Those of us with temperamental backs learn to make the best of unscheduled interludes during which we may ponder the meaning of life while observing the shifting patterns of light and shadow across the bedroom ceiling. Having just experienced a time-out mandated by an ill-considered weight-lifting regimen, I have completed a long meditation on humility vis-à-vis personal limitations both physical and mental. I am ready, in other words, to move on to lighter things in every sense of the term. Specifically, I am more than ready to contemplate this year's planting season.

My general aversion to clamorous, over-bred, bodacious plants has evolved, over time, into a yearning for the modest flowers of yore. When we are beset by alarming news from many quarters, we seek the consolation of familiarity—in the company we keep, the foods that sustain body and soul, and in our surroundings. I might modify the axiom “As the world wearies and society ceases to satisfy, there is always the garden,” by specifying “old-fashioned garden” with its suggestion of fragrant, simple flowers; sweet-tempered bees; and the sort of benign neglect that allows seedlings some latitude to place themselves wherever they choose.

To see how others might view comfort plants, I have posed this question to groups of enthusiastic gardeners: “If you were to choose a few shrubs and perennials to place in your garden solely for their ability to soothe the spirit and evoke a sense of nostalgia, what plants would you consider essential?”

“Violets!” someone will shout. “Pansies—the ones with little faces!” Peonies. Lilacs. Daisies and delphiniums. Forget-me-nots. Shrub roses and trumpet lilies. Hydrangeas. Foxgloves. But the runaway favorites, every time I ask, are hollyhocks—not the fou-fou double kind, but the classic single ones—which seem to be synonymous with grandmother. Virtually every female gardener-of-a-certain-age remembers sunny afternoons spent making hollyhock dolls to float in bowls of water. The memory, unfailingly pure and simple, has prompted many of us to devote generous bits of turf along walls and fences to the swaying grandes dames of the garden.

Alas, in the same way that Aunt Susie’s feather-light biscuits eluded my efforts at replication for a long time, hollyhocks refused to settle in until I thought carefully about where and how they flourished near my childhood home. Insistent upon a place in the sun, hollyhocks also crave sturdy, nourishing soil, and they do not take kindly to transplanting. I’m convinced that hollyhocks have no patience with dilettantes. Recognizing the hand of a timorous gardener, they flatly refuse to grow. I’m willing to bet that I’d have had hollyhocks years sooner if my hands were callused and there were chickens muttering in the background. Giving up my efforts to purchase young plants, I began searching for gardeners willing to share seeds. With all the insouciance I could muster, I dug long trenches and buried the seed-laden stalks. It worked! Flushed with success, I’ve since dared to shuck seeds from their little cups and plant them with confidence. They sprouted in droves and delighted the deer that patrol the fence along our road. (Established hollyhocks are relatively deer-proof, but wee plants were irresistible by early fall.)

Foxgloves, too, seem to appreciate controlling their own destiny. A dainty butter-yellow digitalis ambigua has signaled its approval of laissez-faire gardening by weaving itself through a flagstone pathway. Initially chagrined that I’d failed to cultivate the potting-shed garden for awhile, I was subsequently delighted to find seedlings of an especially hard-to-establish pink foxglove huddled under the skirts of an old rosebush.

Comfort plants, I’m beginning to suspect, require a serene environment. Grandmother’s old favorites may be unsettled by fidgety gardeners and the company of designer perennials. While I shall refrain from venturing much farther out on an anthropomorphic limb, I wonder if the solace we seek within the garden might be easier to find in simple floral gifts from less frenetic times.