One of the things I refused to leave behind when we sold the beach house-not-on-the-beach was a very large planter that sat in the front yard near the bay window. I loved that pot. At first it was planted with red geraniums along with a little spiky plant and a little drooping plant and was quite striking. Because we weren’t there regularly enough for me to keep it watered steadily, the geraniums soon succumbed and the spiky plant kept spiking and the drooping plant kept drooping and the two have remained in the pot for more than a decade, with no help from me, thank you.
When we moved, the heavy pot arrived here intact, although I’m not sure the movers’ backs were as lucky. I could hardly wait for warm weather so that I could put something pretty in it and give it a prime location in the garden.
I’ve had flowering plants from the nursery waiting in the wings for a couple of weeks now and I decided that Sunday was the big day. I got out my little trowel. Hah! I couldn’t cut through the roots enough to even get past the surface. “Root-bound” doesn’t begin to cover it. Root-bound and determined.
I pulled Dearly Beloved away from all of his new power tools to enlist his help.
What I said was, “Will you get those plants out of that pot so that I can plant something else in it.”
What he heard was, “Get that plant out of there, whatever it takes.”
He turned the pot on its side and cut the roots that were growing out of the bottom. He yanked and tugged. The plant didn’t move.
“Don’t worry about the plants, just don’t break the pot.” I said nervously.
He grabbed a shovel. Not a trowel–a full-size shovel.
“Don’t break the pot,” I said again.
He gave me an expression just two degrees short of an eye roll and began chopping at the plant with the shovel.
“Don’t break the pot.”
A small chunk of the pot rim flew off.
“DON’T BREAK THE POT!”
The plant suddenly pulled free.
Hey, all was not lost. I still have this “lovely” plant without so much as a broken root.
Feel free to make an offer.