Oh, For Me?
By Andrea Peck
Last weekend my husband committed a slightly criminal act in the name of love—he picked me a snippet of a coleus plant. The plant, a beauty, dominated a large pot inside the pathway of a shopping center. Lest you are worried that we damaged the original plant, I will state, for the record, that the plant was huge and lush at the time of the picking—and likely still is-- unless, as I suspect, there was a pruning in its future.
He delicately selected a small, leafy shoot from the very back of the plant and presented it to me. I said, “I do. Again.” Then he did what men have done before and will continue to do. He left my potential new plant in the confines of his car. Overnight.
I am not by any means abdicating responsibility. After all, I did forget about it myself. It takes two, you know.
The next day, a little sheepish, he presented the cutting to me. If all men are boys, these are the times that you get a window into their uncanny ability to time travel from 50 back to 7 in less than the blink of an eye. I faltered momentarily at the sight of his grubby hand and what it held. The Grim Reaper seemed near.
The cutting was wilted beyond recognition, but I stuck it in water anyway.
I had little hopes for the deep maroon and purple plant. It hung in the glass, droopy and depressed. I think it took two days for the smaller top leaves to move skyward. After about 5 days the entire plant perked up and grew a few tentative roots. The coleus are resilient plants.
My earliest memories of coleus plants are with my mother. She loved those leafy plants. Perhaps it is the extraordinary color that they display despite their penchant for shade. We lived in Southern California at the time and had a tiny atrium for a yard. My dad had made a faux tiny hill scene along with a tiny creek bed that ran down the middle. The fairy-sized hills were covered in dichondra and the outskirts were dotted with ferns. It was the early 80's. A plain sliding glass door led from the kitchen to our miniature Shangri-La. It was a masculine vista featuring green and green and concrete and then some more green. Even the concrete eventually grew green in that sunless, stucco-enveloped alcove. Once the coleus were given a chance to populate, they provided neat little plots of color.
But, color aside, the most amazing character trait of the coleus is its ability to propagate. Just provide them with a small glass of water to soak their stem in and they are off and running. They can be grown indoors, in containers, and outside. They are considered an annual and do not tolerate low temperatures. They prefer well-draining, acidic soil that is rich with organic matter. They do best in a partly shaded area. Coleus come in a variety of colors, all of which seem to have a remarkable combination of deep and bright colors. The one caveat with the coleus is that it does like to stay moist; lack of water can be a quick death for these plants. One trick that I've heard is using your leftover coffee to water plants such as the coleus, which have a low pH requirement. Combine that with the clean water you use to rinse your coffee pot and you should be able to keep the lovely coleus from wilting.