First Lady of Hostas: Frances Williams and Her Accidental Immortality
This botanical history post was featured on The Daily Gardener podcast:
July 23, 1883
On this day, dear garden friends, Frances Ropes Williams made her grand entrance into the world—a woman destined to revolutionize the shady corners of American gardens while most of her contemporaries hadn't the faintest idea what treasure lay in the humble hosta.
Dear readers, allow me to illuminate this remarkable character who dwelt in Winchester, Massachusetts, where her garden became something of a woodland spectacle.
For what, pray tell, is the most ubiquitous plant in any self-respecting shade garden?
Hostas, of course!
And our dear Frances recognized their splendor long before they became fashionable accessories in American landscapes.
With the formidable intelligence one expects from an MIT graduate, Frances secured herself a position with none other than Warren H. Manning—yes, THE Boston landscape architect whose designs were transforming the Eastern Seaboard. For two glorious years, she absorbed his wisdom like rich loam takes in spring rain.
Alas, as was customary for women of her era, Frances abandoned her professional pursuits upon marrying Stillman Williams. The fates, however, are notoriously unsympathetic to well-laid plans. After nearly twenty years of matrimonial contentment, Stillman departed this mortal realm, leaving Frances to manage four children—two of each variety, boys and girls—without a partner.
Did she wither under such circumstances? Certainly not!
Frances Williams was not one for vapors or fainting couches. She channeled her considerable energies into creating one of the earliest playsets for her youngsters, ensuring they developed a proper appreciation for the natural world despite their urban surroundings.
Once her brood had flown the nest, Frances turned her formidable attention to her garden, particularly to those magnificent hostas that would become her legacy. She developed a passion for hybridization that bordered on obsession, documenting her horticultural adventures in various botanical publications with the precision one expects from a scientific mind.
But the discovery that would immortalize her name occurred through delightful serendipity! Returning from visiting her daughter at college in New York, Frances made what appeared to be a casual stop at Bristol Nurseries in Connecticut. There, among a pedestrian row of Hosta sieboldiana, her discerning eye caught something extraordinary—a specimen with a most fetching yellow edge.
This fortuitous find made its way to her garden and, years later, into the collection of Professor George Robinson at Oxford.
When the good professor's memory failed him regarding Frances's meticulous labeling system (she had designated it FRW 383), he simply christened it hosta Frances Williams—and thus, horticultural immortality was achieved!
Her contributions to the fledgling American Hosta Society were nothing short of transformative.
After she departed this earthly garden in 1969, MIT honored their distinguished alumna with a hosta garden that stands as a living testament to her vision.
In gardens across America, when dappled light catches the variegated edges of a certain magnificent hosta, Frances Ropes Williams lives on—a reminder that even in the shadiest circumstances, one can create something of lasting beauty.
