I live near a huge agritourism area and was visiting one of the farms last week for some apple donuts. As I walked up to the barn, I noticed lovely wooden planters lining the pathway to the picnic tables.
And how sad they looked.
A chrysanthemum in full bloom and drip irrigation were testament to the fact that, at some point, someone had tried.
It could be so beautiful with so little effort, I thought.
Chrysanthemums are ridiculously easy to propagate. Take a few cuttings of that mum, maybe add some compost to the beds, stick the cuttings in the ground, and keep them watered. In a matter of months, those empty beds could be overflowing with color.
I could bring them cuttings of mums in contrasting colors and creeping Jenny that would spill over the edges.
Plus poop from my rabbits.
As an artist and gardener, I could see it in my mind, and I loved it.
People would love it. They’d stop and linger and take pictures for the gram.
Wait.
I looked up at the parking lot and started counting cars. Twenty cars on a Thursday morning, each containing people who had come to spend money. As I counted, three additional vehicles entered the lot.
What if the scarce resource was parking?
What if customers staying longer actually hurt their business?
Beautiful gardens are an invitation to linger. People stop, take pictures, and enjoy the surroundings. They share on social media. That’s usually good for business.
But what if this business didn’t need people to linger?
What if its success depended on getting people in, getting them to purchase something, and getting them back on the road so the next car could pull in?
Then I noticed the number of picnic tables up the hill and that this seemed to be the only path to reach them.
In my mind’s eye, I saw the beds filled with beautiful blooming flowers.
And I saw a group of people on one of the switchbacks posing for a photo.
And someone trying to get back down the path to leave. Or purchase more donuts.
Suddenly those empty beds looked a little different.
I didn’t know how long customers stayed, how much they spent, or whether the parking lot ever actually filled. Perhaps a beautiful garden would encourage visitors to spend twice as much money. Perhaps it would attract an entirely different clientele. Perhaps the neglected landscaping really was a missed opportunity.
But perhaps it wasn’t.
Perhaps making the grounds more beautiful would produce diminishing returns.
I looked back at the beds. They were still ugly. I still knew exactly what I would plant in them. And if someone gave me permission, I’d bring some cuttings in the morning.
But I was no longer quite so certain they needed improving.