The Plant Whisperer

The Plant Whisperer
[This story is based loosely on my wife, Sue’s uncanny relationship with plants.]
by Dave Wright

The smell of bacon, eggs, and maple syrup greeted us at the door as we walked into a restaurant halfway up the Gunflint Trail. We scanned the crowded room for an empty table. Plaid flannel shirts filled half the seats—and half of them were tucked behind red and green suspenders.

“Looks like we came to the right place for our last meal,” I said to Sue. “We won’t see an over-easy egg or a rare steak for at least two weeks.”

My wife and I were embarking on a trip to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, one of our favorite vacation spots. Our cedar-strip canoe and Duluth packs laden with boxed wine, dried dinners, and gorp (a mixture of nuts, M & M’s and raisins) waited in the parking lot.

“I think you’re right,” replied Sue. “You can’t beat a restaurant with a full parking lot, a clean door, and people who look like they love to eat.” She turned to me and murmured under her breath, “It looks like every button in here is about to explode.”

I chuckled in agreement and waited for the waitress in faded blue jeans to seat us. She motioned us to a table overlooking a deck and screened porch. “Something to drink?” she asked as we were seated.

“Coffee for me. Thanks,” I said.

“Tea for me, please,” responded Sue.

“Sorry. No tea.”

“OK. Just water then.”

The waitress stepped to the next table and interrupted their conversation to deliver their bill. “Will there be anything else?”

“No thanks. Everything was fine, but may we have a doggie bag?” asked the suspendered man at the table. “Brandy would love this left-over steak.” Suspenders looked up at the waitress. “She’s our rescue dog and is waiting in the car. The windows are rolled down, of course—don’t want to be accused of cruelty to animals, you know.”

“Sure. I’ll be right back,” said the waitress who shook her head at the T-bone laying bare against the egg-yolked plate.

“Wasn’t Brandy well-behaved on our canoe trip?” said the woman sitting across from Suspenders. She brushed a crumb off her L.L. Bean outfit. “I’m sure she enjoyed it so much more than being stuck in a kennel for a week.”

Suspenders shook his head in agreement. “She sure loved playing with those chipmunks. I hope the other campers on the lake didn’t mind her barking.”

“I’m sure they understood,” said L.L. Bean.

I shook my head and mouthed to Sue, “Glad they are on their way home.”

A more immediate concern caught Sue’s attention. “Look at those poor plants!” She gazed across the deck at a half-dozen limp fuchsia plants dangling from their baskets. “They’re calling to me,” she said sympathetically.

I followed her gaze and watched the baskets sway in the wind.

“I’ve got to see what they have to say,” she sighed. With that she left me to listen to more compliments being heaped on Brandy.

Out on the porch, Sue approached the fuchsia in the middle basket and examined it closely. Serrated leaves curled in despair. Several others, dried to powder, were scattered on the deck below. Others on the verge of falling clung by a thread. A brittle stem clutched a tenacious flower still in full bloom. It proudly displayed dark magenta petals set in a pure white sepal. Filamentous stamens tipped with bright yellow anthers protruded from the corolla. A single pink pistil extended beyond the stamens, eager to capture a grain of pollen and carry it to the ovule below.

“You’re a beauty!” Sue whispered to middle plant. “What’s the problem?”

“Finally! Someone willing to listen to us,” shouted Middle. “No one has paid any attention to us for weeks.”

“We’ve been screaming ‘til we’re hoarse,” cried the plant in the next basket, “and no one heard us—until you did.”

“Well, I’m here now,” said Sue turning to Next. “I see that your leaves are wilting and you’re losing your flowers.”

“What plant can keep a flower blooming when we are struggling to live?” whined Next, whose dried-up flowers were strewn on the floor below her.

Middle waved a hanging stem and explained, “Life was great earlier in the summer when our nights were cool and the air was moist. Besides, your waitress watered us every few days. We were in heaven.”

“But then that arrogant chef that calls himself a gardener told her she was spending too much time with us and not enough with his customers,” complained Next. “He claimed that he’d take care of us…He should stick to frying eggs.”

“Yeah,” cried the plant at the end of the row. “He ignores us—and the waitress isn’t allowed to visit us when she is on duty.”

“The weather turned hot a couple weeks ago,” said Middle, “and this wind is sucking the moisture out of us,”

“We’re hanging here like it was Friday at Golgotha,” choked End.

