My father, Ben, was a dentist.

I worked for him in his office during many summers when I was young and throughout college. Even now, the smells of eugenol, zinc oxide, and acrylic resin can transport me instantly back to those days and pleasant memories. Strange how certain scents can unlock entire chapters of your life without warning.

Dad had a beautiful practice, but what made it special was not the equipment, the office, his technique or even the dentistry itself.

It was the people.

His patients adored him, and he adored them right back. They were fiercely loyal. Some drove long distances just to see him. One retired couple even moved to Florida and planned their trips back to Wisconsin around their cleanings and dental appointments.

Patients brought him gifts. They stayed to talk and laugh. He treated people like family, and in return, they treated him the same way.

He invested deeply in relationships.

When Paul and I started Little Village Hosta Farm, I hoped I would build relationships with customers too. I wanted to treat people with the same warmth and care my father modeled for me all those years ago.

What I didn’t expect was how deeply personal some of those connections would become.

Yesterday, a customer visited us from Merton, Wisconsin.

The moment she mentioned Merton, my mind immediately went to my parents’ dear friends, Don and Myra Foley. Don and my dad attended Marquette Dental School together. They spent years vacationing, playing cards, and celebrating life together. They had seven children, and their house was always full of energy, laughter, and noise.

Card nights were a regular tradition. Taco salad, chicken wings, fruit trays, and endless conversation filled those evenings. Dad also hosted poker nights with his dental school friends several times a year, so the Foleys were woven tightly into the fabric of my childhood.

As it turns out, this customer’s mother had also been close friends with Don and Myra.

And suddenly, complete strangers were no longer strangers.

We began sharing stories about Myra and laughing almost immediately. I told her I’m trying to bring back the word “swell” because it was one of Myra’s favorite expressions. Everything was “swell” when Myra was around.

Then I shared my favorite Myra story.

When I was a kid, one of my weekly chores was dusting the house. It was a large house filled with antiques my mother collected over the years, so there was always plenty to dust. My sister had vacuuming duty, which I thought sounded much easier — until she moved out and I inherited both jobs.

Every weekend, I worked my way through the house armed with a can of Pledge and a pile of dust rags, sneezing from room to room.

One evening, Myra and Don came over for cards and snacks. The taco salad was ready. The chicken wings were out. Their usual spread waited on the table.

We had a dining room table with long wooden benches, and earlier that day I had apparently become a little overenthusiastic with the Pledge.

Myra slid onto the bench and immediately kept sliding right off the end until she landed squarely on the floor.

Without missing a beat, she looked at my mother and said:

“You gotta tell Susie to stop using so much damn Pledge on these benches!”

The customer burst out laughing.

And that was the beautiful part.

She could picture it perfectly.

She knew Myra’s expressions. She knew her humor. She could probably still hear her laugh in her mind the same way I still can.

For a brief moment, it felt like Don and Myra weren’t gone at all. It felt like they had simply stepped back into the room for one more story and one more laugh.

There is something profoundly different about sharing memories with people who actually lived them alongside you.

Stories can certainly be passed down. Humans have always done that. It’s part of what makes us human. You can tell someone about a person they never met, and they can appreciate the story.

But when someone personally knew the people in your memories — when they witnessed the same moments, heard the same laughter, saw the same expressions — the connection becomes something deeper.

The memory breathes again.

I don’t have much of that left anymore.

My parents have passed away, and so has my brother. My sister has gone her own direction, and we have not spoken in over a decade. I don’t have nearby cousins who shared my everyday childhood experiences. Many of my parents’ closest friends are also gone now.

There are very few people left in the world who were direct witnesses to my early life and the people who shaped it.

And somehow, Little Village Hosta Farm has unexpectedly brought some of those people back to me.

Last year, another customer arrived and asked if I remembered her. As it turns out, she had babysat my brother, sister, and me when we were children. She shared stories about the three of us and stories about my parents that I had long forgotten.

Over time, I’ve met several customers who knew my parents in one way or another.

Every one of those encounters feels like uncovering another small treasure buried beneath the soil of time.

Memories are strange things. When they live only inside your own mind, they slowly soften around the edges. Details fade. Voices become quieter. Expressions blur.

But when someone else remembers too, those moments suddenly sharpen again.

The people return, if only briefly.

I never expected this kind of connection from customers.

And truly, these moments have made me richer than any hosta sale ever could.

I appreciate every single customer who visits Little Village Hosta Farm. But the ones who bring pieces of my history with them — the ones who help bring my people back to life for just a moment — those connections are something sacred.

They are the icing on the cake.

The cherry on top of the sundae.

And I will carry them close to my heart forever.