I appreciate folks that have a green thumb. The General's mother could grow any kind of indoor plant. Plants seemed to flourish under her care. That ability wasn't passed on through DNA to the General. For that matter, I don't have a green thumb either.
We both love plants but come dangerously close to garnering the same kind of reputation held by Dr. Jack Kevorkian for his end-of-life care. When it comes to flourishing plants, you don't always find them at our place.
When the General and I moved to Austin in the mid-1970s, we found ourselves in a culture that valued the benefits of indoor plant life. We had friends that nurtured plants that seemed to thrive. We wanted to fall into that category because we liked the look.
I can't begin to tell you how many African violets we purchased that seemingly held such beauty and promise until they didn't. Maybe you know what I'm talking about?
Of course, we never gave names to our plants or talked to then like they were part of the family. We've known an eccentric friend of two that did those things. In addition, soothing music often filled their home because it was good for the plants.
At one time, I carried responsibility for being the standards and policy specialist for residential child care licensing related to regulation of children's homes and foster care in Texas. During that period, standards for hospitals required the presence of plants scattered throughout the environment. That never gravitated over into child-care licensing standards, but I figuratively carried the concept in the back of my head.
I can't count the number of arts and crafts shows the General and I attended on auditorium shore in Austin during those early years of being Austin residents. Often plants were included as items to be purchased at those shows.
The memory of those times seems long ago, but it has been an enjoyable experience to think back of those days this morning. The trigger for thinking back on those days is a schefflera plant that mostly didn't flourish (of three stalks, only one survived). The lone stalk was about five feet tall when we moved into temporary housing 18 months ago.
Today the plant is touching the ten-foot ceiling. The plant must be supported by braces to stay upright. If my memory is correct, the plant was provided as an expression of sympathy and support by loved ones at the funeral of my wife's mother.
When a plant comes your way through a grief experience, it becomes a two-edged sword. You must take exceptional care of the plant because of the family connection. If it doesn't survive, that represents another loss.
For those of you gifted with green thumbs, I'm open to suggestions of what to do with a spindly one-stalk Schefflera that touches the ceiling. It reminds me of the story, "Jack And The Bean Stalk".
All My Best!
Don
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