On Life And Limb
By Irene Potter
Summer in Florida, although portrayed quite romantically to unsuspecting tourists, is a most uncivilized season. The mosquitoes, wasps and weeds to have their run of the land; it is simply too hot to care.
However, sensing just the slightest cool down in the mornings and evenings, we gardeners become giddy with the thought of toiling amongst the overgrown and haggard shrubbery. We all slowly and cautiously emerge from the cool rocks we’ve been “summering” under, and begin to take an inventory of how our yards and gardens have fared this year.
What did well, what didn’t? Why? These questions are just flip sides of the same botanical coin. A plant that’s done well for years may start looking distressed. Something has changed. We address the obvious culprits: add more fertilizer, water more, water less, we ask other green thumbs for advice. We wring our hands, “What to do, what to do?”…we resort to talking nicely to the plant-calm, encouraging words, but still…drooping leaves, dropped flowers, vacancy.
Is it possible that the plant feels fatigued by the monotony of its own existence - grow,
flower, seed, repeat? Can it just get bored of its own life and give up?
They must hope that their gardener will figure it out.
This past April, I bought two milkweed plants at Green Fest at Plant Park. This outdoor gardening festival is quite intoxicating; cheerful flowers that would never normally grow in Florida and hearty plants that have been coaxed into blooming just this one weekend all scream, “pick me, pick me”! I know because I’ve heard their siren call, and have forked over lots of cash in this green seduction.
So, I planted these two milkweeds in my backyard with the anticipation of having my garden appear on the butterflies’ version of Southern Living. “When passing through Palma Ceia, make sure you stop off for some great local flavor milkweeds to die for!” One milkweed plant just thrived; it swayed in the breeze as if listening to its own spicy iTunes, showing off its yellow and red flowers.
However, its unhappy sibling showed signs of discontent right away. It started forming seed pods immediately as if to say, “I’m outta here!” I watered it more, and it responded with a few perky leaves, but then slowly wilted again-its enthusiasm and water stores were short lived.
I insisted it live; I nurtured this plant with everything I could muster and was determined it would thrive in the location I had selected no matter what. I had something to prove after all; that I was a resilient and intrepid gardener who would face down this botanical challenge. Could I will the plant to thrive? I’d try.
Things always have to hit rock bottom before we even consider concocting a
“Plan B.” Such was the case upon arriving home one afternoon to find my milkweed in complete collapse. It had given everything it had, but now, even its reserves were depleted. What had I done? I searched my mind for possible remedies when my husband piped in, “Why don’t you just transplant it?” My analytical husband David has an uncanny ability to point out the obvious, which has irked and intrigued me for all of our 22 years together. “I don’t know why you keep forcing it to live here; it’s obviously unhappy and has been telling you for weeks now. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad gardener. Just move it!”
I fretted about this for several days. What if the plant completely croaked because of the move? What if it was already too stressed? Perhaps if the plant died, I could justify my decision to move it by finding out if something had attacked it roots.
With my little spade at the ready, I took a deep breath in, and plunged the tool into the earth. Its roots were deep, there were no insects…could it be that it was simply time to move on?
I selected a new location for my fragile milkweed. I’d transplant it on the other side of the house, far away from the misery it had endured over the summer. It would either live or perish near a busy birdbath and Don Juan climbing rose that reminds me of the beautiful roses my parents grew. I didn’t have high hopes, but as my father always says, “It will either get better and live, or get worse and die.” It can be just that simple.
I watered it well and wished it luck but expected the worst. The poor little plant had tried so hard in its former location, and perhaps its will to survive had long since left aboard its seed floating along a Palma Ceia breeze.
The next morning as I was filling birdbaths, I barely noticed the milkweed, but not for the reason you may think. By some miracle of nature, the milkweed had made a full and swift recovery. It showed no signs of stress whatsoever, and instead was filled with potential- a certain courageous presence in nature that speaks directly to your soul.
This little plant had been speaking to me for weeks, but instead of listening, I continued to subject my own personality on the will of the milkweed. I didn’t want to accept what was really happening, and hoped some gardeners’ secret trick could be employed. Ironically, the soil, light conditions and water are quite the same as they were in its former location.
What had changed? My attitude. Even with its deep roots quite firmly embedded, and lots of TLC from me, the plant had to move to live.
I’m not afraid to take inventories of my garden anymore, and I am ready to dig up some of my own emotional roots. Do they need to be transplanted, are they headed for the compost pile, or are they contented with their chosen spot? Fall is a great time of the year to re-evaluate your springs and summers-get a leg up before winter nears. After all, sometimes gardening can be simple: when you’re restless, sad or feeling blue, just move yourself to the sunny side of the street.
Irene Potter grew up on Davis Islands and now makes her home in Palma Ceia.
