I do realize that hollyhocks don’t rank as the most genteel of plants. Rather, they’re the alley cats of the horticultural world. Still, I fancy them.

Maybe it’s nostalgia: Hollyhocks are old-fashioned and were one of the first flowers I knew as a child. I used to pluck the large, bell-shaped, single-blossomed flowers, turn them upside down, and poke a bud on top for a head: an instant garden doll, complete with a frilly, colorful, shiny ball gown. Waltzing the hollyhock dolls around at the garden ball, I could amuse myself on a summer’s day, happily, simply, cushioned in childhood contentment.

One summer long ago, when I was a fledgling gardener, a hollyhock seeded itself in my secret garden in the spot where the shade garden now grows. At the time, there was nothing much in my courtyard except for the old crab apple tree. Alcea rosea, as botanists know them, was the first plant to suggest: Hey! How about a flowerbed here? The volunteer hollyhock grew and grew, my variation on Jack’s beanstalk. I could see it from my large kitchen window as I did dishes. As I washed mugs and forks, I wondered what color the ball gowns would be.

As I rinsed plates and bowls, I gazed upon those hollyhocks and remembered the floral spires that had grown in the alley behind the house of my childhood. My first hollyhocks. My first garden. My mother’s garden. I can’t remember if my mother had already died when this first hollyhock grew in my secret garden, but I do wish she knew how much I came to love the garden--as she loved the garden. I have, evidently, the green-thumb chromosome. Perhaps she has some way of knowing. I like to think so—especially when mystery flowers show up in my garden. Like the mystery lupine this spring, and the mystery balsam the spring after she passed over.

Finally, the first tall one produced devastatingly beautiful pale pink blossoms—doubles! They looked like carnations, I swear. I could not believe I had grown this plant. I knew that I had not grown it alone. I knew the seed picked the spot, establishing itself, making itself at home, a plant pioneer. That double pink hollyhock was one of the first plants to reveal its mysteries to me. Holly returned the following summer, and then I scattered her seeds about my secret garden and beyond the garden gates. I’ve had happy hollyhocks ever since.

I notice they resent being transplanted. They are rebel species. The hail has been hell on their thin, broad, rough, fan-shaped leaves this spring. I’ve trimmed off some of the most damaged ones. On the other hand, the rains have been good to the hollyhocks, whose stems are now thick as the garden hose, and scratchy.

I think the secret to hollyhocks is to know when to bail on them when they’re looking half dead, half alive. Once these plants get going, there are always more flowers coming. You can’t wear them out. They’re always saying, “This bud’s for you.” “And this one.” “And this one.” To the point that they exhaust me in September. On my hot corner, they blossom and blossom in the garden of toughs, where plants must tolerate blasting sun, heat, and wind. Even when the hollyhocks’ leaves look awful, and seed heads are drying and splitting open, still the buds keep coming. I debate whether to cut them down or keep them, knowing they do not look so fresh, keeping an eye on the fresh flowers, ignoring the awful leaves and stems.

But I don’t get too attached to the hollyhocks because in my right-of-way garden, I have to cut them down or they block oncoming traffic on the avenue. If the leaves start getting too ratty, too rusty, too yellowed, cut them right off. Keep your hollyhocks looking somewhat respectable. If you can’t, and the whole big plant smacks of bad chi, just cut it down and trust there will be more. Maybe I’m taking these old flowers for granted, but it seems like in my historic neighborhood, we can rest assured we will always have hollyhocks. And if you cut them back in summer after their first strong bloom, but keep them watered, they likely will re-bloom in fall. Another waltz of the dancing flower woman dolls.

Over the two decades I’ve lived on this corner, I’ve had hollyhocks blooming in baby pink, warm rose, butter yellow, creamy white, burgundy, plum, and apricot colors. The plants are biennials, and the busy bees have cross-pollinated the plants, so I’m never sure what I’ll get. This year, I see a white one, an apricot one, a rose one, and a reddish-purple one so far. I wish I could say the tall hollyhocks take their place at the back of a border, along a fence, but mine grow helter skelter, some by the garage, some on the banks, some on the beds I’ve created between the sidewalk and the street.

My octogenarian, across-the-alley friend, Liz, a Greek-American woman, believes that hollyhocks attract mice. Liz also has taught me about the Evil Eye, and how to spit to curse somebody. She rubs olive oil on her skin before she comes out to work in her garden. Liz has aged gracefully. A former women’s clothing buyer for a department store, she is fashionable and also fastidious in her housekeeping. Liz does not, needless to say, like mice. Nor do I. And I can understand how mice might find the hollyhock seeds an appealing snack—sort of like potato chips for them. And, I do from time to time see the swift shadow of a mouse gallivanting around my gardens. Maybe Liz is right. Does anybody know? Do hollyhocks attract mice?

Should I find out it’s so, I probably will allow my hollyhocks to stay, anyway: for old time’s sake..

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