For the New Year: Change from Within

It has occurred to me that pride and perfectionism are among the sources of the difficulties I have had coming up with posts recently. I take great pride in having healthy, good-looking houseplants, and I love writing about and showing photos of my successes. But I also feel embarrassment bordering on shame when something goes wrong. I suppose such feelings are understandable when the problem is due to lapses in care (forgetting to water, or worse, putting off watering for too long; not keeping up with grooming; placing a plant in a spot that I know is all wrong for it. These are all things of which I have been guilty from time to time.) But the embarrassment is kind of silly when a plant starts to decline for reasons I don't understand, or for reasons I don't necessarily have full control over. (Pest infestations come to mind for the latter.) This has prevented me from posting pictures of plants in less than good condition, and more importantly, from sharing things I might do to fix things. It also deprives me of the chance to provide good before-and-after shots of things that do improve.

So this year, I resolve to be more forthcoming with the problems I have with my plants and, gasp, to even post the occasional ugly picture. Like the following:

Bedraggled Hibiscus rosa-sinensis plants, quarantined in my basement after treatment for a white fly infestation. I'm hoping that they recover.

While I hope less embarrassment will lead to more interesting posts, I do hope that my plants will thwart my resolve just a little bit, by staying healthy and good-looking!

A Minor Change for the New Year

Today, I decided to amend my "What it's all about" mission statement to include my (outdoor) garden. I have found myself writing about it more than I thought I would, and I really enjoy doing so.

A view of part of my garden from last June

I also considered changing my tagline to "Growing Along with My Gardens" or "Growing Along with My Gardens--Inside and Out," but decided against it. Houseplants are my first love, and I want them to remain my primary focus.

Happy New Year to all.

Crowded Kitchen Window

I recently realized that in the many years that I have posting pictures of my plants on the web, in my PictureTrail albums, in my Photobucket albums, and on my family website, I have seldom posted pictures of my south-facing kitchen window. This is probably because the pictures I take of this area seldom come out well. So today I tried again, and while they are not the best photographs I've ever taken, they do give a decent idea of what the area looks like.

In the winter I use this window for many of those succulents that I think will do better with natural sun, or which don't fit under the fluorescent lights in the basement. In the warmer months, I move whatever plants I think might look nice to fill up the empty spaces.

Two bakers racks, filled with succulents. Two Epipremnum and a Syngonium hang overhead. Hidden from view: a row of small succulents in 2-inch pots sitting directly on the window frames, and a few hanging succulents on the curtain rod close to the window.

Full view of that corner of the kitchen, showing the east and south windows. There is also a row of small pots on the east window frame. These are mostly cacti, which for the most part, don't get watered between now and March.

In the wintertime, the whole area is probably a bit more crowded than it should be for optimum display value. (The same can be said for all the plant areas in the house.) But overall I think I've done the best I can with what I've got.

Plant Reminiscences, Part 2: The Bratty Years

I might have left the impression in my last "Reminiscence" post that all my childhood experiences with houseplants were sweet and heartwarming. Not necessarily.

I was a shy and quiet little kid, but that doesn't mean that I didn't have a bratty streak. Sometimes, when I was bored, I used to experiment with plants. In this case "experiment" is a euphemism for "mutilate." I used to scrape the surface of the brown lower stems of Ficus elastica with my fingernails to see the green flesh underneath. I also enjoyed scraping those "funny brown bumps" (nascent aerial roots) off my grandmother's Epipremnum aureum plants.

Epipremnum aureum leaf. Since Pothos is mentioned in most of the anecdotes, it seems only right to illustrate this post with pictures of them.

E. aureum plants were a frequent subject of my experiments, probably because there were so many of them at my house. I actually related one incident in the comments of Mr. Subjunctive's excellent Plant Toxicity series at Plants Are the Strangest People. In this case, the experiment, though damaging to the plant, actually had the potential to damage me. When I was maybe seven or so, I decided, for whatever reason kids decide such things, to remove and chew on a couple of Epipremnum leaves. I think I was playing some sort of survival game with myself, where I was stranded in the jungle and had to survive on leaves. I experienced a mildly painful tingling/numbing sensation in my mouth, from the calcium oxalate crystals all plants in the Araceae family contain to a greater or lesser degree. It was enough to make me stop chewing the leaves then, but somehow, not bad enough for me not to do the same thing a few weeks later. I think I didn't actually associate the unpleasant sensations with chewing on the leaves. ( It's hard to believe that I was generally considered to be a smart kid.) After experiencing the tingling/numbing a second time, I did recognize that there was a cause/effect going on, and never did it again. Fortunately, I didn't experience anything worse from this little adventure.

