It all began with Geraniums. Tom and Jerry, the Geraniums, to be exact. (I name all the plants I don't eat.) This was long before I knew the first thing about plants. I had visions of looking through my bedroom's elegant french windows and seeing the Hanging Gardens of Eden, or whatever. It was going to be a jungle, I'd decided. The cityscape would be the perfect backdrop, all I had to do was not kill the plants.
In came Tom and Jerry. Technically, they were called "Dr. Jerry" and "Major Tom" because I was listening to a lot of Pink Floyd in those days. Those days/these days, I'm actually listening to Pink Floyd right now. They were beautiful and blooming and the leaves had scalloped edges as though Martha Stewart were consulting God on plant design. I was beyond impressed that the leaves were actually fuzzy, it seemed like such a nice detail.
Major Tom was the first to die. He took sick in late February, approximately three days after he came to my balcony. His leaves turned a subtle shade of lime green, then yellow, then bright yellow, then milk chocolate brown, then fell off. Finally, by Mid-March, he was gone. In his loneliness and grief, the good doctor fell ill as well. He passed before April Fool's Day, and my balcony was in a sad state. I was not deterred. I didn't actually know that plants were supposed to live more than a week or two, so I suppose I was impressed with my green thumb.
In retrospect, I realize that Major Tom was doomed from the outset. Not only was I showering him in a ferocious sunlight that lasted for 10-12 hours a day, but I was also submerging him in what must have seemed like the Indian Ocean twice a day. His compatriot was only better off for being on the southern tip of the jungle, where the sunlight relented after 3pm. He was also the daily victim of two hurricanes, and wasn't long for this world.
It went on like that for some time, and I guess still does. Learning "the first thing about plants" is actually quite an adventure, one that has taken me from the West Bank of New Orleans out to Airline Highway and all the Home Depots in between. I fancy myself a gardener, an urban farmer, a sustainability chief and a culinary wizard; really though, I am a plant serial-killer, wanted in several states for over-exposure to sun, leaf curl, and failure to test the pH balance of the soil. My quest is simple: whenever possible, replace mysterious food store produce with my own, grown from nothing but dirt and rain. The reality is grimmer, though, and much more complicated than it looks. Bear with me.
