On Gardening

"What, are you gardeners? I hate gardening! What sort of a person has a power complex about flowers? It’s dictatorship for inadequates. Or to put it another way, it’s dictatorship."   

- Doctor Who, series 9, episode "Heaven Sent"

Even though I had a garden, I don't consider myself a gardener. My roommate Tascha can likely attest to this. 

"I should water the plants," I would tell her. "It hasn't rained again. I keep waiting for it to rain so I won't have to."

"It's been four days since it rained," Tascha pointed out. "They're going to die."

"I know," I'd sigh. "For my plants, I just kind of believe in a survival of the fittest model. Whichever ones make it are the ones I'll keep attending to." 

"That's terrible!" she cry in semi-mock shock. "That's also not how it works."

"But it could be ..." I'd muse. 

My garden in Ecuador consisted of a terrace full of potted plants. Does that count as a garden? I hope so. I had about fifteen roses, half a dozen succulents, a small lemon tree, a larger purple-flowered tree, a couple of hibiscus, a number of geraniums, and a handful of bulbs and other types of flowers. 

When the sun beat down, I'd faithfully water my plants about every other day. Pretty faithfully. On the weekends I'd weed and deadhead, and I enjoyed doing this. I'd listen to a podcast while working. I'd gently touch the blooming roses and waxy succulents. I had potted and cared for them all, yet if they didn't make it I'd understand. I wasn't big into fertilization; once, I collected coffee grounds and put them around the base of the roses and that was it. They got a lot of direct sun, and when it was the rainy season in Quito they got a lot of rain, but when it was up to me to water them I did about the best I could. The thing was, I can only get to my terrace via the guest-room window. Also, there is no water faucet. It takes me about eight trips in and out the window with a large watering can I filled at my bathtub to water the plants. It's a commitment. Which is why I would shrug my shoulders and say that my plants needed to be hearty in order to survive. 

Aside from the terrace, I also tried to care for an orchid. Twice. Having loved the delicate flowers for ages, Tascha bought me one as a birthday gift. She even bought me a book on caring for orchids, which I tried to dutifully follow. I misted the orchid lightly every day. I bought liquid fertilizer and gave it to the orchid. I set it near a window so it could receive sunlight which was steady but not too harsh. Yet for some reason, a few weeks on, the flowers fell off one by one. I was sad but not finished. There were buds. Surely, I thought, it would bloom again. So I continued the careful misting every day for weeks. Nothing happened. The buds looked so close to blooming, but never did. I finally accepted defeat ... sort of. I bought a replacement orchid and tried again, only to repeat the pattern all over a second time. Take two was a bit more crushing. I am still clueless as to what went wrong. They were the plants I cared for more than any I'd ever owned, and yet they died. I still have an occasional urge to buy another orchid and try again. But I also have a sneaky suspicion that perhaps orchids and I are not meant to be. 

When I heard the Doctor Who quote above, I laughed. I pictured well-manicured English gardens where everything is green and thriving. Then I looked out at my little terrace garden in its motley collection of pots.  

"That one there doesn't look so good," Tascha said one time, leaning out the window and nodding towards something which I don't know the name of but which has lovely and exotic purple and pink blooms which hang from delicate stems like chandeliers. 

"But it's blooming!" I protested from my chair. 

"But the leaves look like they're dying!" she pointed out. I couldn't argue with her. I had been focused on the flower and ignored the brown leaves. Since it was the rainy season, my plants weren't lacking any water. But as I looked around at the full bases, I wondered if they had instead received too much?

"It's either drought or drowning," I muttered. 

"Poor plants," Tascha said, shaking her head. 

When it came time to leave Ecuador, I had to of course sell all my plants. 

Tascha and I had two sales, and they went really well. Our assortment of things was large and varied. But although a few people purchased one or so of my plants at a time, I still had many left. I had upwards of forty plants, after all. Though I was sad at the thought of my plants not going to people who were excited about them, my plan was that if they didn't sell by a certain date that I would set them on the corner of our street. The corner was a kind of Bermuda Triangle, for anything you put there disappeared. Rapidly. It was impressive really, how junk which was too useable to be thrown away yet not really worth the trouble of selling would be quickly snatched up when put on the corner. So, that was my plan. Hand over any left over plants to the fates which by letting them be free for the taking. 

Then Angel stopped by. Turns out, he really seemed to be heaven-sent. 

Angel is the Academic Coordinator at Casa Gabriel, and like most good Ecuadorians, he loves a sale. The Monday after the first sale, Angel came over and spent a good amount of time going through everything which was left. He was not afraid to haggle. That morning, he bought several plants, filling up the trunk of his car. After the second sale he was back, purchasing even more plants at an even cheaper price. He bought a small cabinet, but had to come back for it, which meant another trip to buy more plants. I was getting down to the wire with time, so I encouraged him to come back once more. 

"You said your wife loves plants," I coaxed. 

"Oh she does!" he assured me.

When Angel came back the last time, he surveyed the remaining plants which I had arranged on the stairs leading to my apartment.

"Look," I said, getting straight to it. "Six roses, five dollars."

"Deal."

We carried the roses to his car, and while he loaded them in I brought down another plant.

"This one for a dollar, yes?" I suggested. He ended up buying my remaining seven plants for five dollars, an incredible bargain for him and an extra ten dollars for me. Plus, I didn't have to sweat through hauling plants down three flights of stairs to the corner by myself. Only one plant had to go, and that was because it looked pretty dead so I preemptively moved it away from the still-green ones.

So, those were my garden days. They're not over, but simply on pause. One day I'll have more potted plants, maybe even an actual garden. Until then, I did see some gorgeous white orchids in a store, and felt very tempted to try my hand at caring for one again. Third time's the charm?

I'll think about it.