“We had an Easter Lily on the deck with us this spring,” said Middle. “It was like having a gospel revival meeting every day.

“She was wonderful,” said End wistfully. “So inspirational!”

Middle lifted colorful petals to roll her eyes. “It took three weeks, but Lily’s flower eventually wilted. That shut her up.”

Middle continued with a conspiratorial whisper. “End over there was converted. The rest of us listened politely—but we’re still agnostic.”

Sue smiled. “I’m not here to argue theology—particularly with a plant—but I sympathize with your predicament.” She stooped to pick up a wilted fuchsia.

“Without our flowers, we’re hideous,” cried Next. “No one even looks our way.”

“Isn’t that just like people?” exclaimed Middle in irritation. “If you’re not a beauty, no one has a moment for you.” The distraught fuchsia stared at the flower in Sue’s hand. “Why don’t they look at our green leaves or consider the complexity of our roots? Can’t they see our inner beauty?”

Sue smiled and said, “I understand what you’re saying.” She turned to return to the restaurant. “I’ll find you some water. That should make you feel better.”

“While you’re at it, tell that moron chef that our roots are itching to get out of these pots,” complained End.

Sue looked over her back and gave End a reproachful look. “You sound pretty belligerent for a born-again flower, but I’ll see what I can do.”

Sue returned to our table, asked the waitress for a pitcher of water, and leaned in my direction. “Those hanging fuchsia plants are dying. They’re dehydrated and pot-bound.”  

Disappointment filled Sue’s voice. “How can anyone let that happen to a plant? What if those dog lovers treated Brandy like this chef treats its plants?” She looked over her shoulder. “Do you suppose anyone would mind if I watered them?”

“I don’t see anyone here that would turn you in,” I said, “but if you try to re-pot them, I might. I want to launch the canoe sometime today.”

The waitress dropped off the pitcher of water and took our order. As soon as the waitress turned her back, Sue grabbed the water and snuck out to the porch again.

The fuchsias lapped up the water. I could hear the plants waving thankyous as she returned to eat her breakfast.

By the time I had finished my steak and eggs and Sue had eaten her omelet, the fuchsias had brightened up. The leaves looked greener and the stems perked to attention. “I’ll leave a note for the waitress with a twenty-dollar tip,” said Sue. “I’ll ask if she can re-pot the fuchsias after work tonight.”

We entered the Boundary Waters leaving one less care behind.

****

One Sunday morning I was sitting in church dozing through the sermon when Sue elbowed me awake. “Is there a law against kidnapping plants?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered back. “I don’t think it is one of the commandments.”

She ignored my cynical reply and continued, “See that flag plant next to the altar? It looks anemic. I don’t think it’s getting enough light.”

“You’re the plant doctor, but a rescue in the middle of the service might be inappropriate.”

“I’ll come back this afternoon before they lock up. I’ll bet they won’t miss it if I take it home for a week and set it in the sun.”

“Forgive us, Lord,” we chanted in unison. “Your mercy is great.”

That afternoon, we were taking our daily garden tour in the back yard. Sue paused at the corner bed to gaze at a fernleaf peony that rose above the lamium ground cover. She looked at the compact balls of red flowers. They sprouted from the plant like Christmas ornaments. “The seventh commandment says, ‘Thou shalt not steal.’” She turned to me. “You know, I took this plant from a dumpster. Do you suppose that counts as stealing?” she asked.

“I expect there is dispensation for dumpster diving,” I replied with a good-natured shrug. “Isn’t there a verse in John that says, ‘Gather up the leftover fragments, that nothing may be lost?’ You can use that as your defense.”

“How long have you been waiting to share that pearl of wisdom?” she asked in disgust.

“Sorry,” I replied. “Had to dig deep to remember that one.”

 “I think a better defense would be a before and after picture. That was once a sorry-looking plant. It’s now a centerpiece of this bed. It certainly didn’t deserve the compost bin.”

We continued our tour as Sue pointed out other plants that she has rescued. A flowering currant taken from our home in Blooming Prairie forty years ago introduces the garden. Every spring it presents us with a heavenly scent of cloves. Perennials rescued from Sue’s gardening clients who were dissatisfied with their performance found a new lease on life in our garden. Variegated hostas divided and taken from our brother-in-law’s garden spread beneath a canopy of trees. They all appeared content in their new home.

