The Christmas cactus in my kitchen window has a beautiful deep pink bloom. It gives me great satisfaction to gaze at it as I wash dishes because this is the same plant that almost died last month due to neglect. A number of my plants lead tenuous existences because even though I love having plants and flowers, I don’t always remember to water them.
My husband Peter says I have a brown thumb. I don’t like hearing him say that since I’ve always thought of myself as a nurturing sort of person, but nurturing takes time and there are so many hours in the day—the family, work, community responsibilities come first and well, for me the plants are further down the list.
Saturdays I actually have some time to look at the plants in the house, to check on them and give them a drink. Right now they are all surviving. When it starts getting warmer and they need more attention, they might not be so lucky.
The one star survivor is my giant cactus, also in the kitchen window, inherited from my first husband Cyril who died in 1989. Unlike me, Cyril had a marvelous green thumb, an intuitive knack for knowing what plants need, even when juggling multiple work responsibilities. The cactus was an old plant when we began dating in 1977 so I’m estimating it must be over 50 years old—not bad for a plant.
In my front window near my home computer, a cyclamen is sporting four blooms. A small stem is perking up out of the soil with a bud, what I hope will become another colorful dark pink bloom. That is if I take care of it. So now it’s time to break away from playing with words and sentences so I can pay some attention to this other plant, I’d forgotten about, and give it some water. Today the plants are looking good.