ROBERT SIEGEL, host:
Painter and naturalist Julie Zickefoose tells the story of a couple whose houseplants threatened to take over their living room - that is, until Julie intervened.
JULIE ZICKEFOOSE: We've all seen it - the rundown house at the end of the block with yews or hollies growing up to the second story, covering the windows. Zoning regulations and neighbors' complaints often take care of such eyesores, but what about when plants take a house over from the inside?
My friend Steve(ph) and Sheryl(ph) live in Nebraska, where Steve, a master bricklayer, built Sheryl a beautiful castle complete with turrets out on the wind-swept prairie. It's a dream house with a vaulted ceiling in the living room; huge windows light up the space.
The first time I visited Steve and Sheryl, I noticed that the light that might have been streaming in those windows was blocked by two huge potted Norfolk Island Pines. They were so big that they had hit the vaulted ceiling and begun to bend over, their crowns feeling along the plaster like the sinuous palm trees in a Dr. Seuss drawing.
When I asked Sheryl about the oversized pine trees in her living room, she rolled her eyes. Steve's had those since he was in college, and he's too soft-hearted to get rid of them. He built the whole living room around those darn trees. I've been trying to get him to throw them for 10 years.
Two years later, I visited Steve and Sheryl again, the trees, huge before, were simply monstrous now, bowing down to the white carpet, hooking up again for another try at growing through the roof. Sheryl watched my face as I walked into the living room. Her eyes begged for an intervention.
I decided to use a line that my blunt-spoken friend Janet(ph) had unleashed on me when she beheld the ratty, leather recliner in our living room. I gave it to Bill when we were married 14 years ago. Green duct tape crisscrossed its torn arms. Janet paused, looked from the chair to me and said, so, what's with the recliner? In the hot flush of embarrassment, I saw our beloved recliner, not as the extravagant wedding present it had been, but as the rotting hulk it was. We covered it for six more months, like a corpse, then finally hauled it to its rest.
I took a deep breath. So, Steve, what's with the pine trees? I felt Sheryl tense beside me. Steve chuckled sheepishly, oh, I've had those since I was in college, and I'm too soft-hearted to throw them out. Sheryl hates them. There was no turning back now. Steve, leave them here long enough and they will take over your kitchen. Sheryl's right, it's time. Steve didn't say anything. Sheryl shot me a grateful look, steered me into the kitchen, and thanked me for echoing her views on the funky growths in her living room.
It's a mistake to get emotional about plants. There are always more to be had. I say this as someone who threw out two eight-foot-tall scale-infested ficus trees; a 12-foot-tall palm that had become a spider-mite factory. The ficus trees had flanked the altar at our wedding; the palm was a sympathy buy at a discount store. Easy come; easy go. Sure, they're living things, but they're not ancestors. They're plants.
By the next May, the deed was done. Steve had pulled the cord on a chainsaw right in the living room and rendered the Norfolk Island Pines into logs. Knowing Steve, I'm sure he wept; I'm just as sure that Sheryl's eyes were perfectly dry.
SIEGEL: Julie Zickefoose is a writer and painter in Whipple, Ohio. She's the author of "Letters from Eden."