I paused at the entrance to the massive structure, taking one last deep breath like a submerging deep-sea diver without oxygen tanks. A passing bumblebee’s wings created the only breeze. The sweltering heat made even shallow breathing difficult enough. It would be worse once inside. Maybe I could use those oxygen tanks, I thought. As I entered, I could feel heat from the crushed stone floor rise through the soles of my shoes. I had to pace my every move carefully, accomplish my mission and get the heck out of there as quickly as possible before I passed out. I remember playing back the theme from “Mission: Impossible” in my head as I headed towards my objective. In this atmosphere, I could very well self destruct in slightly more than ten seconds.
It was the last week in July. We’d been experiencing record-breaking high temperatures for the past fifteen days and that particular day was the hottest yet. People were being cautioned to stay indoors, limit movement if they had to go out and stay in the shade if they could. For me, movements were limited to my mid-summer quest to ferret out fill in plants for my ailing garden, and my search found me in the only place hotter than the 102-degree heat outside. Inside a greenhouse, of course.
My garden’s star performing perennials and even some best supporting annual players needed understudies to take the stage and carry the rest of the cast through the waning season till the final curtain of falling leaves. By midsummer, I’m looking for something…anything…to supply that boost of needed color to pot up and plunk in front of perennials past their prime, along with annuals that never quite thrived (or I murdered outright) and all those other victims of disease and insidious insects. This season’s unrelenting rains in early summer laid out the welcome mat for botrytis, powdery mildew, rust, blackspot and a myriad of unfriendly fungi. Hand-engraved invitations had been delivered to every whitefly and mealybug within 20 miles. All were graciously accepted, and they brought dates. I couldn’t keep up with all the extra, unwanted guests. I’d mix up quart after quart of neem oil solutions or double double, toiled and troubled over cauldrons of skim milk and water, or garlic and hot pepper, or cornmeal to stave off advancing fungi and rescind those insect invites. No sooner did I spray and walk away, did the party simply move to dine on neighboring stems and leaves, while botrytis’ fuzzy grey mold, powdery mildew’s white speckles and the bright orange pustules of rust decorated the festivities. Sprayed jets of water or insecticidal soap on cottony white cocoons of mealybugs and elusive whiteflies was probably welcomed on those beastly hot days. I imagined them lounging in miniscule bathing suits and snorkels, basking in the cooling spritzes of soapy water. Those that were knocked off simply surfed the jet of water down the leaf to a neighboring plant like an amusement park waterslide. Whee! Where they’d happily remain to suck the life juices out of that poor plant till the next tidal wave hit.
In many cases their fun and games laid total waste to large swaths of annuals and ravaged the lower half of many perennials. For the shorter perennials, like veronica, some salvias or campanulas, I’d muster all my artistry to splay out, rearrange or push stems in a certain direction with bamboo stake to camouflage bare spots. But the taller bee balm, yarrow or phlox or annuals like tithonia needed higher cover. Their bare, tattered legs were more visible. With a fresh supply of replacements I’d strategically place pots of varying sizes and heights to conceal the damage. Small shepherds’ hooks, about four feet high, provided excellent positioning of low-hanging baskets which would hover above the ground by only a foot or so. This was also the time when smaller hardscape items were indispensable to fill gaps. A ceramic fairy here, a sundial there, ground baths for butterflies, yet another stepping stone. Now was the perfect time to acquire these items since most craft stores are dumping them at 70% off to make room for Christmas lights. And who would ever know that I didn’t intend for all these pots, hangers and doodads to be where they are in the first place? And why would I really care if they thought otherwise anyway? After all, what I do in my garden, I do for my own pleasure and satisfaction. Trouble is, I’m my harshest judge and critic. So these substitutes had to pass my personal credible muster as being intentional design and not band-aid treatments.
If they're bedding annuals, I ideally like to cover the ‘wounds’ with flowers or foliage of the same color or at least the same variety as those that remain. Unfortunately, there’s little or no hope at this point in the season to send in the clones. Similar to craft stores already rushing the holiday season, most nurseries are setting up displays for mums and placing orders for poinsettias. So I have to settle for whatever paltry six packs remain out there.
Over the years I’ve taken more precautions to avoid this last minute search by growing extra seedlings and potting them up or planting them in a spare bed to grow on and stand at the ready when I need to draft one to the front lines around the beginning of August. I’ll also purchase an extra flat or two (or three or….) of annuals at the height of the season for the same purpose down the road. But, inevitably, I either run out or lose half to the aforementioned diseases and insects before they even have a chance to be sent in to pinch-hit. Or…I confess…I lose many to sheer neglect. As gardeners, we are much like children in that our eyes are bigger than our stomachs. Our lust for plants, be they perennials, annuals or herbs and whether they’re hardy in our zones or not, outweighs our energy, our time and our common sense. We are plant coveters, and we want them all. Regardless. We don’t fret about their ultimate placement or “whether we need them or not”. (A ridiculous phrase unknown to most gardeners.) We are like Scarlet O’Hara: “We’ll worry about that ta-mar-rah!” We know who we are, and we are legions.
But what brought me to the greenhouse on that beastly hot day was not to purchase mere eye candy. That day I’d come a-begging, gardener’s hat in hand, willing to settle for crumbs or leggy stems. Perspiration stung my eyes, clouded my glasses and there was that lovely sensation of sweat trickling down my spine. I was searching for survivors. Seedlings that never quite made it to The Show. Never hit the big time of someone’s garden. There’s got to be some undiscovered starlets out there, I told myself. Some little six pack of bit players I’d gladly take even without an audition. By now my criteria, my line in the sand of acceptable colors, conditions and varieties was erased by the hot summer wind. My standards lowered… it was hardly beneath me to search pallets in the rear of nurseries for anything with a hint of green or one single bud. If I could just get them home and lavish on them some good gardener’s chicken soup of clean potting soil, amendments of kelp meal, regular doses of fish emulsion, prune and mend their ailing or disfigured leaves and tuck them in under a comforter of compost, I knew I could revive them. Although for the most part quite humble, most gardeners are just a wee bit omnipotent in their confidence and ability to resurrect life from fragments of plants pronounced dead by others. I suppose there’s a bit of Dr. Frankenstein in us. All that’s missing are the bolts of lightening and the big shoes. Well, the bolts of lightening anyway.
