At the end of each summer I am obligated to take in a
certain number of refugee plants. I am speaking of those rejected, less
than perfect leftovers that slipped through the cracks like so many wayward
human characters who wind up homeless.
Also like their human counterparts these sad specimens often only need one last break to make something of themselves. This is where softies like me come in. I scour through the sale and freebie corners of our local hobbit-like garden shop and Inevitably their plaintive little poses catch my eye.
A collapsed pack of once-dainty dianthus will be lying on its face muttering that all it needs is a little plot of soil and a drink of water. I will lift it closer and gently cup it in my hand to see if there really is any hope, and that's when the plant will lay it on thick. A wilted arm will dangle exposing one beautiful baby bud, fated to meet an unfulfilled destiny. I'm sure the dianthus sneaks a one-eyed peek from under its flopped leaf, at my tearful reaction to its sneaky strategy, because the minute I pop it onto my tray of ragtag adoptees it seems to miraculously recover enough to jostle for space with its future garden-mates.
But I'm not completely naive. Even if it only recovers by next spring we both win. The outcome can be eternal loyalty and extreme success, so grateful my adoptees seem to become.
In fact even as I write, some of the subjects of this essay are blowing me kisses and smiling adoringly up at me. Ah I love my garden.
Also like their human counterparts these sad specimens often only need one last break to make something of themselves. This is where softies like me come in. I scour through the sale and freebie corners of our local hobbit-like garden shop and Inevitably their plaintive little poses catch my eye.
A collapsed pack of once-dainty dianthus will be lying on its face muttering that all it needs is a little plot of soil and a drink of water. I will lift it closer and gently cup it in my hand to see if there really is any hope, and that's when the plant will lay it on thick. A wilted arm will dangle exposing one beautiful baby bud, fated to meet an unfulfilled destiny. I'm sure the dianthus sneaks a one-eyed peek from under its flopped leaf, at my tearful reaction to its sneaky strategy, because the minute I pop it onto my tray of ragtag adoptees it seems to miraculously recover enough to jostle for space with its future garden-mates.
But I'm not completely naive. Even if it only recovers by next spring we both win. The outcome can be eternal loyalty and extreme success, so grateful my adoptees seem to become.
In fact even as I write, some of the subjects of this essay are blowing me kisses and smiling adoringly up at me. Ah I love my garden.
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| Pinks (Dianthus) are great edible flowers |
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| This little one is still lying down, but already perking up. |
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| Solidly on its feet, this one will be a grateful beauty! |
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| Dianthus peeking out from behind alyssum |
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