Saratoga News

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The pressure on a plant-sitter can be very intense

By Dick Sparrer

The pressure was intense. No, this wasn't just another newspaper deadline, and I wasn't heading down to the DMV to take the test to renew my driver's license.

No, this was serious pressure--I was going to be responsible for the very survival of a living thing. That's right, I would be holding a life in my hands ... my very incapable hands.

It seems that our 6-year-old granddaughter, Kaitlyn, was heading out of town on vacation, and she was entrusting me with the life of her new best friend--a pretty pink flower she had just planted in summer school.

She left it on the kitchen table with a note: "Poppy Dick, Please water my flower 1 time a day. Thank you. Love, Kaitlyn."

That's it? No more instructions than that? She didn't know what she was doing! It was a plant, and she was counting on me to keep it alive for four days.

Needless to say, I didn't like its chances.

I guess she didn't know the story of the fabulous, albeit ill-fated fern that came to live with us at the office a few months ago.

It was a beautiful green. Lush and full of life. A glorious fern that was given to us as a housewarming gift when we moved into our new office.

It was beautiful, with a very distinct emphasis on the was.

Yeah ... I killed it.

Whatever made me think that I could keep a living plant on my desk, and keep it alive? I'll never know. But now the poor fern is on life support with only four feeble fronds still clinging to life.

I'm not quite sure what I was thinking about. I do know this ... every plant I've ever been in charge of has died a slow, pathetic death. Not enough water, too much water, no water at all ... I never get it right. When it comes to gardening, I don't have a green thumb, I'm all thumbs!

The gardenias we planted last year? They're dead. The bougainvillea? The gladiolas? The camellias? Dead, dead, dead. You know, some killers get their picture nailed to the wall in the post office. My picture is posted on the wall of the Woolworth Garden Center!

Get the idea? I'm not exactly the guy to trust with your prized petunias, but Kaitlyn put her trust in me to care for her pink flower. Talk about pressure! You know, if I miss a deadline at work I only have to worry about wrath of the executive editor ... but if I messed up this assignment, I had to look into the sad brown eyes of a 6-year-old and admit that I'd killed her flower.

Well, it went something like this:

"It wasn't my fault," I blurted, in much the same way I did when I was a 6-year-old myself and scrambling to get out of a jam with my folks. "How was I supposed to know that we'd get hit with a heat wave?"

She just looked at me.

"I watered it every day, just like I was supposed to," I explained. "but it was 120 degrees here!"

She just shook her head.

"Hey, I never asked for this job," I said, trying my best to squirm out of any responsibility. "If someone would have asked, I would have told them how bad I was with plants, that by leaving them in my care meant they were being given a certain death sentence."

She started to smile. Then Natalie was actually laughing.

"Oh, relax," said my wife. "Kaitlyn probably won't even remember it's here. Anyway, I don't think it's dead. It just looks like the flower dropped off--the plant still looks OK. You probably just gave it too much water."

"Hey, the note said to water it once a day, and that's what I did," I said in a feeble attempt to defend myself. "So it's her fault."

"She's 6," Natalie said disgustedly. "She probably figured you'd know better. After all, you're the adult, or at least you're supposed to be."

"Thanks a lot," I grumbled, adding, "So you think it might still be alive?"

"I think so," she said, "and if it's not I think she'll get over it. But look on the bright side," she added.

"Bright side?" I asked.

"Yeah, she could have had you watch the dog."

Very funny. Of course, a dog I could handle. Now, had it been a dogwood, that would have been an entirely different story!