Dried Flowers

How obnoxious is it to suggest that I dried flowers and cared for houseplants before it was trendy? Very obnoxious. With a dash of delusional. Stay with me. I merely suggest that someone indifferent to trends may find oneself in a rare alignment with a trend. Maybe I'm bragging a little bit. However, two of the moment hobbies (dried flowers and houseplants) favored a century before the last warrants a smirk. Perhaps Ms.? Mrs.? Mr.? F.W. Burbidge, author of the unfashionably yet precisely entitled Domestic Floriculture: Window Gardens and Floral Decorations Being the Practical Directions for the Propagation, Culture and Arrangement of Plants and Flowers as Domestic Ornaments (1887) smirks in the great garden of the hereafter.

I used to chuckle at the idea of dried flower bouquets. I dried plants and flowers for culinary uses and seed saving. Dried cut flowers? No, thanks. Devote time and space to another endeavor? Nope! Because life is strange, I learned to love dried flowers, seed heads and grasses through sloth and serendipity.

In the opinion of some, not mine, I grew far too many border sedums--Autumn Joy and Spectabile in my garden. The sedum mania was for several reasons: contempt for bare soil, roots deter digging squirrels, lovely foliage/flower displays for three seasons, easy propagation and sedums' eerie self-sufficiency (a subject deserving of deeper discussion in the future).

Just one chilly autumn day of cutting sedums by the dozens was enough to realize that I needed a better solution. Since they're the garden sovereigns, I judiciously cut them throughout the summer for floral arrangements rather than deadhead at the end of the season. The bonus was lush, single flower bouquets. Single flowers because the succulent stems become a putrid mess in water and decrease the life of mixed bouquets. Another plus: they keep for a long time without water. If no more than an inch of the cut stems is in water, the flowers dry beautifully as the water evaporates. One afternoon, a sweet smell penetrated my daydreams. A forgotten vase of drying sedums emitted a strong honey-hay perfume. A scent worthy of interrupted idleness.

Once upon a time, I was a novice gardener. An innocent in the ways of growing things, if you will. The only way to realize botanical lushness was to grow from seed. Seeds are a fraction of the cost of even tiny plants. I don't remember how many seeds packets I bought (a lot). But out of all the seeds I sowed to create my fantasy cottage garden, the only plant that made a show were giant cockscombs. It was a bizarre show. Imagine masses of brain like magenta flowers sitting atop fascinated stems like drawings in a children's book. Imagine my chagrin.

Embarrassment aside, I was grateful for cockscombs prolific growth. They were conversation starters in the garden (many people had never seen them grown in a garden). Their growth encouraged me to keep sowing seed. Plus, cockscombs are charming cut flowers.

Like sedums, cockscomb stems foul water. Never submerge the entire stems unless eau de bog water is desired; only allow up to a few inches of the stem to touch water and flowers will remain soft and vivid. Drying may occasionally require a fresh cut and fresh water. Heads up to the maniacally tidy: the seeds are legion and drop wherever they want.

Like to laugh? Put a cockscomb bouquet on a table; wait for the comedy. Sorry, I don't have a photo or video to prove my point. Almost all visitors questioned if the flowers were real. Touch them, I suggested. Who guesses that something that resembles on an ocean reef (or maybe another planet) feels like velvet? True, my garden mimicked a modern art installation rather than a floriferous idyll. I got a uniquely weird floral display. And a chance to be silly with people who wouldn't normally notice a floral arrangement.

Americans love lawns and love mowing lawns. In my old neighborhood, a putting or bowling green was the exemplar; mowers and weed whackers appear on the first mild spring day to annoy lovers of peace and quiet. I'm ambivalent about lawns and felt no affection for mowing it. If it were my responsibility (glad it wasn't), then I'd probably mow it before it sent up flowers. Not because I'm a dynamo but because it's more efficient for using a reel mower. Efficiency equals more idle time.

When a passerby cast a blatant side eye upon my front yard, I overheard him say to his companion that "unmown lawns attract rodents". What? Not half eaten takeout litter? Not overflowing trash cans? I'm not an expert on the rodent mind (as squirrels know). I suppose I'd abandon sewers and alleys for a long grass paradise if I were a rat. My pseudoscientific observations inferred that the longer grass increased the lady beetles crawling on the grass, dramatically reducing aphids on everything else. Well, disapproval and theories aside, grass flowers usually arrived before most slumbering plants and flowers awakened in my garden. On a whim, in early spring, I picked grasses to ease a yearning for greenness. Just like sedum and cockscomb, grass stems sitting in water smell... unpleasant. I place them in water to photograph ephemeral arrangements, otherwise I don't bother with water. Without water, they dry to a delicately faded inflorescence (see photos). Who'd have thought an unmown lawn could be a source for smugness?

