Some of my best ideas have come to me as I relax in my hammock, recovering from prying up rocks, digging holes and spreading heavy mulch. This particular brainstorm came as I contemplated an enormous apple tree under full sail of pink and white blossoms.

Underneath the tree, hellebores prospered near the trunk, and the drip line was hemmed with lamium. Very nice. But it lacked something. It lacked strength. It lacked purple, that’s what it lacked. Very good. Problem identified, now a solution. What would fill the intermediate space, provide the color, and be low maintenance. “Yes, please, low maintenance.”

Well, crocuses, of course.

Like most really good ideas, fulfillment came at a cost. I diligently saved my pennies, trimmed here and there, and by the end of July placed my order for 1000 purple and purple-and-white-striped crocus. Every time I looked at that apple tree I had to smile. It was going to be great.

I waited, waited, and waited some more. My corms were due the second week of September. I gave them an extra two weeks, then called the vendor.

The bulbs had been sent on schedule. Was I sure I hadn’t received them? Okay, I’ll never win prizes for my powers of observation, but I’m pretty sure I’d have noticed a thousand crocus bulbs on my front steps.

Another week later the package was located in upper New York state. I received constant notification of its inchworm-like progress from New York to Michigan. (Michigan?) From there to Connecticut and thence to Massachusetts.

Good grief! When the poor cardboard carton arrived another five days later, it looked as if it had been the focal point of a buffalo stampede. Somehow the corms hadn’t been smashed, and there were still exactly 1000 of them.

I placed them, one by one, in the soft, prepared earth, viewed the arrangement from all sides, did some rearranging, and began to plant. The sun set and still I planted. My back protested vigorously. My knees sang counterpoint. Still I planted.

The more frost-proof mosquitoes sang in my ears. I really thought about quitting, but I just couldn’t leave my carefully arranged crocus. I planted until every last corm had been lovingly tucked into its appointed spot.

Then I discovered that I really, truly, couldn’t get up. Nothing was working. Communicating, yes. Loudly. But I couldn’t force my back and knees to get me off the ground. What to do?

Yelling for help was out. I’d collect frost first. I rolled and crawled to the spading fork and used it to lever myself up. I then lurched the interminable distance between my garden and the house­a superlative imitation of Quasimodo, if I do say so myself. The next morning, I was unable to get out of bed.

The reminder of that evening in the garden stayed with me through the winter. Ah, but so did my mental images of the apple tree billowing over its carpet of purple crocus and hellebores. Ibuprofen and my imagination were my soul’s support throughout that long and snowy winter. I imagined my crocus, safe under the snow, putting out roots. Then as the snow melted and the soil warmed I made a dozen trips a day looking for new shoots.

The apple buds swelled. The hellebores bloomed. The only activity where the crocus had been planted was the appearance of dozens of dark, round, little holes. Holes where vole families, vole clans and entire tribes had wintered on my crocus.

My friend in the Air National Guard thought I was perhaps overreacting when I asked if he could arrange a practice air strike on my apple tree. Hah! Norse mythology had a serpent gnawing at the root of the tree that supported the world. I have news. The mythologists had it wrong. It was a vole.

I tried everything. Voles blew bubbles with gum dropped into their holes and made nests of human hair gleaned from the hairdresser’s floor. Rototilling merely meant redecorating to the voles.

“Nice place you’ve got here.”

“Yes, the landlady just rearranged the roof and walls.”

I also rearranged things. I moved. I have never planted another crocus, I have no apple tree. I encourage the feared fisher cats to come and prowl my flower beds. My only tangible memory of that hammock-induced vision is the twinge I get in my back any time I pick up a shovel.

By Carol White, Master Gardener