Musings About Plants
I didn’t grow up with a green thumb. I had scraggly blueberry bushes and I always admired the rose bush of my Dad’s but I didn’t really garden. I knew plants. I could tell you the difference between trees based off their bark, but I couldn’t grow them.
When we got married, we had a little garden plot about a half mile down the road. There we staked out a tiny garden in the hard, red clay of South Caroline. When it didn’t rain, we’d water it, carefully manoeuvring the hose around other people’s plots.
The plants we grew were sad and withered, despite everything. We could grow tomatoes, but the corn died and we were left with brown stalks. We had a couple harvests of peas, but that was before the heat got too hot.
When we landed in Amsterdam and drove our 4 suitcases, two cats, and our jet lagged selves from Amsterdam to Hook of Holland, we were awed by the greenery. It was a different world.
“Look at how incredible the plants look!” I remember saying about some garden that had greenery and blooming hydrangeas (in September!) spilling out of window boxes and onto the grass. I remember wondering if everyone in Holland is given a green thumb at birth, or if they had to earn it in school.
Our first week in Scotland we stopped at a garden centre (only we didn’t know what it was then) and picked up some lavender, some ivy, and some pots. We put hardy, outdoor plants in the window and waited for them to grow.
They didn’t.
But by October, we had another succulent. It was green and in a boring brown, plastic pot, but let’s face it. My husband was a penniless uni student and saving pennies was hard.
When baby G was born, Aaron got me a little succulent from a plant shop in Glasgow. It came in a glass bottle and I was instructed to give it 5 drops of water every week. I did this without fail until I burnt it one day in the full, Western sunlight. Then the poor plant got banished to a shelf in the shade and sporadic watering. It’s still alive though. Barely. It’s shorter than when we first got it, but it’s still alive.
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“How about a fiddle leaf fig?” I held up the miniature fiddle leaf before setting down in my basket. My husband shrugged.
“You’re like trying to get points for instagram, aren’t you?” He teased.
“Nah, I just like the way they look!”
I took it home and carefully watered it. Cried when it lost it’s bottom leaf, cleaned it every few weeks, accidentally killed a few leaves leaving it next to the radiator, but it’s nearly as tall as me now. Aaron wants me to trim it this spring so it splits. I’m undecided.
Why am I talking about plants, you might wonder, when I live in Scotland and there are castles to explore and hills to climb?
Because this is a country of gardeners. Sure, not everyone claims to be a gardener. “We don't have a green thumb!” Our upstairs neighbours will insist, but I also know this past year when I was in charge of the garden, it looked far sadder than previous years.
I’m in a gardening in Scotland Facebook group where people give advice. Don’t use horse manure from a stable for your roses, use the fresh stuff from the fields. If you want to get rid of slugs (the bane of many of my plants here!) fill up a container with beer and leave it overnight. Whatever you do, DON’T use slug killer. It can kill the hedgehogs.
And while I admire a lovely outdoor garden, mine just don’t seem to grow well. I have an ivy from Ikea that is 2 years old and it’s the best plant. Last year all my roses died. “You planted them on the wrong side of the house.” I was later informed. They need the morning light.
Half old wives tales, half wisdom from the ancestors, growing plants feels like a sacred calling here. One where you’re in tune with the weather and the seasons.
My outdoor garden may despair, but my indoor one? It’s the highlight of my days.
And I have kids. I know all about highlights. But plants don’t talk back, fight, or need their bottom’s wiped.
I repeat, these plants are my babies. I have what is we call a nursery on the kitchen window, where I have delicate, little plant babies attempting to take root. We have sale plants, from the shops and the garden centres, dotted around and I check in on them daily. We have 2 fiddle leaf figs, a pregnant onion, elephant ears, and a host of other odd but attractive plants.
Right now, in the grey of winter, having this greenery in the house is mentally uplifting. And while the true gardeners are spending dreary January days planning out the bulbs in their garden, I sit inside and admire my greenery and I think maybe, just maybe, this is exactly the type of gardening I was meant to do.
I’ll buy some more plants in the spring from Dobbies, put them in pots and hope they last a couple of weeks. Maybe with the right watering and sunlight they’ll survive. And when people doubt my gardening skills, I’ll just bring them inside to my little oasis.