See Faux Go

PLANT KILLER

I am staring at a potted plant in full bloom that I got for Mother's Day. There is a wastebasket below it and I am so severely tempted to place the whole thing in the basket. It is a strange feeling. It's like an obsessive, compulsive notion that keeps on nudging me to do just that. There is a nagging voice inside me that urgently tells me that it would be easier to chuck it now than later when the flowers are dried up and the leaves are so brittle that I would simply make a big mess just by moving the pot. That same voice also tells me that it is taking up room on my already cluttered desk and the sooner I trash it, the easier it would be to tidy up. I resist the strong temptation. And I have a difficult time enjoying the blossoms because I know that in due time, it will die no matter how much I care for it. I am a plant killer.

Plants and I don't get along very well. I've had grandiose dreams of blooming flowers and healthy, happy plants thriving in my care. Make that dream more like a nightmare.

One time, I bought a beautiful bamboo plant from San Diego. It was most dense and had an undeniable character. I lovingly placed the pot in a large ceramic container making sure that there was ample drainage so the roots don't bound. Every morning, I would talk to Mr. Bamboo and spray some tepid water on its leaves and stems thinking that this would refresh it and make it happy. I made sure the soil was not wet nor dry. I fed it the recommended fertilizer and placed it in a sunny, southern exposure so its leaves will enjoy the sun.

Then the leaves began to fall off. There was a white, milky substance on the leaves and I didn't think too much of it until one morning, I noticed that there were tiny, tiny white dots moving on the surface of the leaves. Aphids! By this time, most of the leaves had fallen and I had no wherewithal, whim or fancy as to how to fix the problem. Mr. Bamboo died a sad, slow death.

Then there were the various flamboyant topiaries made of delicate ivy. I purchased several of them. Some where shaped like round wreaths, some where heart-shaped, others were round balls of happy ivy and yet others were double-rings. I loved ivy topiaries! I placed them in beautiful containers and pots. Sometimes, I even tied a bow on the stem. I lovingly cared for them, talked to them, watered them. But one by one, their leaves turned an ugly brown or sickly darkest green and then die. Every single time. I think I went through over a dozen of these vain attempts to keep them alive to no avail. I would kill them all haplessly and helplessly.

In due time, I simply bought topiaries with the expectation that they would last only a few days before I threw them in the trash. Presently, I no longer purchase them and have settled instead for the gloriously fake ones. Consequently, I no longer have live plants in my house.

I think that taking care of plants is a mystic calling that unfortunately, was not bestowed upon me by the garden gods that be. I accept that. I envy the stalward devotee who can, with just the touch of his or her hand, make plants happy, bountiful and thriving.

As for me, I've moved on accepting that there are other things that demand my nurturing.