I went to a box store and bought four Russian sages. I never do things like this, but they’re for the gardens across the street and next door, they were on sale, and I didn’t feel like spending much money on them.
I feel slightly guilty about doing this, since this hardly supports local nurseries, but in exchange for my shameful act, I can report that it was no fun at all. Like the difference between eating instant noodles and going to a good pho place. Utterly joyless. I felt like a robot. A joyless robot, no less. Are-these-Russian-sages-on-sale-and-how-much-are-they. That’s-a-good-price. It-does-compute. I-like-them-they-make-a-dramatic-statement-with-their-form-and-texture-and-winter-interest. They-are-not-for-me-though. Eep. End-of-transmission.
As far as the sages are concerned, yes, they’re overused in landscapes here, but they will grow without any supplemental irrigation, and these are very low-maintenance gardens. (I do it, so I might as well be honest and say they’re no-maintenance gardens.) Not only that, the goldfinches love them.
I planted two of them, dug up a Cistus crispus that had been trampled by house painters next door; the cistus will go in my garden.
That’s what I get in trade.