I have a green thumb, but one plant defied me and was reborn

Last week, on Friday morning, I stepped outside at dawn. There, unexpectedly, I saw a tiny yellow bloom peeking out from a flower pot on my patio.

I thought that black-eyed Susan plant (rudbeckia) was dead. I’d given up on it weeks ago, but I’d kept watering it, hoping against fading hope that it would bloom again.

Mary Jane Skala

Suddenly, there it was in early October, shining, open, drinking in the sun, a reminder of rebirth as I heal from my double mastectomy.

My twin sister had purchased that plant on sale at Steinbrink’s in mid-August when she came from Cleveland to help me after my surgery. She had wandered through Steinbrinks, spied that sprawling pot of little yellow flowers, brought it home and set it out on my patio. She drenched it with water and waited.

It immediately went on strike. The blooms wilted. Martha took it back to Steinbrink’s. They suggested more sun and water, so she brought it back and set it out so it would be open to full morning sun.

My earlier purchases from Steinbrink’s — generous pots of deep pink geraniums, and red and white petunias — were thriving, but that behemoth pot of golden flowers stubbornly refused to budge. Instead, it balked.

Martha went home, leaving a still-shaky me to deal with the sickly plant.

This tiny flower surprised me when it peeked out of a pot after I’d given it up for dead.

I watered it. I saw tiny holes in the leaves, evidence (I thought) that some creature was nibbling at it, so I went back to Steinbrink’s and bought bug repellant. It limped along, but leaves drooped and faded, and no flowers appeared.

In desperation, I texted my sister, my daughter and my cousins Julie and Yvonne, all veteran gardeners who live out of state. They told me to keep watering it. They said it was a perennial, and if I covered it and kept it out of the wind this winter, it would bloom again next spring.

I watered it. I waited. Nothing happened.

I looked at my healthy flowers and grew wistful. Those blossoms pulled me back home to Cleveland. Every spring, a friend and I drove out to Amish greenhouses a few counties east of Greater Cleveland to buy flowers. It was early May, and we saw green smudges of leaves awakening on on the trees.

We meandered down narrow dirt roads and passed trotting horses pulling Amish buggies. We saw Amish farmers turning over their fields with teams of horses. Part of the fun of this annual green-thumb excursion was escaping hectic city life and retreating to a culture that aims to remain apart from the world.

By late afternoon, we’d stopped at three or four greenhouses and bought so many flowers that we nearly ran out of space in the back of the car to them.

I carried the plants into the garage and kept them there until the danger of frost was past. Then I planted them. I set a row of petunias in the front flower bed and more in the back. I had day lilies, too, plus a few tomatoes in the bed beside the garage.

When I left Cleveland in 2009 for Abiquiu, N.M., I gave up my little flower gardens.

Last year, I wandered through Harmon Park one Saturday in May when the Soil Sisters & Misters were having a plant event. Bring a plant, take one, the sign said. On a sudden whim, I decided to try again.

I picked out a few petunias and brought them home, expecting them to die, but to my shock, they thrived, so this year, I headed out to Steinbrink’s and selected petunias again. I bought geraniums, too.

My pots were perfect except for that once-robust robust pot of black-eyed Susans. It became my problem child. As it gasped and sputtered, I did what my loved ones recommended: keep watering it. I was skeptical, but I obeyed. Instead of throwing it out, I cut back the dead stuff and kept watering it. Still, it seemed like a lost cause.

Then Friday at dawn, just like Easter, I went outside and saw that wee yellow bloom peeking over the side of the pot.

I was awed. How did this happen? I knelt down and discovered a bigger miracle: healthy green leaves sprouting, too.

This is all new to me. I’m a clumsy amateur in the garden. I didn’t do much but provide water and sun, but Mother Nature worked her magic, just like she is doing after my double mastectomy. Out of a single flower, I have found hope.

Mary Jane Skala is a reporter at the Kearney Hub who covers health and nonprofits, writes feature stories and pens a Saturday column. Reach her at [email protected].

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