicum of plant knowledge and a yen for the nursery business.

I had growing connections to the specialty wholesale nurseries and companies that catered to the needs of we the possessed; tiny exotic hostas, glorious blooming shrubs, weeping trees, stone owls and fountains from which water fell in rhythmic wonder.

My plant enablers would be located in Tennessee, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, West Virginia, North Carolina, the Pacific Northwest, and Wisconsin. They would supply me with the plants and owls and fountains unavailable at the local box stores, the very products for which my equally possessed customers would lust. Could our newly graveled parking lot contain the rush of customers?

My business, as I became much too fond of saying, was a hobby run amuck. It was mine. It would be free from those silly, too-constraining economic rules faced by other small businesses. Little thought was given to supply and demand, inventory control, balance sheets, insurance needs, digital knowledge, accounting expertise, employee payrolls, mandatory taxes, water bills, famine, pestilence, plant death and one-year-guarantee customer destruction.

We were off; our race begun. Our land – which included our 1860s farmhouse – became our retail nursery and living plant museum. It was soon home to Persian ironwood, ‘Wolf Eyes’ dogwood, weeping katsura, weeping ginkgo, weeping Alaskan cedar, balsam fir, Cedar of Lebanon, ‘Summer Chocolate’ mimosa, striped-bark maple and variegated zelkova. We sold and grew croton ‘Alabamensis,’ paperbark maple, sweet shrub ‘Michael Lindsey,’ sweetgum ‘Slender Silhouette’ and the lovely and historic Franklinia.

Our shrubs included bright-yellow kerria, pale-yellow weigela, purple beautyberry, red-berried deciduous holly, red-and-yellow berried viburnum, purple lespedeza, pale-pink buttonbush globes and feisty white bottlebrush flowers.

Our perennial selection offered Arum for the winter, moved on in spring to hard-to-find cultivars of hellebores, candytuft, pinks, astilbe, heuchera, phlox, iris and peony. Summer brought the more freaky cultivars; daisy, coneflower, coreopsis, hardy hibiscus, rudbeckia, geranium, bee balm and allium – with new echinacea cultivars showing up every 15 minutes.

Hidden Hill in fall

Fall brought helenium, Japanese anemone, Korean mums, asters, solidago, balloon flowers, caryopteris, sage, sedum and chelone. Then the Arum repeated itself; the plant parade come full cycle. We were all about fun and whimsey and plant knowledge and fine, hard-to-find plants.

On we rolled, year after year, but only open four days a week from April to October. Our fan base grew. Our eight-acre arboretum flourished. We added ponds, new gardens, music events, horticultural classes, whimsical art, theatrical art and beautiful, lovingly created art.

We created a full-sized door to our meadow; joking with our customers if they didn’t use it they would disappear the following Tuesday. People would come out to just wander our eight acres; happy to be there. We were happy to have them.

Our financial advisor, a good and sensible man who would hide a cash register from his mother if he thought it necessary, did understand and accommodate my passion. Yet he would annually peer at me over his desk and suggest a little more financial caution, perhaps more thought toward our old age needs, our true retirement, our bottom line.

Janet Hill, my wife of 56 years, my forever partner in life, our company bookkeeper and diligent gardener herself, would indulge me. We created “Janet’s Garden” in her honor, a circular, quiet oasis in the middle of our larger madness with fountain, flowers, bench, large antique containers and a dangling, yellow brugmansia.

In soft summer evenings, after all the customers had left, we would ride around in a golf cart. I would admire what we had created. She would look for weeds. Her mind also began to lean toward a patio home with several thousand fewer plants to water.

The years rolled on. We were able to recruit terrific help; we all became a garden family. In the winters we would visit those consonant-laden gardens shows – CENTS and MANTS – to check out what was new in plants, fountains and stone owls. In early spring I leafed through 500 pounds of plant catalogs.

I had no desire to get bigger – just better. We looked forward to March, the potting up of the new perennial cultivars, the latest in a ridiculous series of ninebarks, the newer dogwoods and redbud trees that would arrive bare-root and eager for their new lives.

All seemed good until it didn’t. We had our devoted regulars. But on our slower days I would drop by the local Lowes and see people lined up 10 deep at two cash registers buying plants – most of them already in bloom. I had to admit Lowes’s selections looked pretty good – even if it seemed the help was 17-years-old not really looking happy to be there.

We had created a 5,000-follower Facebook presence and a 2,500-person email list as our promotion materials, but it seemed the average age of our customers was about 86. Are plant geeks dying off? Do millennials plant anything besides herbs and lettuce?

We had slowly become a nursery better known than shopped. I kept running into people who would tell me “I have always wanted to go to you place” but never showed up. I continually had to resist the urge to fire back: “Well what the hell is stopping you?”

But it was never said with bitterness. I knew I was a lousy capitalist. I had always known my dream was not economically sustainable; the box stores were open seven days a week until 9 p.m. I wanted that early evening time sharing our land with my wife in a golf cart.

The bottom-line truth outed itself a few weeks ago as I went over our years of financial statements. It followed a 95-degree September afternoon in which Janet and I had spent hours watering needy plants in black plastic pots.

We are both 75 years old. We were tired. It was time to go. The financials showed our gross income was greater five years ago than it was in 2018. We talked it over, called it quits and looked ahead to more travel, more fun with friends and family, more selective use of our now sculpted land.

Sure, some maintenance is still required. But Janet could work on her quilts and spend more time with her church ladies. I could finish writing my children’s books, maybe finally write that first bad novel. We were at total peace with our decision – Janet perhaps even closer to ecstatic.

Our closure announcement brought an outpouring on genuine affection; hundreds of people sent messages or came out to tell us how much Hidden Hill had meant to them, too. One former employee – covering all the bases – brought us a six-pack of beer and a bottle of champagne.

The horse-players prayer has it all wrong. We did much better than break even. We have our family and a growing list of friends. We have our memories. We have the satisfaction and thanks that come with building something good together. We have already won.

It’s Over: Ending 19 Wonderful Years in the Nursery Business originally appeared on Garden Rant on September 23, 2018.

from Garden Rant http://www.gardenrant.com/2018/09/its-over-ending-19-wonderful-years-in-the-nursery-business.html

[slowlyzealoussweets-blog]

Inconsistent social Bookmarking Communication

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