Pressed for Time

I don’t have a green thumb. A hitchhiker’s thumb, sure, I’m all over that. I have two, in fact. But a green one? Nope, not even the slightest green hue anywhere on the whole thing. I planted some seedlings last year and let them survive just long enough to manifest the kind torture they were experiencing before I let them wither away into crunchy, dehydrated nothings. 

When my mom bought me a beautiful purple orchid in a white pot that looked so perfect on our kitchen shelf last March, I was appreciative and apprehensive all at the same time. It looked to pretty right now, but what was I going to let happen to it? Yes, I’m the one that wonders if plants just might have feelings, both physical and emotional.

It’s been nine months, and guys, they need to re-write The Little Engine That Could and make it a story about this orchid. There were times throughout the fall that Jonathan wanted to throw it away, but I thought there was just enough green on it that it had a fighting chance. 

“Oh, so you’re going to let it completely die before we get rid of it?” he’d say. 

Yep. I was. 

The directions for taking care of the plant were simple enough. It just required three ice cubes once a week, and that seemed manageable even for me. After the first few months, though, my interest in its well being quickly declined. Throughout the fall and winter, I’d give it an ice cube or two every month or so, just to remind it of the life it once had. 

Then, the other day, I noticed something different about the orchid plant, that, by now was reduced to some green stalks protruding from some dirt. It had buds! And not just one little bud, budSSSS. Four of them! I thought that deserved some ice cubes, and whaddaya know. Now: 

It has a flar! You go, orchid. At this rate, you may even make it into a moving truck in a few months.