Gardeners are always looking for explanations for why something does or does not do well. Not enough rain. Too much rain. Too hot. Not hot enough. This is one I heard this morning from Nancy T. at the fall plant swap: “It may not have rained at the right time.” Then — about a certain plant — “If it wants to it will bloom.”It amazes me people want more Mexican petunia (are they crazy?) or are willing to plant crocosmia, a notoriously fickle bloomer. No wonder the red and orange variety are called “lucifer.” About the innocuous plant that pops up everywhere with the delicate little pearly blooms, it can be called pearl of India or jewels of Opar. Somewhere in my notes I scribbled an organization in Pooler called the “rustic relics.” Interesting. Then I heard a tale from Mary T., who brought me some American beautyberry jelly and a wild betal leaf plant (piper sanmentosum), about P.T. Barnum, who used to be the mayor of Bridgeport, Conn., and a certain noxious plant he grew everywhere in town. But what was the plant? Too many stories flying around at once. Several people said they have grown pineapples. Now i see, based on the following note, it’s necessary to transplant pineapples to a bigger pot. Bob English brought two beautiful persimmon. Gives me hope. Larry Yawn says he has some good rusty junk for me. And Anne Hart gave me a Jacobinia plant. It looks lovely. As usual the best trading went on in the makeshift parking across the street under the overpass. That’s the prime location for waiting to see what goodies are arriving next and then to grab it before the person can cross Boundary Street. I watched that happened with a staghorn fern, which I spotted and coveted, and a large black elephant ear. You snooze you lose. Reminder: send Fran Z. some sorrell seeds.
Could there be a busier month? I think not, as the octogenarian Sandy West might say to her dog Toby while he eyes the food on her plate. Saturday, October 5. The fall plant swap. The Forsyth Farmers Market. The Book Lady’s inaugural invitation to local authors — me, too! — to set up in front of her store to sell their books (take that, you impersonal, greedy, bureaucracy-laden multi-nationals). The unmistakable smell of the tea olive tree. And day three in the life of Bennett Cash Alstad, Carmela’s latest grandchild. This one was born 10-2, his sister 2-10. I think that meets they’ll be good pals.