This time I think Sarah Frond is gone for good.
While most plants Lyn and I brought from Connecticut to Georgia survived the trip without lasting problems, the Boston fern we call Sarah Frond suffered mightily after a week in the box in the heat. I bought her 28 years ago, our first plant as we began our life together in Washington, D.C., in 1985.
Though she showed signs of rallying in June, she took a turn for the worst and I made one more effort to save her by planting her in the ground, a stone atop the dirt to mark the spot.
To be sure, this would seem a sad ending for such a regal plant, one that accompanied us during every move we made: Washington to Atlanta to Connecticut – and back to Georgia.
To be stuck inside a black hole, covered with soggy dirt in a summer of rain in a state she once thrived in is no way to be, no way to go. But unless there's a miracle – and I don't expect one – gone she is.
Sarah Frond was a member of the family, indeed the king of the family plants. And befitting her rank and role, she fought and survived previous life threats. But none like this.
Things fall down. And many of them can't be replaced. But we try sometimes. So it is with Sarah. The other day I bought as part of Lyn's birthday celebration a new fern, a 'Lemon Button', the label says, botanically known as Nephrolepis cordifolia, with common names aplenty – and, as usual, evocative: sword fern, fish-bone fern, ladder fern. And Boston fern.
So lemon button and Sarah Frond belong to the same plant group. How could we not call her Sarah Frond II.
No, there will never be another Sarah Frond. But looking at Sarah II, appreciating her perk and style, this feels like the beginning of a beautiful relationship.
|Sarah II strikes a pose in The Diner, with some of her new clan.|
|She's ready for her close-up.|