The trouble with poinsettias is — they don’t know when it’s time to make their exit.
It’s April. Christmas is long gone. The Christmas stockings are on the top shelf of the linen closet. The Christmas tree stand is back in its cobwebby spot behind the furnace.
But my Christmas poinsettias are oblivious to the season. Like a pair of party guests who haven’t noticed everyone else has left the premises, they’re still going strong in the front window of my living room, robust in their Christmassy redness and greenness while spring bursts forth on the other side of the glass.
The Trouble With Poinsettias
The trouble with poinsettias is they don’t know, don’t care, that Easter is nigh, that it’s time for the pastels — the pink tulips, the yellow ranunculus. It’s time for Easter eggs, the fragrance of lilies and the promise of resurrection.
But they keep on living, those poinsettias.
Unlike the Christmas tree I installed in my living room last December — which had the courtesy to dry up, die and become a fire hazard suitable for composting by the second week of January — my Christmas poinsettias keep on keeping on. They haven’t gotten to the death part, let alone the resurrection, or whatever it is that awaits them on the other side.
Meanwhile, they are taking up valuable real estate in my living room — on the table by the window where I’d like to put out Easter baskets for my grandchildren.
I feel for those poinsettias. They are living things. They strive. They have intention. Like me.
But they are getting in the way of what I want for myself right now, which is the pastels of spring. I’m done with winter and its piney greens and heavy reds. I am ready for spring. I am ready for pink.
So. What am I t0 do with these very determined poinsettias? Do I put them out of sight behind the house next to the coiled up garden hoses where, unwatered and forgotten, they will shrivel in their pots and die a slow, solitudinous death?
Or do I show them some respect? Do I carry them out to the deck, lean over the railing, dump them out of their pots into the grassy weeds down below — and tell them good-bye, Christmas is over, you’ve done your job, feed the weeds now, and I’ll see you on the other side?
Just plant them with your other flowers, even though they aren’t pastel.
That’s a thought. I could plant those poinsettias. Next year maybe. They might look good next to the purple alstroemeria in the side yard. — Barbara
Barb, our dads were friends at Michigan State and were members of the same fraternity. They both worked for Sealtest for many years. My mom, Pic Hoyt was friends with your mother, Tinka. Our family went up to Bass Lake with your family.in the summer . . . I enjoy your writings. They take me back to my time as a child in Michigan. Keep up the good work. Judy
Oh, my goodness. It’s wonderful to hear from you. I remember your parents very clearly! But — hmm — I don’t remember you. Why don’t I??? Were you a lot younger or older than my brothers and I? — Barbara
I love it, Barbara! You must have had this whirling around in your brain when I met you at Erma:)
Lillian — I wrote this piece well before heading off to Dayton for the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop last weekend. Also, I had family visiting right after the workshop, so I knew I’d be super busy . . . The poinsettias are still where they fell after I dropped them off the deck. And they are still red — I think the root balls got watered in the recent rains so somehow those poinsettias are still going strong. — Barbara
I find myself *rooting* for the poinsettias. I secretly hope you take pity on them and leap off your deck like a superhero to save them. They are now famous. Death by deck rail is unbecoming to such a superstar.
Too late. They are goners. — Barbara
Hahaha – you dream crusher.
Sorry! (Sorta.) — Barbara