A Serial Killer Confesses

A pine cone in our first real snowstorm of 2012

The beginning of the snow!

Waves of grass covered in powdered sugar snow

coreopsis heads in the snow

an accidental Christmas tree

Dead bodies, dead bodies, everywhere dead bodies. Dead bodies in the kitchen, dead bodies in the library. Dead bodies splayed; rotting, mouldering, withering and blackening.

There’s only a twinge of guilt, a whisper of remorse, a mist of hesitation when a new victim is selected. The overwhelming feeling is hope, a sunny optimism that everything will be different next time – and next time – and next time. But the slaughter just grows, the bodies stack up – the floracide continues.

You see, I murder houseplants. For the life of me (and, most unfortunately, the death of them), I cannot keep a houseplant alive for any length of time. Any. At all.

I received a bountiful and glorious live arrangement after the death of a relative and ambitiously bought a self-watering container and clean potting soil. I transplanted carefully, watching for roots and for crowding. Once settled in a sunny southern window, the perfect place I’m told, the plants inside this splurge of a pot immediately began to swell and droop, as if they were overwatered. A few passed to Horto-Heaven right then and there.

So I stopped watering. And then forgot completely about watering, except when I thought about it. Which wasn’t very often. Every now and then (mostly then – hardly ever now), I would throw the water in drinking glasses left from dinner into the container. And pull out yet another dead plant. For awhile, the last survivor, a vine, really gave it a shot, really fought against the torture and rallied against the cruelty. But around Thanksgiving, that vine’s will broke completely. By Christmas, it was just another brown twig dropping leaves on the carpet and the container was just another pot of dirt and cadavers.

Thanksgiving is also when I found a new torture device: the terrarium. Articles about terrariums sit in stacks in my office, sprinkled with memories of childhood terrarium failures. When I saw that big glass jar at the Container Store, it called to me – and to my killer instinct. Ted’s Greenhouse provided the soil, the charcoal and the victims – er, plants. The first go-round was bright lime green moss (that died so quickly, I can’t even remember the name) a Red Ti plant that is (wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles!) still alive and an African violet. Pre-terrarium, I managed to keep the violet alive for several months in a not-so-bright kitchen window. It was healthy and happy in a little pink pot, absolutely content, so naturally it had to die. In my defense (your honor), terrariums are supposed to be a perfect environment for African violets.

After the lime green turned black and slimy, with the violet well on its way to the same, I went back to Ted’s and talked to Ted himself. He informed me that the pea gravel recommended for drainage (I doubled the depth given my violent criminal history) was “bull$%^#.” When I expressed confusion and despair, he did give me hope, recommending more sacrifices – er, possible plants – that will tolerate moist soil and confined spaces. I came home with an Alternanthera and a Peperomia Puteolata. After removing the evidence (i.e. dead plants) and planting these, I really really thought this time, it would be different.

Two weeks later, the Peperomia is surviving, the Alternanthera is dead.

Sighhhh…back to Ted’s next week to select another innocent. However, there is a flicker, a spark, the barest glimmer of hope here. For every three plants I buy, one seems to survive the misery inflicted upon it. At this rate, I should have a thriving, healthy terrarium by, oh, let’s say 4th of July.