I can’t tell you what type of flower it is, only that it looks rough. Rough enough, in fact, that maybe most casual houseplant enthusiasts would have a hard time identifying it. All that I can say is, the rare times it does manage a meager blossom, the petals are yellow.
The plant in question had the unfortunate fate of being put in my care. It was gifted to my wife, and the fact that it was handed to me for placement in my office probably says something about how my wife felt about the person who gave it to her. Deep down, my wife knew what was going to happen to that plant, and though she wouldn’t admit it, she was probably happy about it.
It wasn’t long before aphids struck. With the exception of bizarrely large spiders that crawl into the house in the autumn, Ireland’s insect population is relatively docile. Still, the tiny white bugs are insistent, and when they spot a houseplant they like, they tend to make camp. When spraying dish soap on the plant’s leaves didn’t dissuade them, I dipped the plant upside down into a bowl of Dawn and hot water. It killed half of the plant, but the aphids stuck around. When I doused the leaves with heavy-duty pesticide, it killed most of the rest of the plant.
Growing up, our garden was less a place of vegetables than a weedier portion of our lawn. Whatever enthusiasm my parents found on a warm spring day to scatter seeds had usually evaporated by the time fieldwork took off. In fact, instead of hoeing, my father usually dropped the plows through a section of grass on his way to the first field of the year. Come late summer, it was a guess as far as what was an onion and what was a weed, or a scavenger hunt to find an odd tomato among the tangle of unidentifiable vegetation.
My grandfather’s garden was very different. He was a child in Germany during the second world war and never seemed to forget what it meant to be hungry. He was an avid hunter who never hesitated to take a doe first, making sure the freezer was full. He raised rabbits and ducks, and although he was attached to them as pets, he still forced himself to snap their necks and eat one of them every week. He also grew a garden that was several acres big, with enough produce coming out of it to keep all our pantries stocked for the year.
My wife grew up in an apartment in an Italian city without pets, a lawn or even a communal area outside that was safe to play in. The only vegetation in the house was a basil plant necessary for cooking. Now, in our rented apartment in an Irish city, my wife crowds all the rooms with orchids, azaleas, spider plants and pots containing things we can’t name. She’s enjoyed discovering her green thumb and protects her plants from my haphazard care.
It’s not a hill I’m willing to die on, but I’ll still say it: I think there’s something urban about houseplants. I can’t prove it, but I suspect that farmers tend to be less excited about camping because they already spend their lives outdoors. In the same way, if my thesis holds true, maybe those with agricultural experience tend to give less care to gardens and potted plants because they’re already spending most of their time in the field. To take it even further, maybe there’s even a guilty pleasure in being bad with municipal flora. A field of corn or soybeans is a high-stakes game with a certain pressure to make good decisions on its planting, spraying and harvesting. Maybe there’s a subconscious desire in farmers to let the plants in and around their homes die, just to show how silly they are in the grand scheme of farming.
In truth, I know my disdain for the bristled and drooping plant next to my desk comes from similar feelings. Part of starting over again as an immigrant in an expensive country is knowing that we’ll be renting for quite a while. In total, considering the housing crisis where we live, we’re grateful to have any place, let alone somewhere in a rent-pressure zone. Still, not having land, animals or even a lawn is very different than how I grew up, and that is something that faces quiet reconciliation on a daily basis. Maybe it’s unfair to take it out on a yellow-flowered plant someone bought at a hardware store, but we all have our own ways to cope. It’s still alive, and that says something.
Maybe I’ll even give it some water this week.
