I am a plant lover with a dirty little secret—my houseplants are dying of neglect.
At the moment my foyer and dining room look like a horticultural ICU, with patients that include a collection of geraniums, cacti, African violets, orchids and amaryllis. Most spent last summer outside, happy and healthy. The majority of the geraniums belong to my daughter, a pelargonium fanatic, who goes to graduate school in another state. I am their caretaker and if plant care were state regulated, Social Services would have taken them away by now.
The plants’ ailments are legion—dead branches, leggy growth, and overcrowded conditions. Most have fertilizer spikes in their pots because even a lazy gardener can manage that kind of minimal effort. However, the spikes work better if the plants are watered regularly and lately the watering in this establishment has been catch-as-catch-can. If I listen carefully, I can hear the pink, middle-aged diva geranium in the living room wailing “not good enough.” She is echoed by the other plants, joining their voices in a feeble chorus. All are excoriating me with their dying breaths.
The situation is not entirely my fault. The October hurricane left us without power for eleven days when the indoor temperature varied from chilly to nearly unbearable. The plants held up, though a few probably entered dormancy. By the time the lights and heat came back on, I was ready to enter dormancy as well. The storm was followed by an array of domestic and occupational emergencies of varying sizes. I tuned out the plants’ collective gnashing of teeth, watering every once in awhile and vowing to do better when life resumed its normal routines and parameters.
Now things are as normal as they are going to get and it is time to come to grips with the plant situation. If I were extremely practical, I would get the big plastic garden tub from the garage and start hauling the plants out to the composter. This would take many trips and a fair amount of time. After this massive purge, I would have to spend even more time sweeping up the trail of dead leaves and other plant detritus.
But when it comes to plants—even leggy geraniums in extremis—I am not practical. I am, in fact, sentimental. Very early on Christmas morning, while the family slept, I got out my clippers and a big bowl and began going from plant to plant, chopping off dead parts, tying up floppy stems, watering deeply and sweeping up after myself. I didn’t get it all done, but now, whenever I have five or ten minutes, I continue the process. The pots that have already been treated look a little sparse now that all the dead stems are gone. In the days to come I may even consolidate and repot some of the geraniums to make the display look fuller.
I also hooked up the plant lights, something which should have been done back in October. The extra light should stimulate some new growth in the rejuvenated specimens. It makes me feel better too.
One of the best things about gardening is resilience. My plants have suffered grievous neglect, but they have soldiered on. The Christmas cactus has offered up several double, pink and white blooms. Last year’s amaryllis has a green leaf emerging from the still-robust bulb. The ‘Frosty Cherry’ African violet on the kitchen windowsill has produced several big red-purple and white splashed blooms that cheer me up when I do the dishes. Various geraniums have sprouted bright blossoms, proving yet again that they really don’t need all that much water. All in all, the plants are healthier than they have any right to be and that makes me feel just a little less guilty.
Sometimes life interrupts gardening. The good news is that plants can often take such interruptions in stride. We gardeners should do so as well.