Bloom Now - or Die!

Bloom Now – 

or Die!!

A two-year-old pinkflowerii prittithang.  Deb Marshall photo.

I am not a helicopter plant mother. I don’t talk to my plants, or sing to them, or even remember to water them all that often. I used to threaten them, but they never took me seriously, so I gave that up. My Nana was an effective plant-threatener: she’d say to an unblooming African violet, “You’ve got one week! Produce a bloom or out you go!” and one week later, that plant would be covered with lovely, quivering blossoms. 

Part of the problem might be that I can’t remember the plants’ names, so they aren’t sure who I’m muttering at. I read British magazines, and it seems that every person born in the United Kingdom - besides being able to instantly convert meters to inches in their heads - from the time they’re in long pants also knows the Latin name for species and variety of every common or uncommon plant. I, on the other hand, don’t always know even the common name, though I can usually produce a name in Mandarin if the plant’s used as a Chinese medicinal or used for food.

I don’t do badly with outdoors plants; as I stride purposefully by my summer garden on the way to somewhere else, I enjoy shouting at the thirsty plants crying out for a few drops of water, “You’re free-range! Find your own darned food!” Somehow, they almost always do. And I’m sure they’re better for it.

The indoor plants, however… what wimps they are. Most summers they go out on the wart, and as they stay in their pots, I take pity and throw water at them fairly regularly.  They seem to enjoy their outdoors vacation, and I imagine it’s a shock to return to the indoors, where I have been known to forget all about them for weeks at a time. The Christmas cactuses – mine all bloom on Hallowe’en (there’s a theological conundrum for you) -  don’t mind so much, but the others can get kind of cranky. I have a bay and a kaffir lime tree – I remember them because they end up in the soup – never get enough water to be happy; and there are several others that I should take better care of, because when I accidentally do, they produce lovely and even fragrant winter blossoms. One is a passionflower which is growing all over the windows, twisted up with an oblonggreenery vineythingii, which also produces a lovely scented white flower.  I have also several largebulbi fourflowersup that keep producing new bulbs and an occasional red or white winter bloom stem. There’s a freesia – I remember that one, don’t know why – which flops all over but stirs my soul with amazingly scented, salmon and rose-colored flowers most winters, once I remember to start watering it again after its dry summer rest; and I have three likesnorthlight orchidistuff, which will produce a bloom every year or so.

I usually manage to keep the house orchids alive, but at my office I regularly kill them off, somehow. And I have there an African violet that Nan would have tossed out many months ago. Even so, I somehow got designated the office plant careperson, which tells you something about the other folks who share the office suite.  Mostly, I try to remember to water the office inmates once a week. We have a rubber tree (da huang, I can remember that one), a heartleaved cantkillit, a spikeyleaf needsnosunii, and a giant hugegreenleaf fallinover.

The other day when I entered the office waiting room I noticed something, something was different…but what? It was somehow darker than usual.  Using my supersleuth powers, I soon detected that one of our floor lamps was now stretched out on the floor. The hugegreenleaf fallinover had finally fallen over. Months ago when it started drooping, I’d tied it to the lamp to keep it upright, so it took its prop down with it.

I vaguely remembered a patient telling me, as she watched me tie the plant to the lamp, that I could chop the leggy limbs off that plant and stick them into wet dirt and they’d root anew. With luck and proper watering, she said with a meaningful look, it would grow into a lush, more compact, lovely plant. 

So OK, I can do this. I stick sharp needles into people who can say OUCH! every day; how much harder can it be to do surgery on a mute plant?

This is one big plant – its leggy bits weren’t breaking off, no matter how hard I twisted. So I took a breadknife to it, that being the only sharp-edged tool in the office bigger than an acupuncture needle. Then I used a spoon and the knife to gouge a hole in the dry, compacted soil in its pot, and jammed the bit in. I artfully used some decorative rocks to hold it in place. And, in respect for its recent trauma, poured in a pitcher of water.

