Bernice

Plants are one of those things that everyone, everywhere, agrees are good for you. Like exercise or deep breathing, there seems to be no end to the benefit plants offer. Topping the list: they give you oxygen. Could there be a more life-sustaining benefit? 

And yet . . . 

Plants are so boring. Like exercise and deep breathing, tending plants is a hugely boring, hugely beneficial thing that adults should do, a thing this adult managed to avoid doing until recently. 

Until Bernice. 

It started with Botany class. In September, my 16 year-old daughter, known in these parts as Seconda, opted to take Botany as a science elective. This choice mystified me. How much is there to learn about pistils, stamens, and photosynthesis? 

But I was also delighted because nothing would please me more than if my children, who all appear to share my unfortunate affliction of preferring stories to all else, would develop an interest in a more pragmatic field. Like botany. 

Seconda loved botany. She read Ross Gay’s Book of Delights, and kept her own plant journal. She became an expert on pistils, stamens and photosynthesis. So it made sense when she arrived home from chorus rehearsal one night with a very beleaguered plant in her arms. 

“The plant shop was giving it away,” she explained, beaming with the glow of a new and great idea. “It was on the sidewalk with a note that said, ’Needs some TLC.’”

“What kind of plant is it?” I asked. 

Seconda shrugged. 

“What are you going to do with it?” I asked. 

“I’m going to take care of it,” she huffed. 

The image of Seconda carrying this plant on the F train, protecting its fragile leaves from jostling commuters, reckless children and “It’s Showtime!” subway acrobats filled my heart with tender gladness. It reminded me of a chapter in The Book of Delights where Gay describes carrying a tiny tomato plant on an airplane, and the joy it brought to the people he passed. 

So, I was delighted. I was also doubtful Seconda could nurse the plant back to health.

The plant was in a small plastic planter about four inches in diameter. Large heart-shaped leaves dangled off the ends of long, spindly stems that flopped over the sides of the planter. The stems were limp, like spaghetti. I was no expertt, but it seemed like plants should not resemble spaghetti. 

If there was such a thing as Botanical Hospitals, this plant would have been in Intensive Care. It would have had IVs hanging from its stems. The priest would have stopped by to administer last rites. This plant did not simply require TLC. It required heroic measures. 

And we are not heroic plant-saving people. I’ve managed to keep three children alive—frequently thriving, thank you very much—but only because I’ve adopted a single-minded sense of purpose which allows everything but those children (and work, the payment for which sustains them) to go overlooked. My laundry is almost always unfolded. My floor is un-mopped. My exercise track record is abysmal. And my plants die. It’s how our family works. 

But the gasping-for-breath, almost-pulseless plant in Seconda’s arms was not my plant. It was Seconda’s. So, I helped her clear a spot for it on her nightstand and I promptly forgot all about it. 

And then, an amazing thing happened. Seconda did take care of the plant. With each passing day, the plant looked more and more perky. Its stems seemed to thicken and stabilize, as if more blood coursed through their veins. The leaves looked plumper. 

“What did you do to it?” I asked Seconda. 

She gazed proudly at the plant patient. “I just put it in the window and watered it.” 

Botany!

Witnessing the Lazarus-like miracle filled me to bursting with hopefulness, no small feat. It’s not as easy as it used to be to become full to bursting with hopefulness. So, I returned regularly to check on the plant, and was utterly amazed by the speed with which she grew. One day, out of the blue, there was a new leaf bud, precocious and dense, pushing out from the stem. The next day, that bud was already unfurling. Two days later and there was a leaf! A whole new leaf! Where days ago, there was nothing but air! 

“It’s amazing!” I cooed to Seconda. “It’s magic!”

“I know!” she agreed. 

“I see why you like botany!” I told her. “I think I like botany too!”

Soon after, I began to refer to the plant with female pronouns, and from there it was a hop, skip and a jump to naming her. By this juncture, it was clear that Seconda’s interest in the plant had plateaued, while mine had only just begun to bloom. This is not an unusual occurrence. I have a tendency to get overly-invested in projects the kids take on and then later abandon. 

“I don’t care what we name her,” Seconda said after I’d pestered her about it a few times. “Name her whatever you want.” 

“Really?” I asked, giddy at the privilege. 

“Sure,” she said. 

“I’ll call her . . . “ I flung open the door to my creative subconscious and a name breezed in. “Bernice.” 

Bernice grew with astonishing speed. Before long, she’d entirely outgrown her planter, so Seconda and I replanted her, but she soon outgrew that planter too. We stabilized her supermodel-long stems with Chinese-takeout-chopsticks and twist ties, so that she stood regal, spaghetti-stemmed no more. She shot up so quickly that within two months, she could no longer be kept on the nightstand next to Seconda’s bed. 

“Bernice needs more room,” I told Seconda. “I think she needs to be moved onto the living room floor.” 

“Okay, sure,” Seconda agreed. It was clear she’d never anticipated that getting me hooked on botany would be so annoying. 

And so it was that Bernice was moved into a place of honor by our large living room window, where any guest entering our home can immediately catch sight of her. 

As I write this, Bernice preens in our window, a few feet away from where I type, standing a full five feet tall, Sometimes when I look at her, I think the same thing I think about my children: how could something so small blossom into a being that takes up so much space, into such an impressive presence? 

 Unlike my children, Bernice needs so little to flourish. Just a sunny spot and water every now and again. And in exchange for that, Bernice offers me the thrill of watching something grow, the joy of hope springing eternal. 

Who knew a philodendron could do all that? 

All the people who waxed rhapsodic about gardening, I guess. 

Sometimes adulting is not as bad as you think it will be.