The Cry of a Strangler, “Feed Me, Seymour!”
I know plants. My grandfather was a horticulturist and taught me so many valuable lessons about them. I know plants. I took college courses on Plant Propagation and Introduction to Horticulture. I DO know plants. I worked with two horticulturists on a multitude of gardening jobs. Yes, of course, I know plants. I am a trained master gardener who worked in two garden centers and started her own small, perennial gardening business: The Petal Pusher. So why did I plant Trumpet Vine (Campsis radicans) in my garden? Why? WHY?
Hmm . . . I do recall trying to lure the hummingbirds to the garden. Yes, I remember it well. But I must have forgotten a garden I worked in one summer where the sneaky, Jafar-of-sorts strangler snaked underneath the pool to the side garden thumbing its nose at the marble, tile and concrete it had bypassed. Yeah, I must’ve forgotten how vigorous it can be.
Now this Dick Dastardly, Cruella de Vil (it’s so evil it must be asexual) of a plant has curled itself around one of my tallest Eastern Red Cedars–I try hacking it down at the base but it seems to have turned epiphytic! I find it’s bright red tendril tips poking through the lawn, through the garden beds, and see those tubular flowers atop a 30-foot cedar–what next–the parking lot across the street?
©Teresita Abad Doebley All rights reserved 2009-2011.
Quote of the Day for YOU: Hatred is one long wait. ~Rene Maran