Photo by Joe Hoke
'Tis the season for hyperbole, and I’m not exaggerating. Garden catalogues are piling up faster than snow, and while I’d rather to be standing amidst my fragrant bugbane, it’s winter. So catalogues offer sustenance…as well as temptation.
Now you’d think purveyors of plants would be immune from making such hard-sell claims. Beware of their hard-core language.
Take a peak at the centerfold of this year’s “must-have” plants, bordered by their complementary “must-pair” plants. Gee, how have I led a rich, full life without these “must haves” and “must pairs”? The vegetable section features a new tomato that’s “sure to beat any record in the neighborhood.” So gardening is now a competitive sport? Will it be added to the Olympics? Well, they added Greco-Roman wrestling; maybe they could combine record-breaking tomatoes to that sport? Nah, too messy.
Oh, and here’s a new large zinnia. “Looks best in clumps, rather than solo,” the copy suggests. I order three dozen. When I said you’d think the industry would be immune from their claims, I said nothing about me being immune.
Darn it. I can’t complete my order because I’ve run out of room. I’ll have to make a copy of the order form and attach a second sheet. I guess I could order directly from the website, but it’s more satisfying to touch the glossy photos and smell the phlox. O.K., it’s probably printer’s ink I smell.
Here’s a catalogue that offers a way to control aphids: order beneficial lady beetles. Last year I forgot that I had ordered 5,000, and they arrived while I was on a trip. They sat outside for a week, and with no aphids to eat, they ate each other.
There are new rabbit and deer repellents to try. They are all billed as humane. I’m always looking for ways to coexist with critters without fighting them for my supper.
Hey, here’s an “ergonomic” hoe that claims to help seniors “cut hoeing time in half.” Come on. I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday. Nothing is going to speed me up. But it looks like it fits into all those places I no longer can. I’d better get one.
My favorite catalogue is written by folks who not only know plants but also love plants. But the same cannot be said of the writing in other catalogues. Most read more like online dating ads, written to seduce winter-weary gardeners with descriptions like “vibrant, dazzling, stunning, massive.” Do they hire writers that specialize in adjectives?
The oldest catalogue, one my grandmother ordered from and my mother orders from, ensnares you with words from a bygone era, like “fetching.”
Some plants are labeled “indestructible.” That word usually catches my eye, but causes doubt. I want to believe, but experience and memory offer up some past “indestructibles” that bit the dust shortly after they were planted.
There are catalogues in the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom and the bedroom. If you take catalogues to bed and the last thing you see before you fall asleep are the deep purple berries of a Beautyberry bush, for instance, it boosts your creativity during your waking hours. That’s what I tell my husband when he complains that the bed is crowded with catalogues.
But catalogues in the bedroom are dangerous.