Chapter 1 - The Case of the Missing Label

Rebecca loved two things: her morning coffee and the quiet rustle of her shade garden waking up. She stepped outside with her mug, fully ready to spend an hour doing “simple labeling.” But hosta people know—there is no such thing as simple labeling.

Down in the back corner, she crouched beside a particularly smug-looking plant. Big, round leaves… streaked… maybe corrugated… maybe not. The plant offered zero clues.

“Sam!” she called toward the porch. “Did you move the tags again?”

Sam—who had survived three seasons of Rebecca’s hosta obsession—didn’t even look up from his phone.

“Nope. I’ve learned. I don’t touch anything green unless it screams.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes and checked her binder. No match. She checked her tag drawer. No match. She checked her photos—which, of course, were 97% hostas—but still no match.

Just then, neighbor Dave wandered over, holding a rake like he wasn’t quite sure how it worked.

“Morning,” he said. “Whatcha working on? Looks serious.”

“I’m trying to figure out who this hosta is,” Rebecca sighed. “It was labeled two years ago, and now…” She motioned to the blank soil, which absolutely refused to produce the missing tag.

Dave studied the plant like a detective in a TV drama. “Looks like one of them fancy ones. Maybe you should name it Streakin’ in Witness Protection.”

Rebecca snorted. Sam finally looked up and added, “Or Streakin’ in No Clue Whatsoever.”

They all laughed, except the hosta, which seemed extremely pleased with itself.

Rebecca stuck a temporary tag in the ground: “Mystery Child (To Be Determined).”

Then she whispered to the plant, “Don’t get too comfortable. I will figure you out.”

Dave nodded. “This is why I only grow tomatoes. They don’t hide their identity.”

Rebecca fired back, “Yeah, but they also don’t come in RH4.”

Sam, sipping her now-cold coffee, groaned. “Here we go… hosta talk all day.”

But he smiled—because honestly, he loved it. This was their world. This was their little community. A place where lost labels, streaked seedlings, and friendly neighbors made the best stories.

And that’s what everyday Hosta people do. We laugh, we squint at leaves, we accuse innocent spouses, and we love our gardens—mystery plants and all.