I recall reading that gardens come into their full glory two years after the gardener moves or dies, whichever comes first.
We had a slightly raised block patio built up last week in the east end of the garden where the bench sits. Because of its isolated location, poor Tom had to carry two trailer loads of sand down the rough stone steps in 5 gallon buckets. I helped him by doing what I'm best at, which is mostly general kibitzing and offering moral support. This little patio, along with the water feature ( a cow tank) I dragged down earlier this year, pretty much completes the bones of the garden. I thought the cow tank was a nice touch in a Midwestern cottage garden. I helps both me and the garden from becoming too refined - too precious. As I sat on the bench, a smoking a cigar and sipping Glenlivet, generally admiring my handiwork, I thought to myself, "Those perennials I transplanted should fill in nicely in about two years." Oh shit! As I'm not planning on moving anytime soon, this does not bode well for my future health and well being. Damn! - time to update the old will, I guess.