I planted a wisteria last week. I’ve been wanting one for years and finally have what it takes: a length of fence in full sun to cover and a supportive spouse. I bought the wisteria as a wedding present to myself. And for her, of course—except it’s really for me.
With a last name like Paradise, you pretty much have to be a gardener. Except that neither of my brothers gardens much, and the other big gardeners in the family are all on the Schwartz side. All of this goes to show that in narratives as in gardens, you make use of what you have and add fertilizer, liberally at times, to improve on things a bit.