The same patient happened to come in not long after I finished operating, and I pointed out my work proudly. She narrowed her eyes and said, you know, if you had some potting soil and kept it damp it would probably root faster. 

Yeah, right. That would be cheating.

Before she left on winter sabbatical, the Actress gave me her giant container of MiracleGro.  “What’s this?” I asked her. “It’s plant food,” she answered. “Do I need this?” I queried. She just lifted one eyebrow.

I don’t know…maybe I should dig it out from under the kitchen sink. Would that be cheating?

(Deb tortures houseplants mostly in Wilmot; it’s true that you can get better results with a beer and a chat.)

Originally published in the Concord Monitor, 23 February 2017, as "Plant Manager."

Snow Day

SNOW DAY

Snow Day.

Ah, the school cancelled classes tonight, based only on tomorrow’s weather report. A patient or two have also rescheduled. Will I get a chance to sleep late? Wednesday is my very late night – a late class to teach, home very late, next week’s quiz to write, firewood to haul, woodstove to fill, barkie boys and furries who need their pills. Cat litter boxes to clean. Yesterday’s Monitor article to put onto the blog. 

The Husband’s fighting a cold, so off to bed as soon as I get home. Dogs out; dogs in. Treat! Treat! Treat! What does the weather report say? It’s going to snow all day tomorrow. If it actually happens – if the snow actually starts – I’ll need to get up early enough to reschedule my remaining patients. But first – a long overdue letter to a sister-in-law who planned to go to the Women’s March in DC, and who we haven’t heard from since. She lives in far Ohio and we want confirmation that she went and returned unharmed. I’ve never actually met her, and considered going to DC myself, thinking how much fun it might be to meet up with her for the first time at the March. Then I thought about the crowds, and changed my mind.

Dogs out; dogs in. Treat! Treat! Treat! It’s after midnight; supper was a long time ago. Shall I eat something? Hmmmm…nothing much in the frig, or at least, nothing that isn’t cold, which doesn’t appeal. It’s too late to cook, and I have too much to do before bedtime. The barkie boys have a solution: Treat! Treat! Treat!  I briefly wonder what a dog biscuit would taste like with peanut butter on it.

Emails from patients must be answered and an email about reserved books must be sent to the school. Put more wood in the stove, and the water pots atop the stove need refilling. The barkie boys jump up out of their slumbers as I head toward the kitchen. Treats? Treats? No, boys, just water for the woodstove. And water for me. Maybe a little vanilla in it, to fool my mouth into thinking I fed it. 

What’s this in the unpublished articles file? Oh – one that I started and never finished. What was that about…now I remember. Maybe I’ll just finish this one article. Oh – the printer needs an ink change. Maybe I’ll wait ‘til tomorrow. Maybe I’ll actually get a snow day, it would be lovely to have an unexpected, unplanned day. My ankles are cold; is it snowing yet? I’ll take a quick look – barkie boys jump to the alert: Walk? Walk? Walk? No boys, but go out and pee again, last outs. Oh, I’d better put some ice melt down on the wart steps, it’s slippery. Icy, in fact. Barkie boys back inside: Treats! Treats! Treats! I’d better roll up their tie-outs so they’re dry and out of the way when Brother comes through with the plow tomorrow. Man, it’s cold out there!

Back to the computer. It’s 2 am. Abu’s giving me the “what are you thinking??” hairy eyeball. OK, I’ll wait ‘til tomorrow to finish that article, but I’ve got to shut the computer down, and there’s that stupid rule I made about playing one game of Spider Solitaire before shutting it off. I forget why…something about entertainment. Just one game, really. No, really. Really.

OK, I’ll take you guys up to bed. Here we go, up the stairs, older dogs climbing slowly. Boost Abu onto the bed, play the Blankie Game. Tuck Roo into his bed, belly rub and blankies. One dim light left on, while I go downstairs to brush teeth and fill the stove one last time. Oh – I forgot to finish the Sudoku puzzle yesterday; maybe just a minute of that. And there was an article I wanted to read. Oh, well, I can do that while I’m brushing my teeth.

