I bought a fern this weekend. A hanging fern. I thought about it for a long time first -- after all, ferns are the plants of the seventies. They make me think of macramé and crocheted sweater dresses, men wearing over-sized sunglasses. Men showing too much leg or too much chest hair or worse, both at the same time. The women of the seventies seemed to fare a little better -- long straightened hair and one-piece terrycloth jumpsuits. Which are back, if you haven't noticed. They've hit the fashion shows with a splash.
If plants had fashion shows ferns would have made a splash too, I think. They're back, and I know this because at least four of the really good houses on my street have ferns swaying in the breeze on their front porches. When I take the dog for her walk I look to see what people have done with their front yards but not for the reason you're thinking. I'm just doing recon work but I know the other sort of people who check out their neighbour's yards, shaking their heads in consternation at the weeds peeking through the hostas, lilac bushes that need trimming or hedges that need a little sculpting. They're wrecking it for the whole street, they think. I can barely enjoy the sound of my own flip-flops or the smell of summer roses on account of those weeds or that overgrown hedge.