Ever talk to your plants?
I chat with the schefflera in the corner of my living room occasionally, but
outdoors I restrict myself to walking around muttering. Naturally, I swear at
weeds, but who doesn't? And I do try to keep it down because the neighbours are
a little sensitive.
Now Edgar, the fellow
next door, is serious about this plant communication as he calls it. It all
began on a winter evening a couple of years back. He was up late nursing a sick
philodendron (and I suspect a large scotch). Said he'd been chatting to the plant
a bit — swears it helps.
He eventually fell
asleep, as he usually does. When he awoke, it was around 2 a.m. and the TV was
still playing. He was in a kind of middle of the night stupor, trying to decide
whether to go to bed or finish the night on the couch, when the show on TV caught
his attention. It was one of those self-improvement programs. The host was a
motivational speaker, babbling on about positive thinking and how to motivate
growth.
When Edgar heard the
words “motivating growth,” he perked up. He poured himself another drink while he
thought about what the fellah was saying. It made a lot of sense. Edgar didn't
particularly want to become a motivational speaker, but it occurred to him that
if the techniques being described could motivate people to grow, they might
work on other things — like plants.
Well, thanks to the guy
on TV, the scotch, and the philodendron coming out of intensive care, Edgar
became a believer — and a few hundred dollars poorer. He whipped out his credit
card, grabbed the phone and ordered the whole package of books, tapes, and
videos. Everything he'd need to change the world, or at least his small part of
it.
Edgar spent the rest of
the winter practicing. He practiced and practiced until he knew everything
possible about motivational speaking, body language, vocal techniques, and eye
contact — everything he'd need to rouse an audience to action.
He practiced on his dog
(ignored him), he practiced on his teenage boys (hopeless failure), and he
practiced on the mailman (junk mail increased). He even tried motivating his
wife (I understand she went to stay with her sister for a while). But when he practiced
on the philodendron — success. Surprisingly, it flourished.
By spring, Edgar was
ready. I watched as each morning at dawn he went down into his vegetable garden
to give the young plants the full benefit of his new skills. Edgar had a
captive audience. He flipped over an old half-barrel planter to use as a podium
and put on an amazing performance, just like the fellah on TV.
He'd jump off the barrel
and run out into his audience. Next, he was on his knees, beseeching them like
a TV preacher. Up and down the rows he went, cajoling, encouraging, cheering
them on, making eye contact with every single plant — and of course,
motivating: "Yes, you can do it carrots, just a little longer! Come on
sprouts, sprout! Beans, be all you can be!" Talk about flowery speech! And yet it was a
success.
Of course, just like any
other seminar, those paying the most attention gained the most benefit. Judging
by the state of his lawn, the weeds must have been hanging on his every word.
But Edgar swears it was a success. I'm not so sure. I was surprised how well
the cabbages did, and they might have grown bigger if he'd been able to keep it
up all summer, but by June the neighbours were being difficult again — they
called the cops.
Edgar is still practising his oratorical
skills — they don't seem to help much; he still has trouble getting served in
the coffee shop. He's still watching late night TV too. He tells me there's
this woman with a Chia pet that she stands inside a pyramid surrounded with
rare crystals — swears she gets three crops a week. It seems expensive though.
I think I'll stick to spreading it on real thick — compost, that is.
