3rd Place winner of the Essay Contest - Knoxville Writers' Guild

Spare Not a Drop for Thee
by Laura Purcell

The sad spearmint plant sits on the linoleum floor, stuffed into a terra cotta pot much too small, far from any light the window might provide. "You'll keep it inside?" the clerk asked when I bought the plant in early November, just after the first frost. "Oh, yes," I replied, as visions of a kitchen herb garden danced through my head. By some freakish miracle, I had managed to keep a basil plant alive since June and with that success I felt confident to fulfill what my husband calls my "herby desires." Surely, even I could care for a plant that covered my parents' garden like kudzu. Its little leaves are still green, but sadly brittle. I brush one with my finger and it crumbles like ancient Scotch tape. This tragedy reminds me of seeds I planted one hot summer: I nursed them along for weeks, but after their green shoots burst up over the dirt, I lost interest. I cannot be depended upon for daily watering. That summer, the air was so thick and humid that the short walk from my door to my car soaked my shirt, but the ground was as dry as over-baked chicken. The shoots wilted. Tiny plant carcasses lined my balcony. A mad squirrel dug up the pots at night, and covered the balcony with potting soil. Finally, late one night, I disposed of the bodies by tipping the plastic pots over the ledge, dumping the clumps onto the patio three stories below.

Do plants have little plant souls? Is my karma flecked with the black spots of plants past? I do not let my spotty record deter me. Perhaps I can reverse my black thumb. I'll not fill my house with the silk spider plants of my mother-in-law.

Determined, I buy three paperwhite bulbs. I plant them in a glass dish, and support them with polished river stones. I fill the dish with water; the tops of the bulbs peek out. I wonder if I can make this work. I go a bit bulb-crazy after this, and purchase more than fifty of them for the front garden. I spend a warm Saturday in November planting them, and imagine a festival of food for the winter-starved squirrels. At least I won't have to worry about them, given they survive the feast, until spring.

My paperwhites sprout. Maybe this is because I've actually done something right, but more likely this is because they're terribly resilient. Their plastic information tag promises they'll bloom in three weeks, and they perform on schedule. I watch the sprouts grow into stems, the flowers slowly emerge from pods and give off a pungent scent. My experiment grows more than two feet tall, but the blooms dry and whither too soon. Perhaps this is the attraction to silk plants--you don't have to love and nurture a thing only to watch it die.

I've not only spent hours caring for my bulbs, watering them, turning them just the right way for the sun, I've spent almost as much time researching about how to nurture them properly, what kind of environment they need, what behaviors to expect. In some ways, I don't feel I've gotten enough for my effort. Only a week or two of blossoms for countless hours of care and consideration? Listen, buds, I expect more for my precious time. But then again, look at this amazing thing I did: I made something grow. I didn't just buy something pre-packaged, bloomed and blossomed from the supermarket-my care helped the bulbs bloom. They can't help their natural life span. I should just be happy with the time that I have, amazed by this little bit of nature I participated in. And sure, the right arrangement of fake flowers can look just as nice as real ones and require far less maintenance, but for all the heartache and trouble, I'll pick the real thing every time. I can't imagine finding as much beauty in an artificial flower as I do in these delicate white blossoms, however fleeting.

My first paperwhite experiment inspires me to attempt a second. I place the new sprouts prominently in the picture window, and display my expertise to the neighborhood. Could this be the path to redemption?
In the meantime, my basil plant clings to life. Its heart monitor sporadic, I'm sure. Keeping it alive for nearly six months is a record for me, but watching it struggle now is painful. I'd left it on the kitchen floor as well, with the unfortunate spearmint, for too long, but the basil seemed to soldier on despite the spearmint's demise. Perhaps the basil is depressed, after having to watch the spearmint suffer. Of course, I told the basil that the spearmint was in a better place, but that is a difficult concept to understand, especially for a plant. I trim off most of the basil's stems and move it to a sunny window.

