I don't think I'll ever stop laughing at "My son built a solar-powered watering system that measured soil moisture and released dew-sized droplets of humidity as needed, like he was maintaining her in an induced coma."
I have a plant, eerily similar to Marissa, that I call “Spider Plant”. Most plants that I have anything to do with die, and Spider Plant languished for years threatening to do the same—until finally I just took it outside, still in pot, and shoved it under the deck where I wouldn’t have to hear its feeble cries anymore. Somehow, even through two summers of over 100 degrees and no water, Spider Plant has thrived and multiplied, far beyond the limits of possibility, whatever that means. Now I go about my days helping others to understand the true recipe for horticultural success—which really just comes down to providing a fine balance of Neglect and Not Having the Plant Anywhere Near You. I do this work for little or no money or praise because it nourishes my skull. I mean soul. Or is it skoul?
“…but it was gross negligence. Second-degree herbicide.” I don’t often get asked by my husband, ‘what’s so funny?’ while I’m reading. Believe it or not, Spider plant babies are called, wait for it, sounds like Raelettes, yes! spiderettes. And since I am never sure this is fact, I’m going with an elaborate fact/fiction. For future reference, if you want to give the spiderettes their best chance at survival, you can; leave them attached to their ‘umbilical cord’ and plant directly next to Marissa in the same pot, use a straight pin right through the center into the soil to keep in place until the babes are growing, then cut the cord. Or , continue on with your shot glass method until they have 2-3 inch hairs growing out their little bottoms.
Love, love, love your story. I’m not much of a plant person either. Too much stuff to take care of already. But that didn’t stop every well meaning friend who came to visit me 25 years ago from bringing a plant and a chicken casserole. Apparently that’s what happens when you have cancer. But in spite of my neglect, each and every plant refused to die. Oh, they looked scared for sure. After every visitor, two little 8 and 10 year old voices (the reasons I refused to die) would trot out the new family mantra, “Don’t leave me here. She won’t even remember to water me until I’m half dead.” Which was true. But half dead is better than full dead so we all marched on together.
As I write this it occurs to me that this funny little mantra we all leaned on back in those dark days may actually have been playing in my little girls’ heads as, “Don’t leave me here. Who will water me?” But it’s natural to silo really scary thoughts so we worried for the plants instead. And in the process, I guess I became a little bit of a plant person. I still can’t get rid of a poinsettia until it takes me aside in April or May and says, “No, really, it’s time. I’m not afraid of the compost pile.” And so we march on.
Love how this plantastrophic adoption has now become intergenerational family, growing to impinge on the space of others in your human family. Kids will be kids.
I don't think I'll ever stop laughing at "My son built a solar-powered watering system that measured soil moisture and released dew-sized droplets of humidity as needed, like he was maintaining her in an induced coma."
You should have seen it. It was brilliant. He explained it to me, but I couldn’t get past “wow.”
Well, I absolutely adore this story! And Marissa.
Spider plants! Bring back my flower child days!
Marissa is the best French Mistress any plant-phobic guy could ask for. Perhaps mistress-phobic too. Secretly I’m sure Melanie is pleased.
I have a plant, eerily similar to Marissa, that I call “Spider Plant”. Most plants that I have anything to do with die, and Spider Plant languished for years threatening to do the same—until finally I just took it outside, still in pot, and shoved it under the deck where I wouldn’t have to hear its feeble cries anymore. Somehow, even through two summers of over 100 degrees and no water, Spider Plant has thrived and multiplied, far beyond the limits of possibility, whatever that means. Now I go about my days helping others to understand the true recipe for horticultural success—which really just comes down to providing a fine balance of Neglect and Not Having the Plant Anywhere Near You. I do this work for little or no money or praise because it nourishes my skull. I mean soul. Or is it skoul?
💀You may have taken it too far. I would keep a close eye on that plant. And I’m sorry but Marissa can’t play with Spider anymore.
“…but it was gross negligence. Second-degree herbicide.” I don’t often get asked by my husband, ‘what’s so funny?’ while I’m reading. Believe it or not, Spider plant babies are called, wait for it, sounds like Raelettes, yes! spiderettes. And since I am never sure this is fact, I’m going with an elaborate fact/fiction. For future reference, if you want to give the spiderettes their best chance at survival, you can; leave them attached to their ‘umbilical cord’ and plant directly next to Marissa in the same pot, use a straight pin right through the center into the soil to keep in place until the babes are growing, then cut the cord. Or , continue on with your shot glass method until they have 2-3 inch hairs growing out their little bottoms.
A hair has reached about a half inch. Mother is resting peacefully.
Love, love, love your story. I’m not much of a plant person either. Too much stuff to take care of already. But that didn’t stop every well meaning friend who came to visit me 25 years ago from bringing a plant and a chicken casserole. Apparently that’s what happens when you have cancer. But in spite of my neglect, each and every plant refused to die. Oh, they looked scared for sure. After every visitor, two little 8 and 10 year old voices (the reasons I refused to die) would trot out the new family mantra, “Don’t leave me here. She won’t even remember to water me until I’m half dead.” Which was true. But half dead is better than full dead so we all marched on together.
As I write this it occurs to me that this funny little mantra we all leaned on back in those dark days may actually have been playing in my little girls’ heads as, “Don’t leave me here. Who will water me?” But it’s natural to silo really scary thoughts so we worried for the plants instead. And in the process, I guess I became a little bit of a plant person. I still can’t get rid of a poinsettia until it takes me aside in April or May and says, “No, really, it’s time. I’m not afraid of the compost pile.” And so we march on.
Who will water me, indeed. “But half dead is better than full dead so we all marched on together.” From the Hymn of the Society of Brown Thumbs.
I also struggle with a few green ‘things’ in my home. I love the idea of a plant on a windowsill being like a cat and this will stay with me. Thanks
That’s lovely to hear. I just came home and checked on her after her big day on the internet. Mom is resting comfortably. 🍀
Love how this plantastrophic adoption has now become intergenerational family, growing to impinge on the space of others in your human family. Kids will be kids.
Also, was thinking about this the whole time (specifically 2:10): https://youtu.be/unyQYOuOdkI?si=H_gUTbGrqV1xjKE4