The orchid on my windowsill pushed
out its sixth bud, and the plant beside it is overgrowing its
container. When I see them, I could almost forget that I am not a Plant Lady. I
know my children haven’t forgotten because my son asked, “Mom, when that plant
on your windowsill dies, could I have the stones at the bottom of the jar?”
The plant he referred to is alive.
That was more than I could confidently say about the succulent I had purchased
a year ago. The succulent wasn’t in my care for many moons until its health
deteriorated significantly. I kept it gently moist and bathed in sunshine, but it
gradually lost its vibrant color, fading from a rich emerald to a pale lime. Worse, it wasn’t growing. I hoped its stunted growth wasn’t a sign of imminent
death. Maybe it was simply a stunned response to finding itself in my hands. A
plant’s version of PTSD.
While my succulent crouched pale
and unresponsive on my windowsill, I received an invitation to a ladies’
gathering at a greenhouse. We would eat a catered meal together (not harvested
from the greenhouse) and listen to an inspirational topic. Afterwards, the
ladies would participate in a houseplant exchange. This posed a problem.
At the time, I only had two houseplants: an orchid
which was blooming profusely for the third year in a row, and a succulent that
I knew not whether it was dead or alive. I couldn’t part with my orchid—my one houseplant
success—and I didn’t suppose I could give away a sickly succulent,
even though the invitation didn’t specify that we should bring living
plants. In the end, I took none and decided it was best for plants and people if I simply didn’t
participate in the exchange.
But when the plant exchange began, I
found myself standing next to a Plant Lady who brought not just one but two
healthy houseplants. She saw my empty hands, heard my confession, and offered me a
snake plant. “I wasn’t sure why I brought two plants anyway. Here. You take
this one. I’ve never seen a dead snake plant, so I’m sure it will grow for you.”
“You haven’t seen a dead one?” I
asked, snickering. “Come visit me in a month or two.”
But a year later, the snake plant
lives on. Unlike the beautiful palm that came to me as a
gorgeous fountain of six dark green fronds in a gray ceramic pot. The palm
looked so pretty in my living room window. But after a month of being in my
care, brown crept up one of the fronds. Ah, the old exchanging for the new, I
thought. But no. Hardly had the first dead leaf fallen when another frond was
edged in brown. In the coming months, I watered the palm. I withheld water. I moved
it to a new window, thinking more sunshine would revive it. I took it to a new
room, hoping a change of scenery would stimulate hope and life. But like the
lemmings who race each other to their demise, the remaining five fronds chased
each other to their death. Eventually, my son carried the palm’s carcass to the
garbage heap.
If my indoor plant failures weren’t
enough to convince my children that their mom is Not a Plant Lady, the tulip story sealed
my reputation. Someone gave me a bag of flower bulbs as a hostess gift. I
admired the picture on the packet, feeling warmed because now our flowerbeds
would have spring flowers like so many other homes in beautiful Lancaster
County. And not just any spring flowers but fancy ones, according to the
picture on the packet. I received the bulbs during the busy days of canning
season, so I stowed them in the garage where they lay forgotten until spring.
“Mom, can I plant these?”
My daughter held a mound of flower
bulbs in her cupped hands. Ah. My spring flowers. Tulips, if I recalled
correctly. I couldn’t remember the picture on the long-gone packaging, but I
knew it had especially pleased me. Were they miniature tulips? Ones with frilly
edges? I couldn’t remember. I only recalled the warmth and happiness they brought
because they weren’t ordinary flowers. She planted the bulbs and I willed them to
grow.
Green poked through the soil. “Oh,
look!” I said, enormously pleased. “Our tulips are growing!”
Leaves shot upwards—narrow leaves
for tulips, but that was consistent with my memory of these flowers having
unusual qualities.
And then, “Oh, look! My tulips are
budding!”
My interest changed to alarm when every single bud drooped until it
was parallel to the ground. Not being a Plant Lady, I didn't know what might
have caused this. Were they diseased? Planted too shallow? Did bugs chew tunnels
through the bulbs? I hated to break the news to my daughter, but I thought a fair
warning was in order.
“I’m afraid there is something
wrong with our tulips,” I told her. “The buds aren’t supposed to bend down like
that. I don’t think they’ll bloom after all.”
But they did bloom. And they were
daffodils. White daffodils with yellow centers and extra petals.
I am not a Plant Lady, but maybe
there’s still hope for me. My lime green succulent pushed out new growth. I have a sparse
and spindly—but living—snake plant. I have an orchid that bloomed four years in succession and a gloxinia that survived my son’s dark predictions of
its death. I have even kept a new-to-me Chinese money plant alive, green, and
growing for several months. It’s that money plant that I have my eye on. As soon as it produces
cold hard cash, I’ll know I have finally become a bona fide Plant Lady.
