Except for poinsettias.
So every year for my birthday in December, I get at least one poinsettia from Alan, sometimes more. I love me a poinsettia!
I am still learning the proper care of a poinsettia. It starts out so beautifully and by Christmas, the green leaves begin dropping. I shift to panic mode and try to revive it by drowning it in water, which apparently is not a good response. With very little leaf coverage, the plant appears wilted and bare. I turn the plant ¼ turn every few days to hide the damage, but by mid-January, it ends up at the landfill with all the others.
My nickname could be “The Poinsettia Executioner”, a name I came across while reading Anita Renfroe’s “A Purse-Driven Christmas”. The native homeland of the poinsettia plant is Mexico. And once in America, the plant loses its will to live after weeks of being tortured (such is the case at my house). Renfroe says that “it is as if they know they aren’t in Mexico anymore. And you can’t fool them by playing Spanish TV, either.”
So as the “Poinsettia Death Watch” commences, I am feeling guilty and unqualified to be the keeper of a poinsettia, the only plant that enters my house during the year. But maybe it isn’t my fault at all. Our dog, Tucker, hiked his leg on my plant twice this holiday season. Needless to say, he hasn’t been back inside since!