Plants are like books, an excessive fixation

I have discovered that plants are a lot like books.

 

It’s a strange line of thought, I agree, but stay with me. 

 

Let me start with an explanation. I love reading, and consequently, I love books. I read whatever takes my fancy or satisfies my curiosity. For some reason, I like reading about harsh times in history–the holocaust, the bubonic plague, treatment of indigenous Americans as the western hemisphere was colonized. I also enjoy interesting facts and information. I’ve read 10 or more books on quantum physics–the “for dummies” kind, that don’t entail a lot of mathematics. And whenever I learn of another book about a near death experience, I have to get hold of it; that’s one of my most lasting fascinations. I read Raymond Moody’s fundamental “Life After Life” as a high-schooler not all that long after it was first published, and haven’t stopped since.

 

I went to a meeting at the Waseca Library the other day, walked past their shelves of $1 “released” books, and ended up taking two home. They were meant as gifts–one for my nephew and one that seemed to align with my granddaughter’s interests. One of them, however, “Chomp” by Charles Hiaason, seemed like too much fun to pass along unread, so I read it–now I can give it to my nephew with confidence it is a quality gift.

 

I tell you all this to demonstrate my point. Honestly, this is headed somewhere.

 

Knowing I have a problem resisting books, and knowing I should seek out ways to read books without having to (first) pay for them and (second) find shelves to keep them on, I honestly try to avoid bookstores and especially bargain books–for example at thrift stores and garage sales, where I am protected from the first consequence of my fascination, but not the second. When taking my one-year-old grandson to the delightful indoor play area in the River Hills Mall in Mankato, the shortest path is through Barnes and Noble. I try to walk straight through, looking almost exclusively at my grandson while keeping my gaze from wandering. I’ve made it through unscathed every time, although I admit there have been some close calls.

 

A walk through Hilltop Greenhouse this past weekend, along with every walk I have taken through Ed’s Greenhouse, the Waseca Greenhouse and Country Blooms south of Janesville, prove I am no safer when it comes to flowers and other plants than I am with books.

 

I would never classify myself as a gardener because I know some genuine practitioners of the art, and my lack of qualifications is glaringly obvious. I have only a vague understanding of the many steps real gardeners follow, and would be distracted from those steps by my other responsibilities if I tried to learn and use them.

 

I have allowed too many plants in my care to suffer from neglect and ignorance to ever be considered one who cultivates plants.

 

That does not change the allure of a bright yellow pansy, a mystically patterned petunia or a burly, thriving tomato plant already complete with blossoms. I picture the plants in mid-summer, festooned with armfuls of flowers or fruit brightening up my two flowerbeds or hanging at eye level in a basket.

 

I stand transfixed in the greenhouse aisle, compare the available colors, consider whether the plant is hardy enough to overcome being in my care, and picture bees, butterflies and hummingbirds coming and going among its blooms.

 

I caution myself against paying for a plant which may not survive whatever choices I make for its care–but inwardly I already know I’m not going home without a small armload. Furthermore, I know I’ll be back at that mythical time, “when all danger of frost is past,” to get even more.

 

As I load my new purchases in the car, I can at least reassure myself that flowers and books are not the worst excessive fixations a person might have. After all, come midsummer, I will be in an ideal state–skimming through one of my books, working to identify some of those birds and butterflies fluttering among my flowers.