In the spirit of the graduation season, a couple weeks ago I commenced to learn how my little Peace Garden Plot survived the cold and snow, to find what lies hidden under the heavy wet leaves.

So, I pulled on some gloves and pulled off the dead of winter. George can’t refrain from the occasional unsupportive-spouse comment on my efforts to “rake the woods” but it’s only a small section, and the leaves are mostly dry, and the energetic output allows for some extra caloric input in the evening, so I carry on.

Rowdy and Ruffian keep me company, eager to embark on their own expeditions for buried treasure. Rowdy unearths squeaker balls he’s known and loved and lost in the woods, content to celebrate his finds with a proud display wherever I go.

Ruff, however, excavates simply for sport, digging dirt in all the wrong places. He also loves to chew twigs, sticks and fallen branches, dragging them through the forest, across the driveway and into the front yard, leaving a trail of leaflets, bits of tree bark and muddy pawprints wherever he goes, including in the house.

They’re entertaining companions, who make tedious tasks tolerable. If they wander out of sight or earshot, they return promptly when I call, or better, use the official blaze orange hunting dog whistle I wear high-school-coach-style around my neck. A solid tweet brings them running for the payoff of whatever tasty treat I’ve remembered to put in my pocket.

My little plant project began as a brainstorm to beautify the view from the front porch, a little section of the Forest of Four Sticks Farm on the other side of the driveway, the goal being a scenic spot to inspire calm. Then it expanded to an experiment in repurposing, replanting, and rethinking as I transplanted perennials from around the property.

My thumb is far from green, so this is a bit of a trial-and-error research project for which only vegetation with demonstrated Four Sticks survival skills have been recruited.

I failed to map my plotted plants – rookie mistake, product of a deluded mind convinced it would remember what is where – so I spent a couple hours stripping the flower bed of its winter comforter, with a couple prayers to the patron saint of greenhorn gardeners, hoping to unearth something other than wet earth.

Under the saturated maple sheddings I spied shoots. Eureka!

Hostas, lilies-of-the-valley, a tiny clump of dianthus pinks and a rogue day lily, tossed in the woods to make room for the new driveway all survived. My botanical Rip Van Winkels, sleeping under a layer of decaying leaves that could have smothered them, but instead, sheltered them, are now small green spikes, promising to rise and shine for another summer.

Some of the hostas – cherished memorials to cherished horses – were slow to appear, but only because they were buried a little deeper and needed a little more mulch moved, a little more water decanted to encourage them to wake up and soak up the sunshine.

I’m not sure what my little peace place will look like this year, what it will grow into; but as I survey the landscape, pleased with the present, planning the potential, there is hope in seeing the sprouts, and joy in dreaming of what will bloom. Ferns, columbine and more hostas will find new spots this year, with wind chimes, and just enough garden art to add just enough whimsical charm.

But no dogs will be used for the digging.