To my mother’s dismay, I do not have a green thumb. Despite that fact that I’ve been able to keep two boys alive for 20.5 and 17.5 years, respectively, I cannot keep a houseplant alive for more than a few weeks. My latest victim? Al Green.
Okay, so unless you’re like me, you can easily read that the tag actually says All Green. But I thought it said Al Green. You know, like the ’70s soul singer.
To be honest, the only reason I bought the plant was because I thought it was cute that it was named after Al Green. At 51, I’m pretty self-aware; I know myself well enough to know that I cannot keep houseplants alive. But for Al, I was willing to try again.
For weeks, Al sat on my kitchen counter and brought a smile to my face whenever I washed the dishes or filled glass with water from the big Berkey he sat near. But, eventually, Al went the way of all my former unnamed houseplants … He shriveled up and died.
I know it’s my fault. I often forget to water houseplants, and then when I do, I overcompensate. It’s a recipe for disaster, and I’m sure my mother is cringing reading this. She taught me better, after all.
My mom is the O.G. plant lady. Her home is filled with beautiful, green, thriving houseplants. She even has a dedicated plant room. At least that’s what my dad calls it. The “porch” (which is an enclosed room at the front of their house) has two big windows and a skylight, so it’s the perfect environment for her to nurture the same 20 or so houseplants she’s had since I was a kid. And that’s just one room. All in, I’d guess she has more than 50 plants, although she claims it’s closer to 30. My dad and I (and I’m sure my sister would agree) beg to differ.
But just because Al died (okay, okay, just because I killed Al) doesn’t mean he’ll be my last houseplant. I’m determined to become a #plantlady and make my mom proud.
After all, I haven’t killed Bob Marley yet and he’s been around longer than Al.
— LJDT