Then when I was about eight, I decided I wanted a houseplant of my own. And no, potting up a cutting from one of my grandmother's many Pothos would not do. I wanted something different. So Nana took me to Woolworth's and we picked out a plant for me. It was an Aroid of some type. It resembled a Philodendron hederaceum, and maybe it was, but in my memory, it had a slightly more upright growth habit. Maybe it was a very juvenile Monstera deliciosa.

Epipremnum aureum 'Marble Queen'

At any rate, I took good care of of my plant for a while. But my bedroom was not very bright, and my plant didn't seem to be growing much. So I got bored with it. One day, I decide to see what would happen if I trimmed the edges of the leaves of the plant. I trimmed very carefully, following the shape of the leaves. (Well as carefully as I could; I was clumsy with scissors back them. I still am today; I can't cut a straight line to save my life.) As one would expect, this left all the leaves with brown edges. And I lost interest in the plant totally, because it was no longer perfect. This is a far cry from today, when I have a tendency to hold onto ugly or ailing plants long after any sensible person would throw them out.

Epipremnum aureum growing on a pole made of floral foam covered with sphagnum moss and stuffed into a wire framework. The plant is not so much growing on the pole as it is pinned to the pole. It is impossible to keep the pole moist without over-saturating the soil. Still the whole thing is more than five feet tall, and looks pretty good.

My next reminscence post will likely cover my teen years, when my real interest in houseplants began.

Happy Thanksgiving to all who are celebrating it. Happy Thursday to everyone.

Plant Reminiscences, Part 1

The first Plant Lady I ever knew was my maternal grandmother, Lillian Brown. My mother and I lived with her for many years after my parents separated. She didn't own a lot of plants, say a dozen or so. But her fondness for houseplants is very much a part of what I remember, when I think of her.

Hippeastrum 'Lilian' When I saw the name, I just had to buy this Amaryllis in honor of my grandmother. She did spell her name "Lillian," however.

It's funny though, that except for the several pothos, (Epipremnum aureum) I don't remember very clearly what those dozen plants were. Nana's house wasn't very sunny, so her plants were those that accepted less than ideal conditions with grace. Much like Nana did, throughout a rather complicated and difficult life.

A look at Google maps indicates that the suitable plant windows faced southwest and northeast, which, on the face of it, are decent exposures for growing. However, I recall that the windows were obstructed considerably by trees and nearby buildings. As for the rest of the plants, there was a small palm, I know, and a green Syngonium, which she later gave to me when I was a teen and no longer living with her. There was something with a bit of a trunk, maybe a Polyscias balfouriana. There were Begonias, I'm sure, and a plant that I can't identify. I always thought I'd know it when I saw it, but I've seen hundreds of houseplants, both in person and pictures, and I've never come across it. All I recall is that stems were surrounded by the leaves, something like a Crassula perforata, but it wasn't a succulent.

Another view of Hippeastrum 'Lilian' showing the whole plant. The flowers are small and dainty, unlike many Hippeastrum cultivars. My grandmother wasn't a particularly small woman, but she had a delicateness in her demeanor that belied her inner strength.

Nana worked very hard, both as a cleaning lady for several clients, and in taking care of our home. She also spent a lot of time taking care of me, while my mother worked and pursued a social life. So she didn't have a lot of time to devote to plant care. But her plants were always well watered, well groomed, well loved. Every summer, the plants would line the edges of our tiny front porch, soaking up the sunshine. When I was little, my mother and I would sometimes try to add to the plant collection, usually with disastrous results. Either we'd buy something totally unsuitable for the conditions, or something no one knew how to take care of. One such gift was a magnificent Caladium bicolor 'Candidum.' None of us knew that it was supposed to die back at the end of the season, and that it could be regrown from its tubers in the spring. So we all watched with dismay as the huge leaves withered and died over several weeks.

