Previously published in The American Orchid Society Magazine May 2004: winner of the 2003 Gordon W. Dillon/Richard C. Peterson Memorial Essay Award

I feel like a border collie. Eyes glued on the plants I gently herd them about, twisting a pot, picking off a dead flower, nudging another plant back into place. As I move around the growing tables the plants hum their appreciation. “Honey, you are not listening to me.” The words cut into my reverie, the hum apparently not coming from the plants but rather my beloved spouse JP. I can’t look away from my latest acquisition, a stunning white cattleya from Hawaii. Without turning I respond honestly that no, I was not listening and apologize. Then, before he can draw in a breath I implore him to investigate the aroma of this latest plant, distracting him from what might have been a timely reprimand.

Nose safely tucked into the flower, I gaze appreciatively at my husband. He is the most tolerant of men, a necessary characteristic for a successful marriage to one such as myself. I am able to persuade him to admire more of the orchids and then he escapes, whatever he was trying to tell me will have to wait. It is a great strategy, because I can’t let him examine my family of orchids too closely, and I know he doesn’t want to listen to me wax euphoric about their beauty.
The hard cold truth is that my husband hates houseplants. He is an outdoorsman, and will even help me garden, as long as it is outside. Last year he germinated his first perennial seedlings and planted all two thousand anywhere there was dirt. (This year perhaps he will believe me when I suggest to not sow the entire seed packet.) Houseplants, however, are another story. The first time he came to my house he sat in an armchair next to the Jade Plant. Not really a plant, more of a tree, it stands four feet tall and weighs close to 200 pounds. He eyed it repeatedly; it really looms over the chair, and finally tapped it with a disdainful finger. “Shouldn’t you cut this thing back a little?”
All my houseplants have a story, and there are a lot of stories to tell. The windows bristle with cacti, the bathrooms have plants for toothbrush holders, and the kitchen, well you almost need a machete to get to the sink. Once we were married the kitchen plants were the first to go. “I will not fight my way to the dishes,” he announced, so my African violets moved to a new location. He is not impressed that the Jade plant was my grandmother’s, or that most of my plants came from the plant orphanage rack at the local greenhouse. He tolerates them, but it is a tenuous peace at best.
We were married last June, and understanding my love for plants, the ocean, and volcanoes, he took me to Hawaii. It may have been the worst mistake of his life. Previously I had never tried my luck with orchids, they were the purview of the true greenhouse enthusiast. On the Big Island we went to an orchid farm. JP must have known that a corner had been turned because he filmed me wandering around the growing tables. The voice over is the words of a man resigned to his fate; the images show me looking like a pilgrim at a holy shrine.
Six orchids were purchased and shipped home. The saleswoman gave me great advice, assured me that if I had a green thumb orchid culture would come naturally. Hooked, I awaited their arrival like a kid at Christmas. Opening that box was thrilling, even more thrilling was the growing bench that JP built so that the plants would thrive. I must have arranged them fifty times, aiming for that perfect mix of color and foliage.
There was one problem. The bench was too big; the plants were practically swimming under the lights. I pointed this out to my husband and he got a wary look in his eye. “ That doesn’t mean you need more orchids,” he said, “just move some of the plants out of the bathroom so I can find my razor in the morning. They will love it down here under the lights.” This became his mantra, every time he would find me gazing at the plants he would suggest this one or that one to come and live with the orchids. His voice began to sound desperate so I put the hibiscus and plumeria on the bench. Satisfied, he began to ignore my orchid mania.
The mania includes saying good morning to them when I feed the dogs, then happily misting, grooming, and moving the plants to best suit their needs. When their day is done I check each one again and say goodnight. The only person in the house who is willing to humor me is my younger son Ian, who has agreed to play piano for the plants. As the piano is next to the plants he doesn’t have much of a choice, but I instructed him to talk to the plants about the music. He obviously thinks I am crazy, but plays a wonderful medley of “Orchid Songs,” including music from Billy Joel, Paul Simon, and Eric Clapton.
The six plants were getting along famously. Then IT happened. During a routine stop at a local garden center I spied a gorgeous Phalaenopsis that I just had to buy. JP noticed it right away. “What is that doing here?” He asked in a stentorian tone. You would have thought I had brought home a poisonous insect. This event made it clear that any new purchases would have to be stealthy. JP does not begrudge the expense, he just doesn’t want any more plants cluttering up the house.
The Hawaiian plants were done flowering, so the Phal stuck out like a sore thumb. Conveniently there was an orchid show in the area that weekend. Hoping to put JP off the scent, I moved every flowing plant I owned down with the orchids. Rearranging them every day, and trusting in his inability to tell one plant from another, I set the stage for deception.
The orchid show was everything I could have hoped for. Blissful, I wandered the aisles, ultimately departing with three new plants. One was an enormous purple cattleya, another white cattleya not yet in bloom, and something orange that I could not pronounce. Once home I put the big purple one in the middle of the dining room table. It would run interference and blocking for its brethren. As suspected, JP was equal parts entranced and outraged by this gigantic plant on the table. The other two were able to sneak into the ranks without so much as a whisper.
It became quite a game, creating shifting mirage of regular houseplants and orchids. Every once in a while JP would suspect that something was awry and I would point out how nicely the cymbidiums were doing. There is really no sensible reply to this, so he would retreat, shaking his head in dismay.
Ultimately my illusion began to weaken. It began with me moving most of the regular plants back to their previous spots because I had run out of room. Soon there were plants on every dog crate. This may have been a trifle too obvious. The watering situation may have also given me away. I had a regular army of devices including misters and milk jugs standing full of water. Then one day I took the turkey-baster to aid in delicate watering. The theft was duly noted and mentioned. There were nippers and clippers, special pots, special potting mix, and lots of books. JP started to read the books.
I found him one day, identification book in one hand, and an orchid in the other. He has very large hands, and the 2inch pot looked positively silly, despite the robust yellow flowers spilling every which way. “This,” he declared, “is a new one. You did not have this one last week.” Putting the plant down, not ungently, he began to point out the other additions. Caught red handed all I could do was stand by and listen. He was holding a lovely orange cattleya when it happened. The critical tone dropped out of his voice and he turned the pot around to better view the flower. There was a moment of silence and I knew a conversion was occurring.
“I like this one,” he announced, thrusting the pot under the light. “See here, how the colors change, it looks like fireworks. And the shape, it has a simple form, not so ridiculous as the others.” I carefully kept the smile off my lips as he set the plant down and picked up another. The whole encounter ended with his offer to build another light bench on the far wall. A new turkey-baster has appeared in the kitchen, and when people come over the house, the first thing he shows them is ‘our’ orchid farm.

Comments

[Molly Dugger Brennan]

Miss Ellen, I just read the story on your process of becoming an orchid addict. Perfectly descriptive for this finance-draining, euphoria-inducing, life-altering process. I was wondering if you would do me the favor of posting a story or two of mine on your site? I know Sebastian scolds that blogs are to be updated every single day, so before I bother with the work of constructing a blog site I'd like to see if my stuff would be well-received or if my efforts are better spent repotting.
Love you, girlfriend. Molly