(Host) Commentator Madeleine Kunin says that one of her favorite annual traditions is the visit to the greenhouse just before Memorial Day.
(Kunin) When I walk into a plant nursery this time of year, I feel I have entered paradise. I breathe in the warm moistened air, go up and down the aisles, carrying my brown cardboard box like a tray.
I look up at the overflowing hanging plants, down at the rows and rows of petunias, geraniums, and marigolds. I look at the bright red geraniums and debate whether to buy the ones already in bloom, or invest in the potential of new buds. I compromise and imagine them in my flower boxes interspersed with white petunias and blue lobelia.
I pause. Should I go for pink geraniums this year? No, I stick with the traditional, red, white and blue. But then, which red? Magenta or lipstick red. How much sun and how much shade is necessary to maintain these hanging crowns of blossoms? And what about the ivies? They looked nice last year, dripping down the sides of the flower boxes. Should I also buy one of those tall spiked plants to place in the center?
Then there are the beckoning pansies. They look so sweet faced this time of year, but by August, they will be spindly. Unable to resist I pick out a small box of six from the carpet of pansies laid out on the table. They look so small when separated from the crowd; I must buy more for full effect.
Decisions, decisions. They are not tough decisions, like choosing a fork in the road, but they are decisions just the same. I have to choose a few amongst the many. I will live with these plants. I can understand now why plants are given as gifts for both happy and sad occasions.
Its simple: plants make us happy. Though I am not a real gardener, who starts from the beginning with seeds, fingers digging deep into the earth. I am a flowerbox gardener, buying plants when they are in their prime, looking their very best. That is the easy way.
I place them in their flower boxes, hang the brimming plants, and admire the effect in my screened porch, transformed into a verdant space. I remind myself that these plants will need tending, daily watering, cutting the dead blossoms off, occasional feeding. Dont over do it, I say. My cardboard box is already filled up. I ignore my own advice and reach for the next. I want to surround myself with a magical garden that transports me to lavish tropical islands, if only for four months of the year.
I tell myself not to panic when I bring my boxes to the cash register and the sum is twice as much as I had banked on. I place the plants in my trunk and back seat, every inch occupied. I drive carefully, not to break off a bud, and head home to create my own few feet of paradise.