You Can Lead a Horticulture....

Chris Brady

... But you can't make her think. 

We all know that Dorothy Parker wasn't talking about plants, she was teasing us with word play, but as a plant nerd, I have always loved that line. This post isn't about easy women or women writers -- it's about my life with plants. 

As I've started to minimize the stuff in my house to prepare for the eventual downsizing some five or so years from now, there's one category that keeps growing: my tropical plant collection.There are more than 55 at the moment -- in a not very big 7-room house.

I rarely buy new plants anymore; it’s mostly that I am sustaining and propagating them. I've lived with some of these plants for more than 30 years, and several are shopping mall BIG.  It’s looking like a jungle in the "Winter Garden, " a four-seasons room we built on the garage roof in 2001 to create a light filled sanctuary for ourselves (and the plants). The plants move closer to my couch every year. I imagine myself in a New Yorker comic, an old lady being swallowed up by greenery.

Saturday morning in the winter garden

Tropical plants are therapy for me. Watering them takes about an hour every weekend. They have been a constant in my life, undemanding for the most part, a welcoming and peaceful presence.

My oldest is a tree philodendron I call Betty, from my mother-in-law’s Scranton house. I recall seeing this plant as early as 1974, and it was big then. I adopted her sometime in the 80s when Betty was moving to Florida. My plant book warns that these kids need space, and Betty is living up to that reputation at six feet high and equally wide.  Like her namesake, she is indomitable.

A 7-foot tall Norfolk Island pine I call Sven started out as a six-inch mini Christmas tree from Ikea some 20 years ago. It still has three feet before it hits the glass ceiling, which will probably take another 15 years, so I’m safe for now.

Aunt Ann

“Aunt Ann” is a rescue from my favorite aunt’s house, a Sansievieria that is so prolific in throwing off shoots that I have re-potted and given them to a least a dozen people by now. It’s an ugly little plant, a tough broad just like she was. I can see it sitting in her basement window with my childhood eyes and I will take this one wherever life takes me. I’m pretty sure I caught the plant bug from Aunt Ann.

“Tootsie” is a Dieffenbachia that I rescued from my sister-in-law’s condo after her death. It amuses me that this was the only plant in her house, nicknamed “dumb cane” because it numbs your tongue if you eat it. Tootsie was never at a loss for words. 

I could go on with the stories of my heritage plants, but I’ll stop at four. Not every plant has a story – at least not yet. Someday, I will move to smaller space and give away my collection – perhaps to my son, nieces and nephews, grandchildren or others who have an interest and space and thirty years to keep them until the next caretaker. 

I hope that they’ll enjoy the peace and oxygen that plants give us and maybe as I do, they’ll remember the person who nurtured it for the first few decades. If you are a plant nerd like me, read the latest work by Elizabeth Gilbert (author of Eat, Pray, Love) called The Signature of All Things. I learned so much about botany from hanging out with this book for a week. Great characters too. 

Do you have plants that have traveled with you from college dorm to apartment to house one and house 2?  What’s your story?

What's SUP?

This is how we looked. Okay, this is how we wished we looked.

Julie Owsik Ackerman

I realized this summer that I’m a surfing Goldilocks. On days when the waves are just right, nothing makes me happier than paddling out, sitting on my board, catching some rides. I hope heaven is like that. But many days, the waves are too small or too big, leaving me onshore, longing for a SUP, a standup paddleboard, to paddle around the ocean or explore the bay.

After the ocean pummeled me on a too-big-day last week, I called Kara, my trusty old partner-in-crime, to see if she wanted to try standup paddleboarding. Of course she was game. Secretly I wondered if this would be another JulieandKara mishap. Sure, we found our way to D.C. without a map; yes, my bones healed after the Tae Kwon Do incident; no, I did not seriously injure that child on the ski slopes, but history showed that we tended to leap before looking.

The woman who ran the rental store seemed confident that we would be fine without any instruction. She showed us how to adjust the paddles, and suggested we start out on our knees until we felt comfortable enough to stand. "Are there any places we should avoid?" I asked, realizing that I rarely ventured near the bay. In her limited English she recommended that we go with the flow. That sounded easy enough.

It was a warm and sunny September morning, with very little boat traffic to disturb the water. We each quickly rose to our feet. I savored the peace, the view, the absence of toddlers. Kara said, "This is very Zen." I said, “I’m so proud of us. I was worried this might be another debacle.”

You see where this is heading, right? As we congratulated ourselves on our maturity, we were unknowingly paddling with a strong current, the whole way. When the ocean came into view, we were sucked through some rough waters into the inlet. We turned around, paddling our hearts out. Remembering my surf training, I looked to shore for a landmark. After 15 minutes we hadn’t advanced moved more than a few feet.

A boat hovered nearby, the older couple inside watching us. Finally, the man said, "You're not going to be able to paddle against this current." I had to concur. He instructed us to paddle to the beach, and said he would pick us up to give us a ride. We had no money, no cell phones, no shoes, just the bathing suits on our backs, and very large, very heavy boards. Safely on shore, we turned to our rescuers who asked where we had gotten the boards. When I said 3rd street, the woman said, "Oh, you can walk back there," and they zipped away. Kara and I stared at each other in shock.

