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I'm talking to the flowers - will they talk back?
© by Mike Keenan 
"O Tiger-lily?" said Alice, addressing herself to one that was waving gracefully about in the wind, "I wish you could talk."
"We can talk," said the Tiger-lily, "when there's anybody worth talking to."Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland I decided to act on advice from fellow gardeners, told that if you talk to your plants that they will grow sturdier and more beautiful, and that it might have something to do with the carbon monoxide, or is that dioxide that I exhale? I can never remember. Chemistry was not one of my better subjects. I suppose I started off in a somewhat gruff manner that does not instill confidence when I shouted at a sickly-looking, anemic shrub. "We have ways to make you grow!" I forcefully employed a thick Germanic accent. The bush did not reply, but I sensed a slight blush and perhaps a sudden withdrawal. Maybe it was the wind. Anyway, I decided to adopt a friendlier policy. "Aren't you a pretty one!" I exclaimed to the peony and not "Bloom, damn you" or "If you do not behave, I will throw you into the compost bin." It seemed to work. The next day, the peony looked positively radiant, offering new blooms and lovely foliage. To the iris I remarked, "Welcome back my perennial friend. You look divine in your purple robes." I think the iris, perhaps inspired, actually tried to communicate back. It said, if only in a whisper, from either fear or great respect, "Why plant me in the shade?" Alas, it's true; the iris is in the shade, but it's mainly because of my neighbour's tree which does not require communication to assist in its rapid growth spurt. In fact, between his trees and mine, planted too close to the house, we are starting to look rather shady indeed in our backyard. The red poppy never fails to stir me. To it I implored, "If only you could last longer. You blaze away like Toronto Maple Leaf players for such a short period. Want me to contact one of those sports performance doctors with access to steroids? Just say the word." The poppy gazed back stoically, and I detected a slight lean, surely a precursor to one of those acute skeletal deformities that afflict us when undernourished. The grass is another matter. Last year, I proudly if not smugly employed one of those natural lawn services, the kind that use no nasty chemicals but operate on humanistic principles of live and let live. Sadly, this approach has spurred on the dandelions who have made spectacular reproductive gains. I see them as the enemy, and each day one dares raise its yellow head, I attack vigorously with whatever garden implement that is handy. So far, I'm barely holding my own. It reminds me of that wonderfully instructive short story everyone is compelled to read in high school, Leningen vs. the Ants. It's an extended metaphor, but the key item was that old Leningen suffered from the pride of thinking that he could control the forces of nature. Sheer hubris. Probably the same sort of thinking one might apply these days to our friendly oil producer, BP which has altered the delicate American coastal environment in the Gulf probably for most of our lifetimes. Nature has a way of demonstrating who is boss. I gaze out the back window and stray cats, raccoons and skunks leisurely wander through our yard like they own it. When I try to shoo them away, they merely give me "the look," you know, the look young people display when you offer them free advice based upon your long life and history. The cats and raccoons and skunks merely shrug their mammalian shoulders and comment, "Whatever...." as they stroll away in the blissful knowledge that they have the upper hand. "Look at him," they mutter. "He can't even control his grass." |
