Plantquest

What, may my faithful readers ask, and rightfully so, is a “plantquest”?  Well, as defined by the originator of the term (in all modesty, myself), it is a plant search quite distinct from just a normal plant shopping trip.  The household plant supervisor, again in this case, me, is looking for something quite specific – be it a plant species adding to a collection, something for a specific spot inside or out, something that will have certain requirements – size, light, fitting into a pot, that sort of thing. 

I was on just such a quest the other day.  In the backstory, Her Ladyship had ordered for me a beautiful Calathea Tricolor for Valentine’s Day.  She may not do that again any time soon, because I’ve been informed that I’m talking about, assessing its progress, and weighing in on its virtues way more than she wants to hear.  Herself enjoys plants to the point where she can admire them without comment or discussion, while the Princess has just an edge of hostility in her voice when the subject comes up.  In fact, the Princess has remarked on frequent occasions that my houseplants are in the way of her clutter more often than not, and that they are a wanton squandering of her inheritance.  Be that at may, I’m now captivated by the many interesting varieties of calathea, going in search for something suitable to replace an ageing and somewhat tragically declining philodendron occupying a quiet spot on the shelf between the kitchen and dining room.  Said plant has been there for the better part of twenty years, and no amount of care and support has managed to stave off the process.  I’ve watched it go from a healthy and luxurious bit of nature to a sparce bit of greenery ready for the Great Compost Pile out back.  A new calathea might be just the thing – it would have interesting greenery (and other colors), vibrant veining, and the spot doesn’t get much natural light, which would suit it.  

Should perhaps mention that I do feel just a bit guilty spending a lot on plants when they are primarily my hobby.  Although I received a sweatshirt for Christmas that says, “Life Is Short.  Buy the Plant.”  That’s a slogan I’ve long espoused, so once again yesterday, I indulged.  I had shopped online for a new container because, not that I don’t have dozens of them, something new was called for.  However, what I found online was both expensive and required shipping time – in some cases, weeks.  That will never do for me.  When I write my autobiography, it’s working title could be “The Impatient Gardener”. So, I did find one or two possibilities that I could pick up at the local discount store.  I went to get one, and they didn’t have what I’d picked out, but I found an eminently suitable alternative.  Next, on to the nursery to see what they had.  A very nice collection of calathea and other low light plants in perfect sizes.  Wow – that seldom happens unless I’m looking for outdoor plants in May.  It’s now looking smashing in its appointed spot and in its new pot.  Well-done, me!  Another successful Plantquest, and on budget.  Only a tiny sliver of the inheritance gone.

Plantquests come in wide variety of interests, terrains, and intensities.  If you follow British mysteries, as we do, you’ve seen all manner of plant searches on the scope of, say, The Holy Grail all the way down to a hybrid begonia.  Serious plant collectors hire explorers to track down exotic species from the rainforest or a particularly rare cactus in the desert.  The plant arrives, only to be stolen, with the collector ending up on the floor in a pool of blood.  Sabotage at garden competitions and festivals is also fairly regular occurrence in British villages.  Somebody, typically the winner of the competition for the last five years, is knocked out by a shovel and their prized roses are left lying in ruins.  The winner takes first place with a cultivar they imported secretly from South America.  Now, there’s a Plantquest.  There definitely is a range of plant desires, and I have to say, I’m on the lower end.

Many years ago, my father – a somewhat casual gardener – was out in the woods cutting brush or trimming low-hanging branches where nobody would see them or care, but he did it anyway, feeling a certain nobility in taking care of vast acres of forest.  Somewhere in the woods, he found a small group of painted trillium growing wild.  Delighted, he dug them up and transplanted them near the house.  I know that they survived for a year or two, but I didn’t hear much about them after that.  The Olde Gentleman thought they were very rare and valuable, and treated them like exotic orchids.  I’d hate to tell him today that they can be bought for about ten bucks on Amazon.  My father’s gardening was more confined to vegetables, I guess a product of his youth on the farm during the Depression, where they subscribed to the notion that, if you couldn’t eat it, it wasn’t much good.  And in reality, he’d plant them in the spring and then they were on their own to survive or not. Gardens of his lineage were primarily lilacs, roses, and rhododendron, which basically would live for generations untended.  A shovelful of horse manure every couple of years would do the trick.

Watching a number of garden shows, I’ve been interested in the Victorian Gentlemen Gardeners.  You know the ones, they’d go all over the world, bringing back plants that interested them.  Cherry blossoms from Japan, evergreens from parts of Asia, exotic plants for their conservatories from Africa and South America.  They’d have large estates with dozens of acres under cultivation and a staff of a dozen gardeners to tend them.  “His Lordship brought that back from his trip to the Suez in 1847.”  And it’s still alive?  Were that me, it would have perished by the Civil War.  Those were interesting times, though.  Trips to collect plants were as popular as wealthy Americans traveling to Europe to buy artwork and antiques to furnish their newly built grand homes.  This seems to be the way that so many of our houseplants today are descendants of those imported from their native lands.  We enjoy them, and hope to keep them going as transitional caretakers. 

Anyway, this is the long route to explaining the joys and excitement of searching out plants that wax enthusiastic for us plant people.  Finding the specific is the key, and sometimes that journey leads to unexpected finds.  Many of my plants are not what I expected when I set out, but I like to visualize them in the places they’re going.  I saw something of interest in the grocery store last week, didn’t bother to buy it that day, and when I got back, it or any like it were gone.  That’s usually the story of my plantquests.  I may have mentioned this before, but any plant shopping for our friend, Lady Peacock is, in a sense almost always a plantquest, because she has such specific likes and dislikes that the chances of finding something that will please is never a given. Even when she not doing the actual search, but has delegated it to others, she’s given careful instructions as to the species, size, and color.  Her containers leave nothing to chance, but that’s because she’s a) matching it with the new front door wreath, b) coordinating with the immediate environmental palettes, or c) coordinating with her new coat so that both take one’s breath away when she steps outside.  Last year, when as her personal shopper I managed to locate dahlias in just the right shade of pink, well, that was just sheer happenstance – the planets aligned . . . . . . .

So, I urge my readers everywhere to take the time and savor the moment of a proper “plantquest”.   The results, unless you’re my daughter, will give endless contentment.