As My Houseplants Lay Dying
You know you’re getting old when you say things like, “Back when I was in college…” Usually with a nostalgic tone of voice, like when my friend KJoy was visiting and we reminisced about the amazing cream of cajun carrot soup we used to eat at this restaurant where we worked, Mulberry Street Pizzeria (in San Rafael. Smith Ranch Road. Go ye forth and try the soup).
KJoy: We used to eat so much of that soup!
Me: And the french bread! We’d have at least five pieces of it, which is like half a loaf, and just dip it in the soup…it’s amazing we didn’t gain fifty pounds.
KJoy: That’s because we were nineteen.
(To my nineteen-year-old self: ENJOY THAT METABOLISM WHILE IT LASTS, SISTA.)
But this post isn’t about metabolism. It’s about houseplants. And how, back when I was in college, I loved them and I could grow them and keep them and they were just lovely little points of green in my life. I even talked to them because I read somewhere that it helped them thrive. Of course, back when I was in college, I was in the Bay Area, and not in the Central Valley, which is basically a hair dryer and not conducive to growing much except cacti and tomatoes. When I moved back to the Hair Dryer, all my favorite plants died. I’ve replaced them with a few others, but now they’ve gotta compete with kids.
Apparently in my house it’s survival of the whiners, and guess what: houseplants don’t whine.
I no longer talk to my houseplants, but I think they are talking to me. Their message is loud and clear.