For Love of a Pineapple
Last week I gave away most of my plants. A mother-son team drove from Springdale to the wilds of Carroll County to haul away my leafy family. I grew most of these potted wonders from tiny sticks or bulbs, and all had gained significant stature. Some were taller or bigger around than me.
I cried a little. But I had chosen my new flora family carefully. Maybe it’s not the same as re-homing a dog or a cat (although I’m not entirely sure it isn’t—I do talk to my plants, and have even been known to stroke and hug them), but there is definitely a sense of loss. And boy does my sunroom look empty.
I kept four plants—with the understanding that if I couldn’t figure out how to transport them to Michigan, I would drive them to Springdale before my final departure date.
I kept a large spathiphyllum (aka “Peace Lily”) because it’s been around a long time, and its low-light requirement makes it a good candidate for my new home. (I’m leaving my light-filled space for a smaller darker domicile. Tootsie the Wonder Dog and I will stroll on the beach for our daily sunshine.)
I also held back a jade plant that my husband started by sticking a leaf in the dirt—mostly because I like the orange pot.
And finally, the unwieldy avocado and pineapple plants. I have no idea how to transport them, or how I will provide the abundant sunshine they are used to, but I couldn’t let them go.
During the 35 years I was married to my now deceased husband, we shared a lot of avocados and fresh pineapples. And the man could not throw out a pineapple top or an avocado seed to save his life. (Although I don’t think it’s this hoarding habit that killed him. He had other habits that likely contributed to his demise…) Avocado pits would collect on the kitchen windowsill, theoretically waiting to be potted, until I tossed them in the compost while he was out of the house. Probably a mere one percent of them made it into pots.
Pineapple tops were generally plunged right into small pots of dirt—and we had pineapple plants everywhere. They are prickly and not particularly handsome. I was always trying to maneuver around them without getting poked in the arm or leg. So, when hubby kicked the pail, I left them outside to die a natural death.
Well, all but one.
I saved one pineapple, and one avocado—in my darling’s honor. And in the four-and-a-half years my husband has been gone, the avocado has become a full-fledged tree—taller than I am. And the pineapple—Oh, the pineapple!—has actually sprouted a baby pineapple. It’s about as big around as a grapefruit, so far, and I wish my darling man could see it. This is his pineapple. Imagine if I someday I get to slice open and consume a pineapple that the love of my life grew in a pot!
I struggle, continually, over the logistics of moving my dog and cat to their new home on one of the great lakes. And now I’ve added tender flora to the puzzle. None of them can ride in a moving truck for ten days. (Yes, it takes a moving company roughly ten days to make the 12-hour drive.) And my minivan has limited capacity.
I’ve heard that love heals all wounds. Maybe it can smooth logistical bumps, too.
I’m writing this on the 71st anniversary of my husband’s birth. Happy Birthday Pineapple Man.