English

Spring

Let’s talk about sunbeams and bask in their bright splendor as they beat their path through the windowpanes. Let’s find excuses to loiter around the houseplants and coat our bodies in the warm glimmer-glow of the brightening light. If spring strikes you as sensual, join the crowd. The fever certainly quickens my pulse in a heady sort of way. And long before there’s desire or hope of going outside, the indoor garden is pulsating.

On a visual level, spring might be about primroses popping and tiarellas blooming on the windowsill when they’re no more than a promise in the garden. But spring also introduces the smell of unthawing soil floating through newly opened windows. It pushes the curtains into billowing where they once lay limp and stood sentinel against the cold air. Spring in a windowsill might be a prelude for impatient gardeners longing to rush headlong into the scene about to happen outside. But that’s only part of the picture. Spring has stunts all its own.

Little wonder that spring inducts everyone from casual supermarket shoppers to innocent Easter revelers into the houseplant halls of fame. Try—just try—to get past the salad bar without veering over to select a primrose or two just begging to jump into your shopping cart. Knowing that summer is right around the corner, adopting a houseplant seems less of a responsibility-fraught commitment. We all jam an expanded assortment of plants onto the windowsill in spring with the full expectation that the doors will soon be thrown open and they will spill outside onto porches and patios.

Friends come because they’re no longer snowbound and because I’ve got the only live show in town. They open the door and exclaim about the fragrances filling their noses from plants that just a few weeks before were nothing more than impediments to taking off their galoshes. When they pick me up for dinner, they can see those plants clearly in daylight because the days are longer (and we switched the clocks).

Spring is the season for boasting. It’s when indoor gardeners parade their proudest moments before the world at flower shows. And even if we don’t exhibit, we go to the shows, peruse the plants, and tell tall tales about how impressively our succulents are growing and claim beefed-up bud counts on our rhizomatous begonias. But most of the time, there’s no need to exaggerate. Spring is looking pretty darn impressive in my home. And I return from those spring flower shows feeling fairly smug. I open the door, I walk into the entryway, and I applaud all those botanical warriors who made it through the long winter by my side. No wonder they’re all bursting to blossom. They’re survivors, and spring is their moment of glory.

SPRING AGENDA

Pity the poor shirkers in spring, because their picture will not be pretty. All the plants that were not repotted in a timely fashion last spring and summer will haunt them. All the pots fitted with insufficiently wide saucers will overflow. All the plants that are not watered will wilt, wilt again, and come down with aphids. Spring is an unforgiving season.

The key to spring, as I see it, is twofold. First, you must deliver water on a timely basis, or else. A stressed plant is a sitting duck for all sorts of problems (and spring seems to be a hotbed for issues to flourish). Second, you have to throw open your windows generously and without dallying or undue deliberation. Toasty is not the way to go in spring. Hesitate too long in the ventilation department, and the repercussions might reverberate far beyond just some uncomfortably stuffy situations. In spring, prudence will get you insects.

But why am I harping on this? Nothing is more fun than sprinkling water around in spring, ministering to the needs of houseplants making fresh, new growth. And when it comes to throwing open the windows, it’s usually a hold-me-back state of affairs. I rush to push open the storm windows and pull down the screens so I can crack the windows without watching Einstein go flying out. Then I turn down the thermostat so the furnace won’t labor when I get home late while the temperature has plummeted. The houseplants love the fresh air, and the bugs are held at bay.

Meanwhile, I push the food. A week or two before the calendar actually chronicles the official beginning of March, I’m looking at the fish emulsion with longing and anticipation. I can hardly wait for that smell to permeate the house (and I don’t care how adamantly the label proclaims a product to be scentless; fish emulsion always emits its own unique odor). Initially, I dispense fertilizer prudently and in partial portions. Being a gal who believes in moderation in all things (at first, anyway), I dilute the fertilizer beyond the usual label recommendations for the first couple of feedings and gradually edge into full strength. And the plants respond. Given the additional sun and the ramped-up feeding schedule, houseplants begin thinking about pollination. They start producing the flowers that might make it happen. Even indoors, spring raises the bar in the performance arena.

If ever there was a season that changes drastically from start to finish, it’s spring. At first, it’s just a nebulous sense that light levels are increasing. But this state of affairs improves daily as plants that had no blossoms begin to initiate buds galore. It’s incredibly thrilling. They are shaking off their holding pattern and coming to life. Spring is a celebration. It’s payback time. Everything kicks up its heels and starts performing. Other folks palpitate when treated to bonbons; my cartwheels are sparked by bud counts and energetic new growth.