Wow. It’s 3:30 am. No snow yet. Boy, I hope tomorrow’s going to be a Snow Day. But, let’s see…I can sleep ‘til 10. I need to sleep ‘til 10. Everybody stay in bed late, OK?

Snow Day.

8 am: Roo barking in my face. The Husband’s still feeling crappy; OK, OK, give me a minute, I’ll get up. Slow slow slow down the stairs, Roo, don’t fall. Wow, it’s cold down here. OK, out you go Roo, be careful. Catmandude, you really don’t want to go out there – it’s snowing hard. Just for a few minutes, OK? I’ll go clean your litter boxes so you can use the indoor facilities.  Maybe I should feed the birds before this gets too bad, and start the woodstove again. The water pots have boiled dry overnight. Might as well get dressed; maybe I can snooze on the couch for a couple of hours after I take care of that stuff. 

OK, Roo in, wood hauled, water replenished, stove lit, litter boxes cleaned, wart rails brushed clear of snow and covered with birdseed. Catman’s still out. I’m going to lie down on the couch for a few minutes, wrapped in this lovely soft purple blanket. Oh – you’re up now, Abu? You need to go out? OK…Dogs out. Dogs in. Catman in. Breakfast! Breakfast! Breakfast! Breakfast! Breakfast!

OK, OK, and you need your pills, too. Aspirin and glycoflex for the barkie boys, thyroid pill for Catman, and a couple of treats for young Biscuit so she doesn’t try to steal Catman’s pill. Can I lie down now? I’ll have to call patients soon, this is really coming down hard. Maybe I should eat breakfast. Maybe not. Maybe a nap first. 

Roo, move over. OK, I’ll just drape my legs over you. Catman – are you really going to lie on top of my chest? And make bread? OK. You need a love-up. Lots of scratches and rubs and purring. I’m starting to drift off…

Plow passing by the window. Hark! Bark! Hark! Bark! Bark! Bark! 

OK guys, I give up. I need to call patients. Then I need to eat breakfast. Oh, good, the Husband’s up, and going down the slippery snowy driveway to fetch the newspaper back.  Something to read and hot soup and coffee milk to eat. Taste? Taste? Taste? Yes, boys, last bites; just wait ‘til I’ve finished, please.

I should take a nap. But the wind is howling, shrieking around the corner of the house, and snow is blowing as well as falling. Man, I’m glad this is a Snow Day. My ankles are cold, and so’s my neck – let’s fish out those legwarmers I haven’t needed yet this winter, and wrap this lovely Christmas scarf around my neck. Yes, that’s better. I’m going to get onto the computer and clean up those two articles, and maybe write another. Then I’ll take a nap. And make some cocoa. Yeah, that would be nice. And read a little bit. I haven’t had a chance to lie on the couch, warm blanket-wrapped, cocoa in hand, to read a book all winter. Oooh, that sounds nice… let’s get those articles done fast.

Growing dark; snow plow’s back.  Hark! Bark! Hark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Wow – where did the day go? Oh, look – there’s a ladybug strolling past my desk lamp. Wonder where it lives? In one of the plant pots, I hope.  I should put some lights on. Hi boys! Supper!Supper! Supper! Supper! Biscuits! Biscuits! Biscuits! OK. I’ll finish this up then go get you some supper, and figure out what daddy and I are going to have for supper. Just a few sentences more, and, well, the required Spider Solitaire game. Then computer off.

Really.

Snow Day.

For the blog alone.

Portrait in Winter

Deep in the night, the unsilent snow whispers down beyond the windows. Some days it is not nearly so hushed, scratching against the panes, the wind moaning or howling as it wends its wild way around the corners of the house. 

In the library tonight, my desk slumbers quietly; other nights it is restless, laying in wait for me, ready to pounce if I venture near it. On such nights we will wage a raging battle, until one of us wins – I wrest from it some treasure it dares me to claim as mine own, or I fall asleep, forehead bumping against the keyboard that seems to rise, whacking me awake to battle more.

