CONFESSIONS OF A PLANT JUNKIE

I knew the moment I walked into the Master Gardener’s Plant sale last Saturday under the sham of volunteering to help and earning hours for recertification that I was in big trouble. No actually, more like deep doodoo.

I was like the heroin addict who has gone in search of a life altering “fix”. The begonias called, “Ooh, ooh, pick me. Pick me. I can give you what you want.” The pink roses shed a tear and cried, “I give you lots of flowers, missy. My thorns only hurt a leetle beet.” (But I only buy yellow roses, so I kept walking.) The fuscias whispered, “Come with me to the Kasbah. We have many exotic adventures.” The baby’s breath whined, “Mama, mama.” And the shrimp plants burbled, “Let’s go for a swim. I’m so thirsty.”

What was I to do? Everywhere I looked there was another temptation, another Narcissistic wonder of nature. How was I supposed to choose between them? Even the Satsuma orange trees were blooming with the sweet scent of spring. I was transported back to my childhood in the San Fernando Valley when the dinosaurs still roamed and orange groves permeated the landscape. Heaven, I’m in heaven.

But wait, someone forgot to order gardenias. Maybe kids these days have orchid corsages for the high school prom, but we wore gardenias. The captivating scent of these glorious white perfections stirs the longing for California in me.

I was in a dither running from place to place trying to listen to all those little darlings. How would I ever fit them all into my car? More important, did I have adequate funds to cover my checks? Yes checks. About the time I thought I’d gotten everything I wanted, I’d find something else.

The emerald green and burgundy of the ornamental sweet potatoes made me drool. The precious Dahlberg daisies weren’t very popular with the public. They wanted something “bigger and better”, “new and improved” so I couldn’t just leave the poor things there…all alone…their wispy foliage drooping with disappointment.

Decisions! Decisions! So many decisions.