Just like any card-bearing gardener, I’m outdoors as soon as I can beat a path out the door and into the yard. Likewise, the forced potted bulbs are also sent outside as soon as I can safely throw them there. I do it gradually, by exposing them daily to the cold, cruel world that isn’t tempered by a thermostat and then trundling them inside by late afternoon. Whenever temperatures remain safely (very safely, especially before they’ve been hardened off) above freezing overnight, I leave them outside. Finally, they stay out permanently and are part of the patio display for passersby to enjoy. There’s a reason for this. I find that forced bulbs are the first plants in the house to come down with aphids. If possible, I don’t leave any bulbs that have finished flowering inside. As the foliage dies back, it calls insects from nowhere. In other words, it becomes a liability.

If it weren’t for diversions indoors, I’d be getting into deep trouble. I’d be out there with the hair dryer, trying to unthaw a cavity to insert something that is probably only marginally hardy. Instead, I repot. Some plants let you know in no uncertain terms that this should be in the cards. As light levels increase, houseplants dry out every half day, becoming a time guzzler. But it’s not a bad idea to check the entire assemblage for repotting requirements. When the roots have filled the container, it’s time to move on. And the beauty of doing a “repotathon” is that you can just engineer a switcheroo. Start by repotting something large and work down to the smaller containers, and you can enlist plenty of hand-me-downs without digging around in your basement or investing in more terra-cotta.

Of course, spring typically has a lot of false starts. It’s a fickle season. That’s why you need to do horticultural therapy by beginning seeds indoors. Seeds are a predictable, direct tangent from sowing to germination to transplanting—all in the comfort of your home while the weather waffles outdoors. During those inevitable spring showers, while the chilly drizzle is putting a damper on your best-laid plans to fiddle around in the backyard, you can do something constructive and creative. Besides the promise that garden seedlings imply, I keep the focus steadily inside. Only hardy plants (like forced bulbs and perennials I’ve brought indoors for early spring feats) are sent outside this early. Why take chances? Spring is a yo-yo. Look outdoors all you want, but do your tasks inside.

BEGONIAS

I’M ON MY 160th sit-up and begging for an excuse to pause, so it’s fortunate that ‘River Nile’ happens to be thirsty. Yep, it needs a drink immediately. Preferably before I tackle the leg lifts or sun salutations. In fact, now that I notice it, ‘Texastar’ could use a drink too. In fact, all the begonias in the bathroom window would benefit from some watering-pot attention.

The bathroom windows are monopolized by rhizomatous begonias, with a few ferns, orchids, and bromeliads thrown in. It’s not because they need the humidity from my daily shower or the heat from an abundance of vents. The begonias live in the bathroom by default because it gets filtered eastern light, and they are fine with that. In fact, they dote on it. Witness the fact that ‘Texastar’ is waving promising flower spikes that somehow emerged from nowhere when I was otherwise preoccupied during the past week or so. Life should hit an elevated level of excitement in the bathroom sometime soon.

Surprises are not unusual with the begonias. Because they don’t require frequent watering, they’re apt to catch you unaware with new leaves and flower stalks. And that’s half the fun. Chancing upon that unforeseen flower spike is like finding a forgotten twenty-dollar bill tucked into your knapsack when the bank is closed. And it’s even better because you earned it. Because of your benign neglect, because you didn’t overwater or overpot, and because you sat that begonia close to the window that wasn’t too bright, you’ve achieved blossoms.

It’s the begonia’s method of training you to keep up the good work.

Begonias have been training me for a while now. In fact, most of my adulthood has been spent working intimately with begonias (I use the word “intimately” without reserve—I used to hybridize them professionally). For 25 years, I curated the begonia collection at Logee’s Greenhouses. Even though I arrived at that job with only a rudimentary awareness of wax begonias, daily proximity fanned the fires of admiration for the rest of the family. But that was in a greenhouse setting. When I moved, the begonias came along (not all 1000

I’M ON MY 160th sit-up and begging for an excuse to pause, so it’s fortunate that ‘River Nile’ happens to be thirsty. Yep, it needs a drink immediately. Preferably before I tackle the leg lifts or sun salutations. In fact, now that I notice it, ‘Texastar’ could use a drink too. In fact, all the begonias in the bathroom window would benefit from some watering-pot attention.

