Poinsettias can turn your season upside down
A huge box arrived on my desk the other day. On the side in bold letters was printed "THIS END UP" with the obligatory arrow showing where up was supposed to be.
The arrow was pointing to my feet.
I opened the box to find a poinsettia, on its head, dirt everywhere but in the pot. I knew immediately not to worry.
No matter which way the arrow points, no matter whether they're in or out of dirt, no matter whether they've been bruised and battered by a cross-country trip — this one came from California — poinsettias can't be killed. Like diamonds, they're forever.
For this reason alone I've never liked them much.
I like my plants to die. And in a timely manner.
Poinsettias are like dinner guests who don't quite know when it's time to leave. The dishes are done, the wine is gone, the music has stopped, the candles have burned down to nubs, yet there they sit. Until spring. And as we all know, there's nothing sadder than a poinsettia in April.
We had one here in the office until June last year. I finally couldn't take it any longer and strangled it with my own hands. Even then I wasn't sure it wouldn't emerge, like a phoenix, from the trash.
That's why I like orchids. They die. And they don't take their time about it, either.
They do their thing, are pretty for a month or so, drop their blossoms, then depart in a polite, unobtrusive way. Just like the dinner guest who does know the party's over.
Orchid lovers, of course, will tell us orchids are easy to keep alive and will blossom again and again if you just do a couple of simple things, like not over-watering them.
Such orchid success happened to me only once, and it was a complete fluke. The last three have expired just like they're supposed to, quickly, becoming nothing more than a pleasant memory.
I love them for that.
A poinsettia, however, is like nuclear waste. It doesn't go away. Kind of like your children.
One of my most vivid childhood memories is of the altar at church during the holidays. It was banked with poinsettias. The tradition was to buy one in memory of a departed loved one, then take it home after the Christmas service.
Even my mom, who couldn't keep a cactus alive, couldn't kill the church poinsettia. It sat on the coffee table until Memorial Day. She dusted it.
The other irritating part of the poinsettia personality is its ubiquity. You can't turn a corner this month without a poinsettia glaring back at you. Again, like your children.
They've changed their stripe over time in an effort to be trendy rather than traditional, coming in every shade imaginable these days. But don't be fooled. They're still poinsettias. Not to be trusted.
They remind me of zucchinis at harvest time.
We visited friends in New Hampshire last summer, and I still remember what they told me. They never lock their cars in New Hampshire except during harvest season. If you don't, you return to find your back seat filled with zucchini.
I think it's excellent advice that can be translated to the holidays.
'Tis poinsettia season.
Lock your doors!
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