I was holding a camera at an odd angle when I took this picture. On one hand, it is vertigo-inducing. On the other had, it shows the actual color of the flowers well, so I decided to include it.

A happier memory I have is of planting apple and orange seeds together, in old margarine containers, just to see what would happen. I would have been about seven, I guess. Nana chose oranges and I chose apples. I was thrilled when the orange seeds sprouted, and a bit disappointed when the apples never did. But is was something we enjoyed together. We were a lot alike in many ways.

Nana died in 1978, about a month before my eighteenth birthday. People sometimes said that I looked just like her, and I always wondered why, since our facial features were not particularly similar. But then, years later, I saw myself on video, about a half hour's worth. I noticed that I have most of her general mannerisms, from my posture to the way I walk to the gestures I make with my hands. Even with dissimilar features, my facial expressions also echo hers to a surprising degree. And of course, we are both Plant Ladies.

What's a Blogger to Do...

...when she's stuck for a topic? It seems that in the last couple of weeks, nothing particularly interesting has been happening here among the leaves. The succulents outdoors are soaking up their last few days of sunshine before they are brought in for the season. The outdoor garden is winding down. The houseplants indoors are looking happy, but for the most part aren't blooming or putting out any noteworthy new growth. Fortunately, none of my plants are experiencing setbacks or infestations or anything bad either, so I can't really complain. My schedule hasn't allowed for much plant-shopping or conservatory visits recently. Most frustratingly, for some reason, my creative juices just aren't flowing when it comes to thinking up interesting topics to blog about.

So what am I going to do? Rather than waiting for either my plants or my brain to jump start themselves, while the interval between posts grows ever longer, I went looking through my photo collection. I found a few plant pictures that I like, but somehow didn't make it into previous posts.

Anemone at the Chicago Botanic Garden, from April. I entered a similar photo in the CBG's spring contest, then discovered that two other people had entered shots of the same flower. I guess we pretty much canceled each other out.

Variegated Hoya carnosa leaves, from the smaller of my two plants

Aechmea 'Blue Tango' from the CBG

Epipremnum 'Marble Queen' cuttings, rooting in water, the result of a pruning mishap. I meant to cut off one stem, and somehow ended up removing several. These have since rooted and been potted up.

Helenium variety, from my garden

Cissus discolor, climbing up some sort of utility pole at the Lincoln Park Conservatory. This plant is on my "never-again" list, but will always love it.

x Gastworthia 'Royal Highness' from the CBG. At least that is what the tag said. The pictures of Gasterworthia/Gasterhaworthia 'Royal Highness' I've seen on the web have thicker leaves, and aren't variegated.

Another from the CBG. Unidentified Sempervivum displayed as a companion plant to a large bonsai.

Seed grown Linum perenne, (Flax) from my garden this past June

My Crassula 'Campfire' in its bold summer coloration

And finally,

I've got my eye on you

(As always, click pictures for larger versions. I recommend it for the Hoya, Helenium and Crassula, and maybe for the Gaster-whatever and Anemone as well.)

Outdoor Gardening: The Heebie Jeebies

When my husband and I talk about welcoming insect life into our garden we are usually thinking of something like this:

Monarch butterfly (Danaus plexippus) and Buddleia davidii cv.

We are also open to seeing something like this:

Rudbeckia hirta 'Prairie Sun' with unidentified spider. (Yes, I know that spiders aren't insects. Bear with me here.)

What we definitely didn't have in mind is this:

Bald-faced hornet (Dolichovespula maculata) nest hidden in our Weigela florida 'Red Prince' shrub row. If you enlarge the picture, you can see a few actual hornets. I do not necessarily recommend this.

The thing was the size of a soccer ball, and shall we say, buzzing with activity. What frightens me is that last week, before we noticed the nest, I was weeding nearby. At one point I nearly lost my balance when pulling up a particularly recalcitrant thistle. Had I actually fallen backward, there is a good chance I would have fallen into the nest. I'll let you know when I stop shuddering.

Needless to say, we called professionals to have the nest removed.