Leslie Venable, Life magazine, January 8, 1945

The library is dimly lit; there is a desk lamp, down-turned green glass shade illuminating the work space on tonight’s quiet desk; blue glow of printer on-light; flicker of LED-flame candles on bookcase shelves - no heat to burn the precious volumes. In one window a banshee hovers above a reading gremlin; on the tippy-top of another bookcase a skull dimly glows. Below, in a corner, a gargoyle shows teeth as it squats, ready to jump. To one side, my mother-in-law the Model peers through the gloom, forever captured on a Life magazine cover, and above her the Tall Dude and the Musician look on. In the dark depths of one bookcase, a Chinese warrior ever stares at me; he won’t stop staring; he is ever disquieting. Through the double doors on the opposite side of the room, in the dim deepness of the living room, I hear snores, quiet shufflings, rhythmic loud breathing and at times a dream-squeak or rowl: the barkie boys and the furry people are sleeping, but will rapidly rise if I make any movement toward the source of all goodness: the night kitchen.

The Model, the imp, the gremlin and the banshee are haunts from earlier times who companionably share space with me and remind me of things I love. The Tall Dude, though ever wakeful on my library wall, I know is now slumbering and snuffling and sleep-muttering in his own dark house, next town over; the Musician at this late hour is as apt to be sitting at his baby grand, in the palely-illumined darkling depths of his house in the far Kingdom, doing battle with his own Muse, as I am here at my own desk; the Husband has long since ascended to the flannel sheets to ride out the night in a sensible way. I know that in sinking Florida, Kai is not long awoken from her daytime sleep, moving about her brightly-lit house, wondering what to eat for breakfast; The British Car Gal will now be in the deepest depths of sleep, soon to stir towards her early rising about the time I finally climb the stairs towards bed. There are no lights visible at out-back neighbor Eddie’s house; even the lanterns that dimly shine through the night hanging from trees along his property are dark tonight, swallowed by the snowfall. These and dozens of other pale threads of heart-connections wind love-knots in my spirit, comforting webs that can be lifted and lovingly caressed. I breathe a midnight blessing along them all.

The Chinese warrior has a story. He is, in fact, a gift from the Singer via the Sailor; she has a friend who is one of the company at the Metropolitan Opera in New York City. Every so often, the Met needs to renew its costumes, eliminating ones that will never be used again when productions change their presentations. Those who know can, at those times, acquire cast-offs; the warrior is one of those. I’ve lost the tag that told me the production it was from; but what it is, is a black Chinese foot-soldier’s helmet, with open face space in front for the actor, and, painted in white on the helmet’s back side, with startling realism, a Chinese face that pops out from the dark in full-human-sized 3-D wonder. I can imagine an on-stage troop of these characters – no matter which way they were facing, they would  seem to be looking at the audience; it would have been amazing, and creepy, and if worn in a real battle, would be totally frightening. I do so admire the unknown artist who conceived this piece.

A library, by definition – even a very small library in a tiny room in a home – is filled with works of art and old friends. Mine has many loved books, many oft-watched DVDs, dozens of CDs, and, stored away, vinyl from the dark ages when we were youngstahs. On one shelf is a covered bowl with twisted snakes forming a handle that the Model got in Greece; on another, a pottery jar containing a scarab given to me by an old friend. There are wooden bowls and pottery vases, woven baskets and sewn cloth bowls, a hand-made kaleidoscope, a set of chess men, a Chinese sword to scare off ghosts. A guitar hangs on the door frame, photos on the walls. Calla lilies live on one window sill, small glass and metal and ceramic and wooden critters march across another. In boxes and binders and baskets and piles lie the bones of the work we do, the work waiting to be done, the paper passages of the roads of our lives.

Deep in the dark night, deep in the snow time, all this – all this – is the body of my soul.

All photos by Deb Marshall

Originally published in the Concord Monitor as “Library Stories”, February 8, 2017.