I have always wanted a fig tree. When I first learned that the Chicago Botanic Garden had created one (Ficus carica ‘Chicago Hardy’) specifically for northern climates I was thrilled. When I learned that “figs are best grown in USDA zones 8 to 10 in organically rich, moist, well-drained soils in full sun to part shade,” however, I despaired, despite the caveat that “figs may be grown in protected locations in USDA Zones 5 -7.” The Missouri Botanical Garden’s fact sheet also included the following reservation: “plants will usually show significant die back in cold winters.” I gave up my obsession and did not renew it until this past week and the encounter at Lowe’s. At last, I thought, a fig that is hardy to zone 5.
Like many readers of the Gospel of Mark, I have long been puzzled, indeed upset, by the story of Jesus cursing the fig tree for having only leaves even though it was not the season for fruit. He was hungry, it should have had figs? This doesn’t seem like the Jesus who might well have been a plant lover, one who found comfort from a garden during his long night in Gethsemane. John mentions the fact of a garden at the site of Jesus’ crucifixion and burial, as if this fact might give the reader comfort as it perhaps gave comfort to Jesus on the cross and to those who buried him. Mary, not his mother but his disciple, Mary Magdalene, the “disappeared” apostle, first takes the risen Jesus for a gardener.
I have always had compassion for the cursed and killed fig tree, just as I have compassion for the trees I see dying from the practice of “volcano” mulching or from poor planting. Indeed, if I were to curse anything, it would be the industry that sells trees so entangled with girdling roots that their chance of survival once planted is only slightly better than that of a cursed fig. I might also find it possible to curse an industry that lures people into purchasing a plant that will not survive the winter that awaits it. A closer look at the tag on ‘Desert King’ – the name itself should, I suppose, should have sent up a giant red flag – reveals that it is “non-hardy in zones 1 to 5.” I could finally satisfy my desire to own a fig tree. I could buy one of the several lovely beckoning plants at Lowe’s and it would be as if I cursed it.
Proud of myself for my second look, I resisted the fig tree, a plant I only want because of its leaves, not its fruit. Instead, I purchased two very expensive Leucothoe fontanesiana ‘Little Flames.’
I had fallen for this plant before. It happened as I was just becoming a serious gardener and during my very first visit to Faddegon’s. Still, a person, not a plant caught my eye as I entered the nursery, already in lust of the possibilities that awaited me. She was striding up and down the rows of shrubs, customers in tow, delivering information and opinions in rapid succession and with great authority. She pointed out significant features of habit, foliage, bark, and bloom as she paused before each plant. She lifted large and heavy pots to show customers the different angles available for siting each choice.
I was mesmerized. I was hooked. I would have followed her anywhere, and I did. When she finally turned to me, I muttered something about wanting an interesting plant to line a stone ledge next to a walkway.
“Here is one of my favorite plants for a low line behind stones and above a path,” she replied, leading me to Leucothoe fontanesiana.
I had in fact noticed and liked this shrub when I saw it in its pot as I trailed after her, but I would have bought anything she recommended just to have a bit of her in my garden. Yes, I wanted those plants, but even more I wanted to be like her. I wanted to be a woman who took long strides and spoke with authority about zones and soils and cultivars. I wanted to be a woman who lifted heavy objects and got dirty and took up space. I wanted to be a woman who could say “low line behind stones.” Remember, this was a long time ago.
I purchased three Leucothoe fontanesiana and went back to the cottage on Warner’s Lake where I was struggling to make a garden in soil that I soon discovered to be heavy clay, full of rocks, and completely unsuited to these beauties. Later, much later, when I became a Master Gardener and had opened my own garden design business, I learned that this shrub “looks attractive in the container at the retail garden center” but “don’t let first impressions hold sway; attention to cultural detail is a must.” Reading further in Dirr’s Manual of Woody Landscape Plants, I found that Leucothoe fontanesiana “prefers acid, moist, well-drained, organic soil; will not withstand drought or sweeping, drying winds.” Moreover, it is “fickle in the everyday landscape.”
My plants most certainly did not get the conditions they preferred. The “fickle” creatures succumbed after struggling for two years in poor soil and exposed to sweeping winds.
What, then, was I doing so many years later, so wise to the ways of the nursery industry, spending a small fortune to try this plant once more? No gorgeous woman was showing them off to me. They were not “on sale” and I had already exceeded my budget for plants for the year. Moreover, Leucothoe is not a native and I had vowed to purchase only natives for my garden. Disappointed by the fig, was I trying to satisfy another lust? To finally get something I had long wanted? Complete a circle? Recapture the young gardener I once was?
The tag clearly stated, “hardy to zone 5.’ I was planting them in a sheltered location. Still, once the beauties were home and in the ground, I decided to check my favorite source for accurate plant information. Here is what the Missouri Botanical Garden has to say about Leucothoe fontanesiana ‘Little Flames’:
“Best grown in rich, evenly moist, well-draining, acidic, humusy loams in part shade. ‘Little Flames’ is hardy in USDA Zones 6-9.”
The choices for cursing now are numerous but the most appropriate recipient would be myself. Though I am not inclined at this moment to do anything more than enjoy the plants and pray for a mild winter, I reserve the right to curse widely and well if, come spring, it appears that my ‘Little Flames,’ so fickle in the everyday landscape, have succumbed to the cold.
