Not the Laurel

When I received the program for our garden club’s spring flower show, I have to confess that the old familiar craving came over me; and by the time I had finished reading the list of Classes Offered for Competition, the pledge that I had taken after the last show — never again — was almost completely unfrappeed.

I don’t want you to think that I was miffed upon that occasion by not winning a prize, because nothing could be further from the truth. Not the laurel, I reminded myself, but the race. Not the quarry but the chase. And I hadn’t shed a tear when Horticulture dismissed my dahlias with the curt comment, “Not disbudded.” But when Arrangements remarked that my entry (Bamboo Shoots in a Hibachi) didn’t say anything, I was really cut to the quick. Oh, you would never have guessed it to look at me. I kept a smile on my lips and was one of the very first to congratulate the winner, although I couldn’t help wondering what her concoction (Marsh Grasses in a Usubata) had to say. Something pretty unprintable, in my opinion, if not downright obscene. But if that’s what they wanted —

One item in particular in the program for the spring show set me dreaming. It was listed under Conservation, and read:

DISEASES OF ORNAMENTALS Their symptoms and Treatment BY INVITATION ONLY

I dialed Conservation with trembling fingers. “What did you have in mind?” she asked. “Educationwise, we don’t want any duplication of diseases, and the class is pretty well filled up anyhow.”

I told her I could let her have anything her heart desired — ascochyta, anthracnose. black spot, botrytis, chlorosis, crown rot, scelerotinia, soft rot, verticillium, nematodes — you name it, I told Conservation, I’ve got it.

Conservation said that all of these were bespoken, with the exception of nematodes; and nematodes, she said, could not properly be considered a disease. I know better than to argue with Conservation, so I merely observed that in the opinion of authorities the disturbance caused by nematodes was considered a disease.

“My apple trees have bacillus amylovorous,” I said modestly. “That’s fire blight, you know.”

Conservation said that she did know, but that she didn’t think that apple trees could properly be classified as ornamentals.

I was getting pretty discouraged when I suddenly remembered my espaliered candytuft.

“My iberis has psychosomatica,” I pleaded.

Maybe Conservation didn’t quite catch what I said, or maybe she was just worn down. At any rate, she consented to let me enter the lists, and I trotted out to my candytuft in high spirits, jingling the keys to the isolation ward.

This espaliered candytuft of mine really is neurotic, and no wonder. As you may or may not know, to “espalier” is to train a plant to do something it doesn’t really want to do, like climbing up a U-shaped scaffold on the side of a house. It is accomplished by means of much coaxing and twisting and tying and pinching and pruning. My book describes it as an educational, rather than a corrective, procedure; and the fact that candytuft isn’t included in its list of likely students was only a challenge to me. I was determined to teach my candytuft to climb a stick. “We’ll see who’s boss around here,” I had snarled. This was several years ago; and although the head of the candytuft has now reached the top of the stick, it has by no means conceded the victory to me. If it wasn’t for my constant vigilance, it would have become a dropout long since. The minute my back is turned, it starts to put out side shoots; and if any of the ties that secure it to the stick relax their hold, it slumps to the ground in a dejected little heap. Its few remaining leaves turn yellow, and its blossoms are meager and sporadic, in spite of the expensive delicacies I lavish on it. This clearly indicates a psychosomatic rather than a pathologic syndrome.

Malaisewise, my candytuft was head and shoulders above any other entry in its group, and the only reason that it didn’t have the tricolor award pinned on it was because “Diseases” was just an exhibition class, not a competitive one. I hadn’t realized this in my excitement. Oh, well. When the one great scorer comes to write against your name (as I remarked to Mrs. MarshGrasses-in-a-Usubata, who, as everyone but the judges was well aware, had wired her tulips into a Hogarth curve), he marks not that you won or lost but how you played the game.