All in the Family: Asclepiads

Actually, that should be "All in the Sub-family: Asclepiadoideae." The old family name, Asclepiadaceae, is supposedly obsolete. These plants are now included in the family Apocynaceae, which contains so many different plants that the point I'm trying to make would be lost.

The point? Yes, I was actually going to make one before I got sidetracked into taxonomy. Recently, I was struck by just how much the bloom and bloom habit of the common milkweed, (Asclepias syriaca) resemble those of my Hoya Carnosa.

Pictures of Asclepias syriaca taken, in a park in Skokie, IL. This native plant pops up as a volunteer "weed" in my garden. I let a few of them grow, to encourage Monarch butterflies, but it never blooms for me.

A flower from my Hoya carnosa 'Krimson Queen'

Though I'm not a Hoya collector, (no, really, just because I have nine of them doesn't make me a collector, honest) I'd always wanted a Hoya multiflora because the blooms were so different.

Two views of my Hoya multiflora, sometimes called the Shooting Star Hoya

But then, on a visit to the Chicago Botanic Gardens, I realized that the blooms are similar to those of Asclepias curassavica, and not dissimilar to those of Asclepias tuberosa and Asclepias incarnata.

Asclepias curassavica at the CBG. A. curassavica and its varieties are only hardy to zone 8b, but are sometimes grown as "annuals" around here. I keep meaning to try some, since I think they are lovely.

Asclepias curassavica 'Silky Gold' and some little visitors.

Asclepias tuberosa, or butterfly weed. This is my second favorite of the flowers that I grow in my garden. This is the oldest of five I have planted, and I have three more in pots waiting for me to decide where to put them. This too is a native plant that grows wild in the area, as well as being cultivated as a garden plant.

Another view showing the shape of the flowers better

Asclepias incarnata, or Swamp milkweed, another native plant. These pictures are from the CBG. I just planted a pair of these plants in my garden, but they are unlikely to bloom there this year.

Okay, so maybe there really wasn't much of a point after all. I just wanted to share some pictures of what is fast becoming one of my favorite plant (sub)families, indoors and out. When my small Stapelia hirsuta and Huernia zebrina (also members of Asclepiadoideae) become mature enough to bloom, I'm sure I'll have yet another perspective on this group.

Adventures in Growing: Expectations

I received a couple of interesting responses to Monday's post, regarding my Sansevieria hallii. I had mentioned that my plant produces one new leaf every year, and in the comments, two different people stated, in very similar terms, that such a slow growth pattern would drive them crazy. I was somewhat taken aback, because it would never have occurred to me to be bothered by this. Come to think of it, it wouldn't have bothered me much if the plant hadn't put out a new leaf this year. In fact, as long as it remained healthy, and didn't lose any leaves, I don't think I'd mind too much if this Sansevieria never added another leaf ever again. (Okay, I'd mind, but not to the point of madness.)

Then I started to wonder why that was. I'm not being critical of the people that commented; I find their opinions perfectly reasonable. I just began to wonder why my mindset was so very different. It is not that I don't have expectations for certain plants, and I do find myself disappointed if those expectations aren't met. I expect plants purchased specifically for flowers, like Hippeastrum, (Amaryllis) to bloom. I wait with eager anticipation for the cuttings I take to root, and the seeds I plant to sprout. I kind of wish that some of my younger Hoyas were mature enough to bloom, but the fact that aren't, and probably won't be for at least a couple of years, isn't driving me crazy.

A previously posted picture of my Araucaria heterophylla (Norfolk Island Pine.) I've had this plant for a couple of years now, and while it does put out new growth--note leaf tips--it does so very slowly.

I think one of the reasons, is that these days, I seldom purchase a plant that I am not satisfied with, as is, this very minute. I may see the potential in a plant, picturing it larger, more vigorous, in bloom, or what have you, but if I don't actually like what it looks like right now, I am likely to leave it on the shelf. If I already think a plant is attractive, I'm unlikely to be disappointed if it doesn't change much. Another reason is that I'm happy if the plant's growth pattern is in line with its natural behavior. If my Sans was supposed to produce multiple leaves in a short time, then yeah, a leaf a year would be maddening.

Euphorbia lactea cristata. Crested plants are often slow growers. I've had this plant for a few years. It could have gotten a bit bigger during that time, but I can't swear to it. Fortunately, I think it is cool-looking as is.

