Amaryllis and Paperwhites

AMARYLLIS AND PAPERWHITES
            I am an optimist and it gets me into trouble all the time.  Right now some of the eleven amaryllis and forty paperwhite bulbs that I so optimistically ordered many weeks ago are in pots and dishes scattered all over the house, while the rest wait to be planted, rebuking me from their boxes in the kitchen.  They can’t wait long because most of them are showing signs of sprouting.  I look at those boxes, then I look at my optimistic face in the mirror and I say, “That’s another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.”

            This particular mess started last year when I waited too long to order amaryllis bulbs for winter color.  I am partial to the unique and beautiful varieties offered by one particular company, but unfortunately a lot of other more methodical people share my sentiments.  Last year I waited until the end of October to place my order, and the amaryllis offerings were sold out.  I made do with the amaryllis kits sold in my local supermarket, but I was not a happy camper.  This year I vowed to do better.

            In early September I seized the catalog, drooling over the single and double amaryllis, the elegant papilio varieties and the spider-like cybister types.  I wanted one in every color, from green-throated white to darkest, velvety red, not to mention the many selections with bi-colored blooms.  I was so smitten with the amaryllis smorgasbord that I decided that I would give amaryllis to my friends and family for the holidays.  I ordered ten assorted giant amaryllis and one double white variety.  I sighed with contentment at a job done in a good and timely manner.  Then I noticed the paperwhites.

            I used to grow a few paperwhites every year, setting the bulbs in a shallow dish filled with pebbles or tiny shells and water.  Like everyone else, I grew the Israeli-bred cultivar Ziva, which is the best-selling variety in the world.  The only problem with Ziva is the pervasive scent, which is sweet to some noses and fetid to others.  My daughter thinks Ziva smells like cat urine, which put a damper on my enthusiasm for growing it.

            This year’s catalog however, had a new paperwhite called Inbal.  The catalog copy emphasized its mild fragrance, and I decided right away to order a few.  Then my optimism kicked in and I thought how lovely it would be to have dishes of them strategically positioned all over the house.  I decided that forty bulbs would do the job nicely.  As I finished the amaryllis/paperwhite order I congratulated myself once again on getting it in on time.  And then I forgot all about it.

            The bulb company did not.  Two weeks ago, when I was up to my neck in work, the UPS man arrived, laden with bulb-filled boxes.  My optimism almost failed me.  I opened the boxes and made a note on my running to-do list about assembling six pots, four shallow bulb dishes, a big bag of potting soil and a mess of pebbles.  I decided to allot a precious fifteen minutes a day to the task of potting up all those bulbs. 

            Naturally I had failed to remember that my amaryllis bulbs would be as big as babies’ heads and would need individual pots.  I scrambled for five more of the right size.  The paperwhite bulbs were big too, making it necessary to augment the bulb dishes with a retired pie pan.  Then there was the issue of time.  Crumpled into a ball, my to-do list was bigger than one of the amaryllis bulbs, and it seems to get bigger every single day.  So far I have managed about ten minutes a day for planting.  It’s also been difficult to find enough sunny space, forcing me to be creative.  When my amaryllis and paperwhite adventure is over for the year, I am definitely going to write an article about the real convenience of forcing bulbs in a sun-filled bathroom where you can brush your teeth and water your bulbs at the same time.

            In the end, I know that optimism will triumph over the limitations of time, space and the availability of plastic pots.  My friends will get their glorious amaryllis when the plants are almost ready to burst into bloom.  I will sit back and enjoy my beautiful paperwhites and nothing–nothing–in my house will smell like cat urine.