****

While preparing for a vacation, most people worry about stopping the mail, arranging to have the lawn mowed, and packing the right number of shirts. Sue worries about having a mass funeral for her houseplants when she returns. This is too important to be left to an amateur. She looks to a professional who offers to manage the search for a home plant caregiver.

The professional reviews a pile of resumes, selects several promising candidates, and approaches the first candidate’s home with a doorway interview. Q. Do you have experience raising house plants? A. Lots. I consider myself an expert. Q. Where do you get your plant advice? A. I look to Dr. Phil for all things medical—including plant advice. He’s so knowledgeable. Q. What kind of music do your plants prefer? A. Fifties rock‘n roll. I’ve found that my plants do best with a daily dose of Elvis. Q. Have you cared for other people’s house plants? A. Of course. Q. Can you give me a list of references? A. Sorry. That’s confidential information. Q. What kinds of plants do you own? A. Too many to mention. Q. Do you know their Latin names? A. Yes, but I don’t want to sound like a snob. (The professional shakes her head.) Last Q. How often do you water? A. That depends.

“Congratulations,” sniffed the professional. “Your answers intrigue me. I will continue with a review of the premises.”

The candidate cracks the door and the professional marches in like a commandant. The commandant opens her clipboard to a checklist patterned after the humane society’s checklist for adopt-a-pet: Is the doghouse heated and air conditioned? Are the candidate’s plants housed in a temperature-controlled environment? Check. Is there a kennel equipped with an exercise area? Does the candidate’s house have windows that open to provide fresh air for the plants? Check. Are all the pets in the household current on their vaccinations? Is there evidence of fertilizer in the candidate’s pots? Check. Are certificates of vaccination available for inspection? Is the plant food outdated? Five years. Hmm. Is there a comprehensive parasite control program in place?  Are products available for mite control? Essential oils and herbal water. Hmm.

“Please sign and date,” commands the commandant as she stuffs the clipboard into her shoulder bag. “My client will be interested in this report.”

“We are nearly finished,” says the commandant craning her long neck into the living room. “The only thing left is a detailed inspection of the house and an examination of your plants.”

The commandant wanders from room to room counting the windows. Tut, tut, tut. Too few and too small. Dark drapes. This will never do. She takes out her compass and checks the direction the windows are facing. Limited southern exposure…this does not look good. She spots a calla lily in a north-facing window. That will never flower. Then she sees a flag plant and an African violet withering in a lonely south-facing window. She shakes her head, moves to the next room and pulls an ultraviolet light meter from her bag. She waves it in the air and looks at the lumens registered on the digital screen. Pathetic.

The commandant continues her exam. She plunges her finger into the potting soil of an elephant-eared begonia. She wiggles it around like a proctologist searching for an enlarged prostate. Texture? Moisture? Quantity of organic matter? She knits her brow, removes her finger, takes a quick whiff and squints at the residue. “That plant is potted in clay,” she says in dismay.

The commandant heaves her bag over her shoulder and turns to the candidate. “That plant will soon drown,” she pronounces with the gravity of a judge. “I may have to turn you in to the PHSA—the Plant Humane Society of America. “I’ll submit my report to my client. You can expect to hear from me within a week.”

The candidate shrinks from the doorway as the commandant barges past. “My client deserves better,” the commandant mutters as she strides off to another interview.

****

While I was stuffing sleeping bags behind the seat, rearranging the dry goods, and looking for a space in the luggage for a bottle of bourbon, I heard a moan from our home office. “None of these will do,” cried Sue.

I looked in the door to find her shredding heaps of paperwork delivered to her by her hired professional.

“Who did you decide will be taking care of your plants?” I asked cautiously.

A sigh of exasperation escaped as she motioned to a mounting pile of shredded paper. “None of these applicants are qualified. I couldn’t trust any of them with my plants.” 

“What are you going to do? We are planning to leave in a few minutes.”

“I’ve decided to recruit my own plant caregiver. I made a list of instructions. They are really quite simple.”

1. Water the plants no more than once a week.
2. Check the thermostat on the wall to make sure the temperature is not too hot or cold.

3. No need to call if there is a problem. I’m on vacation.
Thank you for caring for my plants. Sue

“And who is going to read these instructions?” I asked again.

“I’ve called a friend who only needs one important quality—good intentions.”

Sue turned off the shredder, closed the door to the office and followed me to the car. “They’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

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