Papa’s Precious Philodendron

February 20, 2024

Papa’s Precious Philodendron

Someone else’s post (online) dredged up a long-ago memory that today still holds office in my laundry room. More on that in a few minutes.

In our family, Dad was the flower lover. He was not only a farmer but a flower and plant person who would bring in flowers and urge mom to put them in a vase, or, when I was old enough, he’d hint for me to do that. Usually, you think of women or Moms or grandmas going to the trouble to cut and arrange flowers in a pretty vase. Oh, Mom did it occasionally, but when I got old enough, either me or one of my siblings were entrusted with the fun of surprising mama with a pretty bouquet on her table. From Dad.

Dad might have gotten that yen from his Dad, my Grandpa Uriah Miller, who was known for cultivating beautiful roses, and also putting them in Grandma’s hands when she finally lay in her casket. In Indiana, it is common to have at least two days for friends and family to take time for funeral home visitations. There were fresh flowers in her hand each day. She died several years before Grandpa did, who passed in 1967.

Mom and Dad moved to north Florida in 1969. When I went off to college in 1971, Mom and Dad drove me from Florida to my college in Harrisonburg, Virginia, by way of visiting our relatives in northern Indiana. (I know, a long but precious path together.) I had done only barest bone packing: clothing; a few books; pictures; a coffee pot (the kind you boiled on a stove); toiletries and a little make up; a pillow and sheets (I think); a new blanket and maybe a fan. Probably shampoo and some towels and washcloths. That was about it, folks. (And I have exactly no pictures of my Freshman dorm room. Amazing, huh?)

Daddy looked around the small two-person dorm room and must have been thinking, “This room is lacking something.” My roommate had a radio but I didn’t really want one so Papa picked out a lovely philodendron at Woolworth’s in downtown Harrisonburg. (We didn’t have much in the way of shopping centers or Walmarts in those long long long ago days.) I was smitten with his sweet purchase; he didn’t have a lot of money but I still have that gift with me to me this day. Of course it went through some ups and downs, trimmings, and many moves, and finally found its forever home in a large old fashioned brown/beige earthenware pot.

When I lived in Spain for a year as a college junior, one of my friends in the U.S. promised to keep the plant in good shape, which she did. Thank you, Ruthie! It grew and grew from a small pot to a large leafy philodendron. When I moved to an apartment with another friend, Mary Ellen, it went with me.

When I married my husband, we lived in the smallest of mobile homes (a mere 45 feet long); it took prominence in our living room.

When I got my first real job working in an office and eventually had my own private space, I always made sure there was a place for it. When I retired 43 years later, it came home with me, to its humble place in our laundry/half bathroom.

This past winter, I decided to re-pot most of my house plants. None of them were looking very healthy. Three of them had the nerve to go and die on me after the repotting. I did not mess with Dad’s philodendron. It is still greening our laundry/half bath room.

Dear Dad! Thank you for this long prospering plant and the reminder that green things are important for purer air in our homes. It’s also a prompt to thank God for my dear parents and the love they taught us all their lives.

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Any special gifts your Dad or Mom gave you long ago … that you still have?

Or stories this brings to mind?

What’s your best advice for how to handle repotting of plants without killing them?

You might enjoy the book my siblings and I wrote recently called Cultivating Fields, Faith, and Family: Mom and Dad’s Memorable Mennonite Life, available on Amazon, here.