Plant Murderer

I am on the hunt for a houseplant to replace the potted fig tree that died while I was in North Carolina. I forgot to tell Omar to water it while we were away so I blamed him when I returned to find the green glazed pot in the corner of the living room containing only a tall, naked stalk staked to a bamboo support. Three withered, brown leaves lay limp in the dirt. 

“Omar!” I yelled at him, gesturing to the stick.

“Oh, sorry, Mom. You didn’t tell me about that.”

The truth is, those three leaves were the only thing left of the 4-foot tall fig tree that my friend Karleen brought me from Costco to replace the last one I killed. The actual truth is, I can’t keep a plant alive. Nick calls me the plant murderer. Okay, so I don’t have a green thumb. Everybody knows it. I accept my ineptitude in that area just like the ones in the areas of flower arranging or creating tablescapes. Or decorating for Christmas or Halloween or any of that crap. “I’m a domestic goddess failure. I admit it. I can’t be good at everything,” I told my interior designer friend, Ted when he guffawed with glee at the photo I’d just sent him of my latest tablescape attempt, a lop-sided centerpiece composition that I recreated straight from a Pottery Barn photo after going out and purchasing each item pictured. “I did make apple butter that one time, remember?” I reminded him.

I love the look of vibrant green plants and I know they’re a healthy addition to my indoor environment. Plus, I watch a lot of HGTV where decorators splash tropical green plants all over the place, creating visual drama. The empty corner behind my sectional sofa, directly across from my front door is the perfect place for some greenery. I can imagine the look I want, a tall, tropical tree in a large woven basket with a family of small, lively containers surrounding it, spilling over with leaves and flowers. 

But I just can’t seem to keep the tree (or any other plant, for that matter) alive. I don’t consider it murder in the first degree, but something like criminal negligence. I love buying plants and I always feel so hopeful and optimistic when I carry a pallet of perennials or a container of a climbing Madevilla in from my car. But I hate planting them. It’s so boring. So the plants that survive two weeks of inattention in their plastic containers get half-heartedly shoved into the ground or maybe in a left-over pot that’s too small to accommodate the roots. I’m too impatient to use any fertilizer, so I just water them and hope they live out the month. 

Last month during our College Roommates Reunion in the Smokies, we somehow got to talking about plants. Deb’s writer friend, Leah, was over for dinner and I told her that I was in charge of keeping my mother-in-law’s four potted plants alive and that I was sure she would blame me for their death when she returned. Leah said houseplants scared her. That set us off on a stream-of-consciousness discussion on the personalities of potted plants. I said I just didn’t think I liked them at all and that when I was responsible for them, I’d go, “Here’s some water, now shut up. Kind of like how I treated my kids.”

“Stop. You’re a good mother,” Deb said.

“Yeah, like when my kids got hurt,” Nance said. “I told them ‘rub some dirt on it.’”

“Nance is very nurturing,” I told Leah.

“You have to talk to plants nicely,” Beth said.

“Ugh, really?” I said. “That’s dumb.” But over the next few weeks, I tried being nicer to the plants. Mainly, I stopped saying, “I hate these plants.” It got me thinking about something Russell had told me many years ago. This was a grief issue. 

When Chloe was in the second grade, I decided that we should plant a vegetable garden together. It would be fun and a big learning opportunity for her. We would learn how to create a lovely garden and enjoy the fruits of our labor come dinnertime. So, with a springtime song in my heart, I gathered all the supplies, wood for the border of the garden bed, a small shovel, some seeds. We hoed up a few rows of sandy beach soil and planted our packets of seeds — carrots and potatoes, snow peas, watermelon and strawberries, all the foods Chloe liked. We waited with anticipation, watching for weeks for signs of growth, watering our rows diligently. Finally, a few pitiful green sprouts peeked up from the dirt. Was this what they were supposed to look like? Shouldn’t there be leaves and flowers, pods of some kind? I feigned confidence with Chloe, pointing to the dry tufts “Look, Babe! We got some veggies. Is this the carrots?” Chloe pulled a pale, orange two-inch long carrot up out of the sand, brushed it off on her shorts, took a bite and spit it back out. “Yuck,” she said. 

“What the hell?” I yelled when I tasted it. I’d never tasted a carrot that was bitter and dry. All this work for a row of anemic, inedible tubers? (This was pre-internet time, when it was more difficult to learn about soil amendment or anything else.) 

When I talked to my mentor, Russell the next day, I told him all about my failed attempt at gardening. “I’m so mad! I worked my butt off making that stupid garden, and it was all a big waste of time. And I don’t even like vegetables.”

“Leslie, you know what you have to do now,” Russell said. “Grieve the loss of your garden.” Russell was an expert in Grief Recovery and spent all day every day teaching people to complete their losses and to go forth with open hearts and open arms. 

I had forgotten about this advice and had gone into my relationships with plants with my heart guarded, knowing I would be sad and disappointed by their deaths. So I didn’t even put in the effort to keep them alive. Why dare to hope or waste my energy caring for them? 

Maybe I just needed to complete my losses and try again with an open heart. Maybe another type of tree. (My living room gets weak morning Southeastern exposure through the small window beside the corner in question, so maybe that’s the real problem.) I headed to Lowe’s to shop for my next victim. I wasn’t willing to invest too much money in this endeavor so I shopped around for a good deal, which I eventually found at Costco. I brought my finds home, gave them a good watering, placed them in my shadowy corner and didn’t say anything mean to them. A few hours later, I got a text from Karleen asking if I’d been to Costco where she’d seen some beautiful indoor plants. I sent her a photo.

“They look good…for now,” she texted.

“Let’s see how long they stay that way. Keep an open bed in your rehab,” I texted back. Every plant I killed ended up at Karleen’s house. I’d buy the plant, stick it in a pot, water it for a few months until it started drooping and shedding leaves, at which point Karleen would drive over in her SUV to collect it, laughing and tsking. She’d take it home for some well-deserved replanting, fertilization, sunshine and TLC. 

“Do I need to reserve a spot for these guys ahead of time? Oh well, they were only $19 and $14 so I don’t have that much to lose!” I texted. 

“Nooooooooo don’t think that way! Plants are meant to live a long life not to toss away after a few weeks. You made a commitment!!!!!!!” she texted. I think maybe she’s just tired of nursing my wounded. She told me she’d been cheering on my stick, coaxing, “Come on, Buddy, hang in there. You can do it.”

So I am planning on turning over a new leaf (no pun intended) and will go into relationship with these new plants with arms wide open. I will try to look at them as actual living things. I’ll give them the care and attention they deserve and if they end up sick, Karleen will show up in her big white SUV. If they end up dead, I’ll know how to grieve the loss.