Has it been a century, already?

In August, the spiky plant that takes up most of one section of the back yard sprouted from its middle a stalk that reached for the sky.

In October, the stalk, taller than our roof by then, flowered. The petals littered the sandy ground and smelled like honeysuckle, but heartier.

Earlier this month, in place of flowers, round balls appeared on the tendrils that grew from the stalk. If you give the stalk a small shake, the balls fall like hail.

In the past week or so, the spikes, once sturdy and stretching probably 8 feet tip to tip, have started to droop and yellow.

“It’s like it’s giving up the Ghost,” I told a friend.

She came over and took home some of the ball-things, both of us assuming they must be plantable.

I Googled “spiky Florida plant,” and learned, as maybe I should have known, that we have an American agave in the back yard, commonly called a “century plant” because it takes so long before it blooms and produces “pups,” not usually 100 years, but often 30-40.

Our house was built in 1987, and it had one owner before us. I imagine her standing at the doorway and throwing handfuls of random seeds out into the yard. It’s taken us 4.5 years to clean up the jungle this property once was.

I expect the century plant was planted with the house, and indeed, it’s now pulling a “Charlotte’s Web” on us.

Once the pups fall, like Charlotte the spider after having her babies, it will die.

I never liked “Charlotte’s Web,” and it seems fitting that the agave would go at the end of 2020.

I’ve stuffed a few pups in the ground, in scattered places around the yard, not unlike the crazy lady who tossed seeds for us to one day tame. We’ll see what takes soon enough, and I suppose we’re to be hopeful that they all humbly grow and live terrifically and radiantly for the next 30-100 years.

May we all.

Happy New Year.

Almost a lap cat

We didn’t know, when we found this cat in a Wendy’s parking lot in Lakeland five years ago, that her flat-cut ear meant she was part of a cared-for feral colony.

Apparently, the ear cut means she’s had her shots, she’s spayed, and she should be left alone, as she’s also wild.

But she jumped into our car with a cheeseburger lure, and she sat on my lap back to Sarasota.

She’s not sat on a lap since.

When we got home that night, she became the “upstairs cat” at our rented, two-story condo, too scared to venture down into the family chaos.

Soon, we moved to Shady Brook Lane, and missing a good place to hide, she was present more often, mostly at night, when she’d sometimes let Thomas pet her — but only after children were asleep.

I often felt badly for bringing her into our loud house. I can’t blame her for keeping her distance. A lot of days, I don’t want to live here, either.

In recent weeks, though, months into the pandemic that’s cooped us into this house more than we’d like, she’s gotten closer to us, instead of running away. She’s started meowing at me, purring and allowing pets. She drools when she purrs.

Just today, she jumped up into my chair, and bumped me over, squeezing into the gap between my leg and the chair’s arm.

Hey, Wendy, welcome. My lap is still waiting for you, but you can sit next to me any time.

Well, that's aggressive

I pulled out some more garbage plants this weekend, and revealed this one in the process.

It’s pretty, with shiny leaves, and I got the feeling it maybe was something worth keeping.

I downloaded a “plant identification” app and was briefly impressed to learn that I had uncovered an Australian umbrella tree.

“That sounds fancy!” I thought.

“I wonder what I just threw away into the yard waste bin? Maybe there’s other good stuff? Ugh! Too late now.”

Then, I read further and learned that Australian umbrella plants, in Florida, are “aggressive weeds,” which seems like an awfully aggressive description for something with such shiny, pretty leaves.