I love green; I appreciate gardens and gardeners. I don't care to participate in a who's-got-the-better-lawn contest, but a pretty flower garden and a vegetable patch couldn't be too much to ask. It is now Christmas, and my basil plant perseveres. The stems that remain are sturdy; the leaves are sparse but green. And hey, it is winter after all. We all deserve a little hibernation. I'm not giving up yet.

My grandmother was a glorious gardener. Maybe because she grew up in Brooklyn, during the Depression, it was important to her to have a bit of land to grow something. Something different than having a flowerpot or a window box… something more substantial. A real garden.

During their marriage, my Nana and Papa moved about once every two years, on average. Over twenty addresses, countless boxes to pack, unpack, and repack. Although I have no evidence, I have a strong suspicion she planted with each relocation. I remember she grew flowers and vegetables, made pickles with her cucumbers and jam with her raspberries. Papa and their basset hound, Clyde, picked the cucumbers together, and Nana would cut Clyde's teeth marks out of the cukes before putting them in the pot. Nana doesn't garden anymore, or cook. She is quite relieved, these days, by processes that have as few steps as possible.

"Merry Christmas, Nana," she does still recognize my voice.
"Christmas? That's right. Merry Christmas."
"Are you doing anything else for the holidays, Nana?"
"Well, the holidays are over, now. Except that one. Now what is it? I can't remember. The one that comes at the end."
"New Year's"
"I can't think of it. Oh, it will come to me. What is it called? I can't remember anymore."
"January 1? New Year's Day?"
"I just can't think of the name."
I can't take the torture anymore. "NEW YEAR'S DAY."
"That's right," she says easily. "New Year's. I can't stay up for that anymore. You know, your uncle is taking another one of those bike trips. He's going to … he's … it is Down Under."
"You mean Australia?"
"No, the other one."
"New Zealand."
"Yes, that's it. And he's still a bachelor."
"Nana, I have a question for you."
"Go ahead. What is it?"
"I planted these paperwhite bulbs, I forced them to grow, you know?"
"Bulbs you have to plant in the fall, and they come up in the spring."
"But these I planted inside, and they bloomed, but now I don't know what to do with them. I'm not supposed to throw them out, am I?"
"Bulbs, no, you don't throw them out. You plant them … in the fall."
"But Nana, once they've bloomed, what do I do."
"Well, you have to let them run their course. And they'll bloom again the next year, most likely."

I can tell she is getting bored with the conversation. She forced paperwhites every Christmas, but I can't remember what she did with the bulbs, if she planted them or if she bought new bulbs each year. I want to ask her more, but I know it only frustrates her to not be able to answer the way she wants. Even if she knows the answer, she often can't find the words to explain it.

"I still can't believe you spent so much money on the flowers at your wedding. You know, I just picked some lilacs from the backyard for my bouquet, when I got married."

Here we go again. This is the point in the conversation when I don't feel as bad about calling infrequently. "I know, Nana," I reply. "I know."

Unlike her mother, my mother would pave their yard if she could get away with it. She is often indifferent to decoration. My parents' backyard now is half covered with wood chips (because their dogs destroyed the grass, and they didn't feel it would be cost effective to sod). The rest is comprised of my father's raised garden beds-for sporadically-cared for vegetables and the rampant spearmint-and a slate/gravel patio that doesn't quite work. ("They didn't measure the slates correctly," says my brother, when I tell him I assumed that was the look they wanted. "They just bought them, and when they didn't fit they filled around it with gravel.") Their house is in the same utilitarian style. They recently replaced most of the carpet with berber, which gives the house a very office-like/ industrial quality. But that doesn't matter. I still seek her opinion about most things, even if her answer causes me hours of penitence.

"So, the basil plant's on its last legs, isn't it?" I ask, dreading the response. My mother nods. "You can start again in the spring. You have more room for a garden now." No hope, no secret tips to help make my plant spring back to life. Maybe she doesn't know any, or maybe she just doesn't think I'm worth such privileged information.

Later that night, when we're alone again, my husband brings me a bottle of Miracle Grow. "It's just hibernating," he reassures. "I think its fine. Let's give it a snack and see what happens." So we do.