The bathroom windows are monopolized by rhizomatous begonias, with a few ferns, orchids, and bromeliads thrown in. It’s not because they need the humidity from my daily shower or the heat from an abundance of vents. The begonias live in the bathroom by default because it gets filtered eastern light, and they are fine with that. In fact, they dote on it. Witness the fact that ‘Texastar’ is waving promising flower spikes that somehow emerged from nowhere when I was otherwise preoccupied during the past week or so. Life should hit an elevated level of excitement in the bathroom sometime soon.

Surprises are not unusual with the begonias. Because they don’t require frequent watering, they’re apt to catch you unaware with new leaves and flower stalks. And that’s half the fun. Chancing upon that unforeseen flower spike is like finding a forgotten twenty-dollar bill tucked into your knapsack when the bank is closed. And it’s even better because you earned it. Because of your benign neglect, because you didn’t overwater or overpot, and because you sat that begonia close to the window that wasn’t too bright, you’ve achieved blossoms.

It’s the begonia’s method of training you to keep up the good work.

Begonias have been training me for a while now. In fact, most of my adulthood has been spent working intimately with begonias (I use the word “intimately” without reserve—I used to hybridize them professionally). For 25 years, I curated the begonia collection at Logee’s Greenhouses. Even though I arrived at that job with only a rudimentary awareness of wax begonias, daily proximity fanned the fires of admiration for the rest of the family. But that was in a greenhouse setting. When I moved, the begonias came along (not all 1000 of them). The pleasant surprise? They thrive in a house. If you disregard the challenging rex types, there’s really no difference between a greenhouse and home as a setting for cultivating primo begonias.

Hands down, I find that rhizomatous begonias make the best houseplants. Granted, a few species are too persnickety for the average home because of their elevated humidity requirements. But most stunners turn cartwheels inside. If you like tiny, dime-size leaves, you’ll find the rhizomatous begonia of your dreams. If you prefer big, flouncy foliage, they’ve got you covered. And there’s everything in between, ranging in size from plants that remain under 2 inches (5cm) indefinitely to massive 3-foot (90cm) behemoths. Size is one variable; shapes are another. Perfectly rounded leaves, serrated foliage, maple-shaped leaves, curly foliage, star-shaped leaves—they run the full gamut. Felted, furry, eyelash-edged, hairy, smooth, and shiny leaf surfaces are available. In the color spectrum, the foliage doesn’t move far out of the green, bronze, red, and brown range, with markings that are varied and artistic, but not overdone.

Add late winter and early spring flowers to the package. Held in wands, each blossom is small, but perceived as a unit, they make a subtly significant statement. The colors range from white to pink blushing into the soft reds and peach. A few species move into the yellow realm. As with all begonias, the females, with their potential seed pouches, are larger than the males. But the shape doesn’t vary much, and they’re never going to wow the gardener who needs something the size of a Frisbee to be fulfilled.

I palpitate for rhizomatous begonias, but angel wing begonias are equally easy to host in a home. Actually, any fibrous begonia—the type with a woody stem—will grow beautifully without fuss. The angel wings have feathery leaves of different shapes and sizes initiating from cane-like stems. Some have showy blossoms that can swell to the size of a shooting marble, while others

are more about foliage. The only stumbling block that most gardeners face is having the discipline to cut them back brutally to encourage branching. Beyond that, you’re home free. Ditto for the prostrate hanging types. Same story for the hiemalis types, with their abundant winter-spring blossom load.

I can’t grow rex begonias in my home. They totally elude me. Although I grew them for 25 years in a greenhouse setting, they always seem to succumb to powdery mildew in my house. I have the same issue with semi-tuberous begonias, although heaven knows, I try. I’ve never attempted a tuberous begonia in my home because they grow from bulbs only in summer (and they’re prone to powdery mildew). Wax begonias (Begonia semperflorens hybrids), with their lettuce-like leaves and little crowns of cute blossoms, are all well and good for the bedding scheme in the local park, but they totally bore me in my house.

The trick to growing any sort of begonias is to water sparingly. They detest soggy roots. I’ve found that neglect will get you nowhere with a begonia, and they’re not fond of a yo-yo wet/dry cycle. They prefer an even supply of water when they’re slightly dry. And along the same line, it’s a killer to overpot a begonia. Start small, and graduate one inch (2.5cm) all around the root ball at a time. A light, humusy growing medium is the way to go.

Originally, I imagined that any begonias on my premises would have to remain confined to the bathroom; I figured they’d complain about my chilly home. Wrong. Begonias have infiltrated just about everywhere.