Queen of the Night

My home has a Ficus tree, orchids, two palms,  a Dracaena and bamboo plant. I have floral arrangements in just about every room. They are all silk.  In my old age with failing eyes, I don’t see dust  and all my friends are evidently too polite to point out the patina.  Real petunias and impatiens my landscaper gave me last year all died or were eaten by deer.  I am a serial plant murderer.

My writers group gave us assignment to write a story about gardening. To fulfill this assignment and not let you down failing to come up with a gardening story considering my lack of success with things green and flowering, I do offer one plant tale that is unique and worthy of repeating.

Every year for 35 years I have been part of a wine tasting week lakeside in Michigan guesting at the summer home of a dear friend, who is an eminent microbiologist. He is also an expert gardener and botanist with a large greenhouse attached to his cottage.  In it we have been fortunate to have seen some rare and beautiful plants, but none as notable as the one we saw one summer.

Our host was extremely excited in greeting us that year as his night blooming Cereus was about to flower.  This rare primitive cactus lily is much admired by garden enthusiasts. Known as “Queen of the Night,”  Epiphyllum oxypetalum is notable because it blooms just once a year for only one single night, dying at dawn. Its blooms are extravagant dinner plate-sized white flowers that emerge from pods as dusk sets in. 

We all anxiously gathered in the green house to witness this botanic wonder unfold. Indeed, at sunset, the large pods began turning upright, sure sign the spectacle was at hand.  What our host had failed to tell us was that this flower is pollinated by nectar-feeding bats. To attract such bats, nature has given the Cereus an odor most attractive to them, that of decaying vegetal material. Not only that, but the rotten fruit smell carries miles to reach these bats, inviting them to “come to the table” so to speak.  The flowers opened. Our appreciation dwindled as the smell also grew more pervasive and noxious. We moved out of the greenhouse, shutting the door. Didn’t help. The smell was overpowering. We could not eat or drink, got headaches and became nauseous.  The whole house smelled like a garbage dump. It was sickening. We moved outside, setting up blankets and cushions to sleep on the patio.  Nope.  The smell was so strong we were afraid neighbors would complain.  Of course bats don't generally bother people and couldn't get into the house to their enchanting siren, so they fluttered about frustrated with no bother to us.

Luckily the cottage was too small to overnight the entire group, so several had taken accommodation at a Quality Inn over by the Interstate.  Eight of us snuck in, occupying their one room for that night. Wine and air conditioning had us quickly in good spirits. The following morning, when we returned early, the Cereus has died and the smell abated. All was well and I was extremely gratified knowing that none of my dusty silk plants would ever cause me to vacate my house.

The Greenhouse and the Cereus in full bloom. Ugh !