I am a grandmother, which is hardly unusual. Like all grandparents, I like to brag that my grandchildren are unique. But that word is actually an understatement–all my grandchildren are geraniums. They belong to my daughter, who buys them, installs them in elegant pots and fusses over them like any other doting parent. She is very good at nurturing geraniums, but to be frank, she just isn’t around much. She is an absentee parent, gadding off to college and now grad school. Not wanting to favor one or two pelargonium children over all the others by taking them along on her travels, she leaves them all in my care. I may not have to diaper them or take them to the park, but I feed and water them and keep them tidy. I have even been known to repot them when they get obstreperous.
My father grew geraniums and occasionally he seemed more attentive to them than he was to his non-herbaceous children. Because of that, I never wanted any of my own. The gods of horticulture must have their little jokes, however, and now I have scores of thirsty geraniums that are totally dependent on me.
I have gotten used to that and now, like all grandmothers, I think my grandchildren are the most beautiful, compelling creatures ever created. They come in all shapes, sizes and colors–traditional zonals, fancy-leaf types and even scented varieties. I am proud of them when they thrive in the face of infernal heat or other environmental stresses. I worry about them when they falter. In the fall I race to get them inside before frost damages their leaves. In winter I cosset them with clip-on lamps to provide the extra light they need to get through the shortened days. In spring, I dutifully rearrange them on the back porch so they can look their best when their wayward mother finally comes to visit.
And what happens during those visits? Usually it’s clucking about condition, rearranging, incredibly meticulous clipping and general spoiling of the plants that I have worked so hard to nurture and discipline. If I turn my back for a minute, I find that new geraniums have mysteriously found their way into the back porch display. I mutter all kinds of threats about letting all of my green grandchildren fend for themselves, but my daughter knows that I have too much emotional investment in her and her geranium offspring.
Someday my child will have her own place in the sun, and my green grandchildren–or their successors–will leave. I expect that after the initial few days of relief, I will find it very lonely on the back porch. I think I could get used to the solitude, but my husband is absolutely certain that by day three I will be on my way to the local garden center to adopt a few geraniums of my own. He might be right.