Potted Hope

A brief return to Eden

It was time for a car wash. I knew because my dirty windshield had transitioned from mild inconvenience to full-blown safety hazard. Because things were so dire, I splurged and took my Corolla to the all hand wash place rather than a do-it-yourself or a drive-through. The all hand wash provides a level of satisfaction unparalleled in most avenues of life: you drop off a mess and an hour later you return and the mess is sparkling clean! The only trick is finding something to do in that hour. I decided to walk to my local nursery (for flowers, not children).

Sunset Nursery is snuggled in a triangular intersection, bordered by a Del Taco and a gay bar. It’s not large as far as nurseries go—maybe a third or so of a block. A cedar-shingled building sits in the middle of what is essentially a parking lot, chain link fences enclosing as many plants as can be packed into the small space. 

Last year, ambitiously, I bought two gardening books. Our house doesn’t have a yard, per se. I’d label it “shared outdoor space” AKA a slab of concrete. It doesn’t exactly scream “environment hospitable to plant life.” But no matter. Visions of container gardening danced in my head.

I imagined the vegetables I would plant and harvest. I would politely demur during a dinner party as one of my guests demanded to know where I had purchased the perfect, delicious tomatoes we all just enjoyed. “Well, actually…I grew them. It’s really simple, once you figure it out!” Everyone’s jaws would drop in awe—could it be? A human being sitting among them had finally learned how to grow a plant…in the soil…to eat?

Unfortunately, I ordered those books at the end of last summer and was told by the good people at Sunset Nursery that the season to plant things was pretty much over. They gestured to a few sad peppers still sitting on the shelves and suggested I try herbs.

So I did what any wise person would do—gave up but never stopped thinking about it. I have an odd smattering of potted plants I’ve managed to keep alive but have not begun my more ambitious move toward eventual subsistence living.

And so this visit to the nursery allowed me to once again revisit an imagined future. I strolled native plants (in my hypothetical mind I’m extremely virtuous in helping to repopulate the land with its native species). I looked at succulents (good for the water shortage). I sniffed butterfly bushes (personally pleasing). I browsed pots for what would perfectly complete my garden in the sky (colorful, Southern European). I absorbed everything and settled on nothing.

And that’s the beauty of a nursery—the promise of your personal Eden always awaits. The plants you see will live forever in your mind and never die a slow death on your windowsill. It’s idealized California outdoor living—trees in pots and tiny fountains. A place where possibility is endless and life is always beginning. These plants don’t need to know about the chives I’ve killed or the mint I’ve massacred. To them, I’ll always be a benevolent mother who abides by a logical watering schedule.

It’s like never driving your car off the lot. Sure, you don’t have a car, but you’ll never have a car that needs a wash, either.