Not a Plant Lady

 

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.