I tip the watering can and slowly pour its contents into the pot of a large healthy plant whose clinging vines are taking over my living room corner.
The plant is derived from one my grandmother brought from the old country. She called it “Star of Bethlehem,” (I believe its correct name is “hoya”) and its pinkish blooms graced the parlor of her South Dakota farm house. When she was widowed and moved to town, the plant went with her.
It sat on a wood stand in her dining room where it fascinated my sister and me. The wonderful meals—heaping platters of hams and roasts, masses of apple and cherry pies—might have been the big allure of my grandmother’s house for my numerous aunts and uncles, but the first item on my to-do list was to see if the plant was blooming. It usually was.
Looking back, I wish I’d asked more questions. How often was it watered? Was fertilizer used? The only info handed down was that the plant was very old, 50 years or more.
When Granny passed on, my two aunts took care of the house and the plant, and sometime in the late 1970s I asked and they granted my request for a cutting. Soon my own “Star of Bethlehem” hung in a yellow macramé pot holder in a southern window. Here it thrived. In the summer, I moved it in the glassed-in porch where one year its blossoms filled the room with a sweet aroma. I figured it was my green thumb and that it would continue blooming, but that was wishful thinking. When my sister-in-law visited, she liked the plant and took a slip.
Unfortunately, my green thumb failed and between taking care of two little children, a large dog and one feisty cat, I didn’t give my “Star of Bethlehem” enough attention, and it died. I might not have been as good a caretaker as Granny and my aunts, but I had resources. “How’s your Star of Bethlehem doing?” I asked my sister-in-law during a family get-together. It was flourishing, and when I asked, she was only too happy to give me a cutting.
This began a period when we played “back and forth” with the plant. When mine thrived and hers died, I provided her with a cutting. When yet another one of mine kicked the bucket, she did the same for me. In fact, we traded plant cuttings back and forth for years, keeping alive the offshoots of the plant my grandmother brought to this country over a hundred years ago.
Finally, we both have old established plants and no longer seem to need to resupply each other, although I’m relieved to know we can. Only one problem exists. Although the two of us kept the plants going, we haven’t much luck with blossoms in recent years. Our plants haven’t bloomed much or consistently.
Today, as I finish watering my “Star of Bethlehem,” I lift the top layer of waxy dark green leaves, hoping to see pinkish, sweet smelling clusters of star-shaped flowers. There are none, but I’ll keep hoping.
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