Various people have handed me plants over the years as gifts, saying, "Trust me, this is such a hardy little plant. You can't kill it."
To which I lean in close and always say, "Trust me. I will."
My ability to grow or sustain anything green is laughable. My best friend from high school gave me a bamboo plant when we graduated, possibly for good luck. I think the bamboo needed the luck more than I did. I killed it within a year. An ex-boyfriend gave me a little pine tree, saying what everyone always says, "This is such a hardy little plant. You can't kill it." It was a pile of brown needles in no time.
My friend Cindy gave me a succulent as a housewarming gift several years ago, specifically buying one after I told her I have such a terrible time keeping anything alive. "Trust me, this is such a hardy little plant. You can't kill it," she said. Within mere months, I went to pull a dead leaf off at the base and the whole thing collapsed like a house of cards, the roots rotted.
I rescued an aloe plant abandoned by a co-worker at the start of the pandemic. I wasn't sure it was going to do any better under my watch than if I had just left it at the office, but I thought I'd give it a shot. It surprisingly lasted for a couple of years and then I repotted it and everything went to hell in a handbasket. I gave it to the guy I was dating at the time in the hopes he could salvage it. He did, of course, and it started flourishing again.
If you were to visit my house, you would notice there is exactly ZERO landscaping. Not a single flower or hosta or vine in sight. I planted some lavender in two urns by my garage last summer. I'm glad they were only a few dollars a piece. They, too, died. Well, one did, and then I gave the other almost-dead one to my mom to replant. It, too, flourished under her watch. I can't even get grass to grow. Grass, people, grass. I planted some grass seed in some patchy spots in my yard. Nothing happened. I planted some more. Eventually some grew in, but that clearly was just an act of grace on God's part because I usually forgot to water it.
My friend Ruth finally got a clue and just bought me some magnets shaped like fake aloe plants. She's a wise woman, that girl.
And then there's my peace lily.
I've decided to name him Sheldon, for reasons I will get to in a moment.
Sheldon is my miracle plant. He, too, was one of the plants abandoned by a co-worker at the start of the pandemic. I previously had good luck with peace plants - the one and only plant in my life I've ever been able to keep alive for an extended period of time. I was mildly hopeful this guy might make it but he was already in rough shape. I brought him home and generally left him to his own devices. I occasionally remembered to water him when his leaves very clearly started drooping.
And miracle of miracles, Sheldon is still alive - THREE YEARS LATER.
However, in those three years, Sheldon has never bloomed.
Frick.
It's going to take a miracle for this thing to ever bloom again.
And then I moved Sheldon.
This is where I explain his name.
If you've seen the TV show "The Big Bang Theory," you'll know where this is headed. Sheldon Cooper is one of the main characters, full of maddening quirks and idiosyncrasies, one of which is that he has to sit in a particular spot on the couch. He explains the precision of why that oh-so-particular spot is optimal: "In the winter, that seat is close enough to the radiator to stay warm and yet not so close as to cause perspiration. In the summer, it's directly in the path of a cross-breeze created by opening windows there and there. It faces the television at an angle that is neither direct, thus discouraging conversation, nor so far wide as to create a parallax distortion."
This is the human version of my plant. I moved the plant version of Sheldon from the far side of the room to the middle, not because I cared about him or his proximity to the vent or whether he was in direct sunlight or not or whether he was facing the TV enough so as to not create a parallax, but because I moved furniture around and he was in the way.
And what do you know?
Lo and behold, he bloomed last November.
What?!
I had to do a double-take when I first saw the bloom because I thought my eyes were deceiving me. Surely, this can't be! I nearly wanted to start clapping and cheering, rooting for the little guy. You bloomed! Way to go, you ridiculously fickle and persnickety plant! You did it! Against all odds! Uphill both ways! Despite your notoriously good plant-killing owner! Congratulations! You triumphed against all odds! You overcame adversity!
Now, don't die on me, Sheldon.
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