My dried botanical origin story---random hence detached from trends. In the depths of winter, dried flowers are last gardening season's souvenirs and the hope for future seasons. They reassure me when mid- January doldrums produce a peculiar paranoia that the previous spring was the final spring on earth. Crazy, I know. With the first muscari sighting, I thanked the dusty dried florals for their service and tossed them onto the compost heap.

What is my point? If you have access to flowers and plants, then use my lazy and all natural drying method. Anticipate transformations with little or no effort. Dried botanicals can be beautiful, charming (possibly bizarre) as fresh flowers and foliage. Trends be damned.

Houseplants

"Houseplants are out of fashion," said my dearest co-worker and happy hour associate. This was the mid 1990s. I'd drank a few glasses of wine so I'm foggy on the context , but I clearly remember her puzzling statement. I couldn't comprehend plants cycling in and out of fashion. A dearth of funds and windows in my small, drafty apartment assured houseplant deprivation, but I'm sure I would've welcomed them in better circumstances. At the time, stuffing myself with as many mussels and downing as much white zinfandel for my happy hour dollars took priority over clarification. And I trusted her judgment as she was mature and substantially wealthier than me. For example, she treated me to a lunch of spare grilled filet mignon from her cookout. Spare filet mignon?! And, of course, everyone knows a taste for the finest cuts of beef is a marker for horticultural genius. I don't miss that job or town one bit; I certainly miss her.

It's a mystery to me why houseplants fell out of fashion or why they reemerged as social media celebrities. Speculations and explanations abound, but I'm unconcerned. Plants transcend time and place if not budgets and living conditions. That's my stance.

A decade ago, I purchased a large and handsome snake plant in a hideous plastic pot at a hardware superstore. It was the lone plant for sale, and the price was right . More attractive containers eluded me, and the unfazed snake plant grew well in the unstylish pot. I saw a snake plant chicly planted into a long and narrow ceramic container in a magazine and proceeded to copy it. Knowing nothing about plants or stylized photography tricks, I divided and planted it in shallow containers with poor drainage. I over watered the snake plant; it turned to mush and promptly died. I lavished attention on a plant that thrived on neglect. Killing an indestructible plant killed my self-esteem, and I conceded defeat. I didn't want to be a serial plant killer.

Years later, I bought a fledgling ivy and pothos for two dollars each at the same hardware superstore. Ivy indoors must share the same traits as ivy outdoors, right? Wrong! So very wrong. Had I known ivy needed regular misting, french fries would've been a better investment. The ivy died a disgraceful death by spider mite infestation. The pothos languished but lived despite sporadic watering and low light conditions. Its home was a south facing stair landing where a neighbor's tall photinia hedge blocked the light. An overzealous pruner decimated said hedge with a chainsaw like a horror movie psycho, and it never recovered. The hedge is now quite dead, but the struggling pothos was invigorated. With a modicum of attention, the pothos grew strong enough to take cuttings for propagation.

All my pothos were clones of a plant I bought ten years ago. Of course, not all rooted cuttings survive as potted plants. Some rooted cuttings were never planted in soil but lived in water. Light conditions in my house weren't conducive to growing large plants so I never fed them while indoors. Around Memorial Day, the potted pothos summered on a west facing covered porch. They basked in the warmth and independence like kids out of school for summer vacation. I've plant-slaughtered indoors and outdoors but pothos was a stalwart friend.

My grandmother-in-law gave me a tiny rooted heart leaf philodendron cutting. Heart leaf philodendron is often snidely referred to as a grandmother's plant. So its fitting that I received it from a grandmother. I cherished that cutting. A trailing stem broke off as it traveled to its summer spot on the porch, and my heart sank. I tried rooting it to no avail. Philodendron isn't as amenable as pothos. I pampered philodendron a little more than pothos as it was a pass-a-long from a precious friend. To reference the controversial book The Secret Life of Plants, I wondered if my reliable pothos ever felt jealousy. I bet pothos is too chill for such energy draining emotions.

I used to envy the indoor jungles on social media accounts. Then it dawned on me: I, and I alone provide all the right growing conditions: water, food, light, humidity and affection. I'll pass. I'll love the plant(s) that love me. I love pothos; my apologies to fiddleleaf ferns, air plants, monsteras and succulents everywhere.

Perceived novelty powerfully sways opinion. So I suspect that upon posting of this essay, a tastemaker/influencer will have declared dried flowers and houseplants passé. When is the pet rock revival?