Crunching across the crushed stone floor, my footsteps echoed in the emptiness of the place. It was a bit of a shock as I neared the singular mass of flats. Was it only days before this place was filled to the brim with row upon row of annuals and herbs? Bustling with hordes of eager, plant-hungry customers jockeying carts and wagons up and down the aisles, bouncing over hoses stretched along the floor, maneuvering around container displays and ducking underneath hundreds of hanging baskets. (Usually so lost in thought and concentrating on my purchases, I always manage to crash into at least a half dozen baskets; my embarrassment more visible than my bruised forehead.)
Earlier in the spring I’d arrived there list in hand. Sometimes even with a hand-drawn schematic. Knowing for the most part, beforehand, what I wanted (*see plant-lusting reference*). I’d proceed with deft, military-like strategy up and down the aisles. On that scorching day, however, there was no list. There weren’t even any aisles to navigate. No hordes or hanging baskets. Just the remnants of the nursery’s inventory consolidated into one small area, making it easier for the remaining staff to periodically hose down. Even then, their care was no longer a priority. Staff, water and maintenance of any kind cost money. The bare minimum was being done to keep them hanging on. Where once marigolds, zinnias, salvias and such were segregated, the leftovers huddled together in a single corner of the greenhouse as commiserating brethren one step away from the compost pile.
It was a sorry sight to see. It always is. Little seedlings once filled with promise of flourishing in someone’s garden, now clung to each other for survival. Desperate flats of leggy impatiens, scraggly petunias and chlorotic ageratums, gasping for air through wispy white root hairs protruding from root-bound containers in the hope that some kind-hearted, optimistic gardener ( what gardener isn’t?) would rescue them so they could stretch their roots in real garden soil, flower and fulfill their purpose to set seed and, finally, fade with dignity.
As I perused these cast offs, aside from my desperation for anything even partially viable, I couldn’t help but sense I had an obligation to take home at least a few extras. And guilty if I didn’t. That’s the price I pay for anthropomorphizing everything from ants, chipmunks, my computer, our car and certainly, plants. I spied some orange marigolds in fairly decent condition. I hate orange marigolds. But…desperate times call for desperate measures. I’d take them and be grateful. I set two six packs in the flat and continued my search.
Sometimes, when I’m bent over like that, my head down and so engrossed, I’m oblivious to activities and people around me. (You learn that when you’re knee deep in a bed of 4 foot tall hyssop and all manner of bee, wasp, little-creepy-stingy-bitey-flying-crawly things flitter around you and the only way to keep working and not run screaming into the house, flailing your arms is to tell yourself and them: “I’m here doing my thing. You guys are doing yours. I know you’re there. You know I’m here. Let’s leave it at that and get on with our individual business. “)
It was in that position, so focused on examining each cell pack and flat, that my concentration was interrupted when I became aware of movement nearby. I looked up to see I wasn’t alone. There were four other women and one man assuming the same posture, with the same intensity of purpose. We nodded at one another and went back to our business. The shuffling of flats and crunching of pebbles only occasionally breaking the silence. Until finally one woman spoke to all of us across the carpet of flats, “I’m glad to see I’m not the only one who’s crazy enough to be in here on a day like this.”
“Crazy? Naw, we’re not crazy”, I blurted. “We’re gardeners.” It was the only time all six of us stopped in our quest, stood up and laughed in unison. “You got that right”, commented the man. “I lost a whole bed of rudbeckias to mold, and I’ll take anything to replace them”. Another woman, much braver than I because she was actually kneeling on the hot stones, added, “My two window boxes of geraniums just pooped out on me. Leaves got all brown and crispy. All that’s left are stems. They looked so beautiful a few weeks ago. I guess these vincas”, she said, looking down at the four remaining packs of yellowing, spindly pink flowers, “ will have to do.”
“Yeah”, said another woman. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
I couldn’t let well enough alone and waiving my arm over the flats, I had to add, “That true and, besides, it just breaks my heart to see these little guys not have a chance. “
With that completely unintentional jab of guilt thrust upon them, they each lowered their heads again and seemed more determined than ever, plunking, almost at random, cell pack after cell pack of barely alive plants in their empty flats.
Out in the air (hah) once again, I wheeled my cart piled with three flats to the checkout. They were all half price, but it really didn’t matter, I thought. I needed them as much as they needed me. I was gratified to see each of the other gardeners leave with at least a full flat and two of them left with four apiece. Rather smugly, I wondered if my final words had helped rescue a few extra stragglers that would otherwise have remained. The credit, however, really went to the other gardeners. They probably would have taken them anyway. It was obvious by their actions that I wasn’t the only one who shared those thoughts. The little ‘refugees’ had found homes. That was all that mattered and five other gardeners had found their fill ins.
In the theater, summer stock refers to stage plays performed in small towns during June, July and August by mostly out of work actors. In the garden, however, summer stock pertains to those understudy plants waiting in the wings of a once bustling nursery to be discovered during a desperate gardener’s talent search to keep their garden show performing a little longer. Remember… “The show isn’t over till the first frost sings.”
LINDA
Copyright©Linda M. Frank 2005 All Rights Reserved