Houseplants. Who needs them? Besides my grandma, whose living room resembles a jungle more than a place to watch QVC, I do. I admit; I do have five that I barely manage to keep alive. Every so often the proverbial light bulb goes off over my head, and I scramble to resuscitate their wilty foliage. More often than I wish to admit, however, a houseplant succumbs to neglect.
As I trudge to the green lawn refuse container in the backyard, a part of me mourns for this lost plant. The voices inside my head accuse me of murder. “It’s just a houseplant!” I retaliate, hoping my neighbors are not out and about, witnessing this ridiculous funeral procession. With something akin to regret, I open the lid and slowly, reverently dump the dead plant, with its black, lifeless leaves, into the dumpster. With a heavy heart, knowing that a plant died because of my inaction, I vow to never let another of my plants die. Inevitably, within another couple of months, I will repeat the same funeral service.
Because of these times, I wish I had inherited my mother’s disdain…no, hatred, really…for houseplants. Her reasons for hating them border on insane: they gather dust, they take too much work, and they make a mess. How a houseplant makes a mess, I’ve never understood. And as for dusting? My mother dusts everything, including her housecat. How can dusting one more thing add to her daily chores? Maybe it is the same heartbreak at burying a plant that keeps my mother from investing the time and energy into them.
In spite of inheriting many of my mother’s silly quirks, I refuse to be a house plant hater. So, instead of banning houseplants, like my mother, I encourage their arrival. I never say no to a houseplant, hoping that my grandmother’s steroid induced “green-thumb” will somehow find its way to me. In the process, I know casualties will arise. However, greatness is only attained through great sacrifice. Right?
