These leaves, now in shallow water, glass pebbles keeping them in place
fell off this parent plant
when it was being transplanted from next door to come in here for the winter. I found them in the pot, and noticed they were already scabbed up, and now see one of them has roots. So they can be started right away.
Here are the older siblings of the new leaves, also sporting beads, semi precious, mainly because the fiber kept on rising up and burying the plants when I watered. The beads keep their heads above ground
And the children of the parent plant now all have a family reunion going on. I'm surprised that the parent, I think an echeveria, but I could be wrong, has thrown blossoms. Didn't expect that.
And, another character in the ever evolving drama of plant life around here, is the staghorn fern. She lives in the spare bedroom, the Nook, where I play music and do my workouts, with an attentive audience of plants. a big Boston fern over her head, a ponytail palm beside her
She was a scrawny little guy when my neighbor brought her over, saying, here can you fix this? I don't have a place for her, she has now, in a few months, doubled in size, shed the original crinkly antlers and developed lovely new healthy ones.
My researches revealed that they, like a lot of succulents, though this is more of a fern, like to be drowned then quickly drained and left alone till drier. This one I submerge in the sink, when the pot feels light, quickly lift out and drain, and she seems quite happy. I expect it replicates natural rainfall followed by dry periods. I don't know whether she's mine or if I just have custody, no problem either way.
Meanwhile, on the reading front, a lot of books, but the current top of the pile is Morningside Heights, by Cheryl Mendelson, who wrote Home Comforts.
That was an encylopedic examination of the history, art and craft of homemaking, interesting while being amazing that anyone maintained an interest long enough to do all the research and writing. One of those books that you're glad someone wrote.
MH is a novel, set in Morningside Heights, several couples, stories intertwined, very thinking sorts of people, analyzing themselves and each other. It's an interesting read for me, because it is a way of exploring why in the world anyone wants to live in Manhattan, sees any other location as just not possible. Since it would be one of the lower depths of hell to me, aside from brief forays for art purposes, this is revelatory.
All the people are very educated, speak in complete paragraphs, and actually let each other finish their thoughts, which is not typical of rl New Yorkers I number among my friends, who are more likely to interrupt loudly and tell you what you should be saying, but oh well. Recommended, though, as an engrossing book, worth your time.
While I'm at it, I want to give a shout to Asha Francis, who has revived her blog, The Perfect Fit, and is writing daily posts for the month of November, different, thoughtful subjects each day. Go here
Asha is a talented and way too modest person, and I'm wearing one of her artworks as I type. Asha, it's that lovely woven scarf, several compliments on it lately, and I credit you duly! Anyway, go to Asha's blog and enjoy. Put her on your feed, you'll be glad you did.
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