Luckily the island wasn’t quite deserted yet. I borrowed a phone from a nearby tween, asked her grandparents where we were, and called Carl. He happened to be near the rental place, where he explained our predicament to the store owner, obtained Kara’s car keys, then drove her minivan to the beach, our knight in a shiny Honda.

Although we had a dicey hour, I've been smiling about that morning ever since. For the first 30 minutes, standing atop that board, floating through the bay with my dear friend, I felt the same pure joy I see so often on Daniel’s face. And after a year of being so grown up and responsible, of focusing on mothering our new babies, I was glad to see that underneath it all, we’re still just KaraandJulie, getting ourselves into a little trouble. I hope we’re never too old or wise for that. Though next time, I think we’ll paddle upstream first.

How to Become a Runner

Many times in my life, I tried to make myself into a runner. Running has so many benefits--the exercise, the outdoors, the endorphins, but until a few years ago, I forced myself to do it, like taking medicine. Then I’d rebel for a while, claiming that I just didn't have "a runner's build," and try another form of cardio. Though I love to dance and surf, wherever I am, I can complete a good run (including stretching and cool down) in 45 minutes. That's hard to beat in efficiency or convenience.

How did I learn to like it? My husband, a serious runner, though he claims otherwise, told me his secret. He said when he's out of shape, he'll jog until he's tired, then walk awhile, then jog awhile, then walk. This had honestly never occurred to me. In my black and white thinking, I thought if I went for a run, I had to run the whole time, painful or not. I tried his method, and found that not only did I have more fun, but over time I began running more and walking less. One day I realized I had happily jogged three miles without stopping. Pretty awesome, huh?

Like anything, some days are better than others. Yesterday, I was a little stiff, a little slow, a little tired. So I walked a few times, and cut my run short. The miracle is that I felt okay about that. I had accomplished the main objectives—time outside, alone, with a raised pulse. (As a bonus, I had an inspiration for my novel too.) With running, as with writing, the trick seems to be encouraging myself to grow without pushing myself too hard. Yesterday I struck that balance well, other days not so much.

Carl’s theory of jogging, which might apply to life in general: Respect your limits, and know that if you keep trying, your limits will expand.

Simple, Life-changing Advice

Feeling really down recently, I told a fellow runner how I needed more exercise, but postpartum, my breasts felt too sore when I tried to jog. “Wear two bras,” she said. I felt that jolt of recognizing a simple and genius idea. Why had that never occurred to me?

That night, I went home, doubled up on sports bras, and ran giddy through the streets of Narberth, boobs firmly in place. I can’t easily express how much this advice has helped me. Though I have been walking a lot since Daniel was born—with and without he and the dog—walking just doesn’t provide the same benefit for me as jogging. I don’t run quickly or even very far, but when I resumed my 30 minute jogs last week, I realized just how much I had missed them over the past year.

Yes, running gives me energy, and those great endorphins, but also, the physical effort required to run somehow unleashes my imagination. Many of the scenes that ended up in my first novel appeared to me while running. Which I had forgotten until I ran last week and started seeing things for the new novel. Jogging through the cold, dark streets of my town, I could have cried with joy at having reclaimed something important, one of the best ways I keep myself healthy.

The next time I saw that runner I told her that someone should take out a billboard that says, “Wear two bras.”

What’s the best simple advice you’ve received? What would you like to put on a billboard?

Why Write?

When my friend Carol asked me to contribute to this blog, I was flattered, but did I have the time or energy for another writing project? I already have a completed novel I’m trying to sell, a second novel I’m drafting, and my own blog. (Oh, right, and a three month old son, and a job.) But the thought of collaborating appealed to me, and as I spoke to the three other smart broads, I began asking myself questions like why do I write at all? Why do I write non-fiction? What are my essays about? These writers snared me with their insight, wisdom, and wit. (As I hope we’ll snare you.)

So why do I write? I remember on a retreat in high school, when it was my turn to speak, the group leader said, “Tell us a story, Julie.” Her words meant so much to me, though I didn’t quite know why at the time. Now I think it’s because she acknowledged my calling, my gift. I am a storyteller. Reading and telling stories is how I make sense of the world. Though I neglected my need to write for many years, it always haunted me. When I began to make time in my life for writing, to really work at the novel I’d always dreamed of completing, I found more joy and satisfaction than I had known in a long time. So I kept writing.

Okay, fine, the novel was always my dream, but why write and (gasp) publish essays about my real life? Well, I began a blog four years ago as a way of chronicling the novel-writing journey. Over time, it became a way to analyze whatever was happening in my life. Through writing, I look for lessons and share them. I work through challenges, I celebrate accomplishments, I remember what matters. Maybe readers learn from my mistakes, see some truth or insight. I hope my work entertains, inspires, and encourages.

At the writing conference where I first met Carol, a poet said that we have an obligation to put our work into the world. When I’m feeling doubt about my work, its importance or relevance or value, I think of that obligation. Who knows why any of us has been given the gifts or desires we have? I have a persistent need to write and to share it with others, so I do. In the end, it’s just that simple.

Are you a golfer, surfer, singer, painter? Why?