A third reason is probably just that I have a lot of plants. I no longer know exactly how many I have, but 350 is a reasonable guess. When you have that many, several plants are usually doing something interesting at any given time, so it doesn't usually matter if any particular plant is just sitting there, doing nothing readily observable. There is a corollary to that third reason, as applies to Sansevieria: I have quite a few different types, that grow at different rates, so as a member of that group, the S. hallii has its own peculiar charms.

Another previously posted picture of some of my other Sansevierias, from last fall. In front: Sansevieria kirkii var pulchra 'Coppertone'. The rest, clockwise from the left: S. masoniana, NoId S. trifasciata cultivar, S. kirkii var kirkii, and S. cylindrica.

Ultimately, all growers of houseplants have differing expectations regarding our plants. As can be seen from many of my previous posts, I am thrilled with new growth from my plants, and am frustrated when they do poorly. But just as often, I am happy to just let them be whatever they are going to be, in the moment. My late mother would never have believed it, but my plants are going a long way towards teaching me patience and calm, qualities that she tried to instill in me, but that I have had great difficulty in achieving.

Eye of the Beholder

Yes, that is what is peeking out at you, here from behind the leaves.

Originally, this post started out in an entirely different way. I was planning to confess that I am a bit of a plant snob. Not the kind that avoids commonly grown plants. I love Epipremnum (pothos), Sansevierias and most Dracaenas just as much as I love the rare and the unusual. Rather, I was going to say that I’m the type of person who has high standards regarding the appearance of plants, both mine and other people’s. I was going to say that on occasion, when people on plant forums would proudly post pictures of their plants, and others would praise them, I would wonder: “That is what other people consider to be good-looking plants? Really?” Many of them seemed to me to needed pruning, or grooming, or more suitable pots, or, most commonly, a lot more light than they were getting.

Just this weekend, something happened to change that. I had an exchange with someone who has really high standards for plants, and I found myself defending, (more in my mind than in the exchange itself) the beauty found in all plants, whether they are show-worthy specimens or not. The true joy I find in plants is in growing them, tending them, learning their likes and dislikes, and feeling a connection with living things–not in producing a perfect specimen. When I look at a landscape, I see a vista of pure beauty, not the flaws of each individual plant.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not going abandon all standards and discernment. Plants should be healthy, and I love looking at exceptionally well grown show plants. I love it when one of my plants looks really healthy and pretty. I’m definitely going to hold with my opinion that getting them into more light would do a lot of people’s plants a world of good. But I am going to try to be more open and encouraging, and less snobbish in my outlook.

A plant of mine that I'm proud of: Monstera deliciosa

I’m also going to work on being more forgiving of myself when my own plants don’t live up to my standards. A couple of years ago, my husband wanted a plant for his office. We decided that a Sansevieria trifasciata would do well in his conditions, and I assumed that we would buy one. But what Bob really wanted was one of my plants, and he chose this one:

This Sansevieria trifasciata 'Laurentii' has been in Bob's office for almost two years

A view showing the plant, and Bob's artwork. Left to right: drawing of a Red-Shouldered Hawk, painting of an American Kestrel and a drawing of a Broad Winged Hawk

It is certainly not my best Sansevieria. The leaves are healthy, but the growth is kind of sparse. It’s okay, but it isn’t a plant I’m proud of, exactly. But what surprised me most is how many compliments he received from his coworkers. And the great pride he took in telling them that the plant was one of my “rejects.” Apparently other people are way ahead of me in seeing beauty in something green and living. And even more special, the love of my life thinks that I have a gift with plants, and he is proud of that.

This post has meandered a bit, and I attribute that to the rather pensive mood I’ve been in for a couple of days. (I also suspect that I’m coming down with something.) But for me writing this has been an exercise trying to discover how to combine a discerning eye with an appreciation of the imperfect here in my life among the leaves.

A bit of imperfection: Some of the ivy leaves have mite damage. I was a trifle embarrassed by that when I posted a different version of this picture last week. However, the cat wants you to know that he is, in fact, perfection itself.

Edited to add: The pictures of Bob's work plant were taken by Bob himself. Thanks, sweetheart.