Harried Potter and the Professor of Gardenly Arts

Harried was at his bench again. It seemed an unending parade of who's-its and what's-its required his attention. Every season held its potting chores and the process could be a stressful, even harrowing experience—and Hortus was due.

Pots, dibbles, trowels and widgers were strewn about like so much detritus after a storm. An advancing army of plants in flats waited for larger pots. Potting media were piled everywhere--gritty for alpines, humusy for woodlanders, an all-purpose mix, barky orchid recipe, and gravelly, mineral, muddle for cacti and succulents. Components of the various conglomerations spilled into one another and a rather unpleasant slurry resulted when they encountered the not inconsequential puddle of water spilled on the copper-topped work table.

His skin prickled with anticipation of the morning’s visit.

In fairness, some of that bench-top pool was sweat. Harried perspired heavily when under stress. Though he hoped to keep his blood out of the mix, there were more than a few tears contributed as he fought to keep up with the onslaught of work demanded by the garden and its master.

Mortimer Hortus was not a man to be trifled with. The Professor of Gardenly Arts, hardened by a childhood’s worth of teasing about his name, sought retribution whenever and wherever he had the opportunity. Teaching, it turned out, provided the perfect platform for a large-scale assault on the generation that would pay for his pain.

He was tall and grass-blade thin. The collarless, canvas gardening jacket that he never seemed to remove, heightened the effect, draping—as if on a hangar—off his frame. From the right-hand pocket peeked the handles of his secateurs. They were old, razor-sharp and English steel, the finest made—and no one but he had ever touched them. In the left pocket, a trowel, spotless and edged, though slightly smaller from the wear of years of use. Inside, a row of breast pockets adorned each side of the jacket like the trench coats of gypsy watch sellers at a train station. There were slots for each of the smaller tools of his trade—the ones everyone else lost and replaced twice a year. A place for every implement and every implement in its place.

Harried never heard the approach.

“Potter!” Hortus thundered. “What the bloody-hell is going on here!”

Potter spun in a panic and leaned back into the bench from the closeness of Hortus. He felt the muddy puddle soak into the back of his shirt like it ink into a blotter.

“Sir?”

“Well?”

“I…I…”

“Two years. Two years, Potter—and this is what you have to show for it?”

Harried felt the beads forming on his brow. His underarms warmed appreciably.

“Are we being attacked? Has a bomb gone off without making the slightest sound?”

“Sir…there are so many…. I’m trying to keep…”

“Potter,” Hortus quieted his voice, “you’ll never make it into the garden with the others if you can’t make it here.”

“Sir…”

“Rule number one, Potter.”

“Dedicate a space, sir…” mumbled the boy.

“Correct. I see you’re using the bench. Bravo.” rejoined Hortus without a trace of joy. “But you’ve got things everywhere. No way to conserve motion or energy. You’ll be running here and there long after the others are taking their tea.”

“Organize, Potter, organize. You’ll eliminate many stops and starts in the process if you round up all the supplies you’ll need—before you start. Clean pots, flats, or liner trays should be on hand. Containers filled with the components of your potting mixes and toppings under the bench; tools laid out and water at the ready. Don’t forget labels, pencils and anything else needed for the task. Reading glasses, do you need them Potter?, …and a mug of water for yourself so that you don’t have to leave before the job is done.”

“Yes sir. Of course sir. I’ve…”

“Do we pot one vessel at a time Potter?” queried Hortus sing-songily.

“No sir…we…”

“No indeed. We load a flat with pots and fill every pot to the brim with our mix, tamping it down lightly to about the collar of the pot.”

“Right, sir.” Potter pulled his sleeve across his brow, soaking it with sweat.

“Then we take the flat to our source of water and thoroughly moisten all the pots, making sure that water is coming from the drain holes. The flat will be appreciably heavier when you move it back to your potting bench or table.”

“And why do we do that, Potter?”

“There are several reaso….”

“We do it to avoid the PIG-WALLOW that you’re sitting in here, Potter!” the volume had returned.

Potter cringed away and felt a stream of liquid running down the small of his back into his pants.

“Professor Hortus…I…”

“Then what, Potter? Hmm? While the pots continue to moisten, we create our labels, yes? BEFORE we pot plant, cutting or seed. For extra security, write the name of the plant or a code on the side of the pot itself.”

The veins in Hortus’ eyes began to move, swelling red and swaying with the timbre of his rant—or so swore Potter later to his friends.

“We make our record in the notebook, Potter. Date. Scientific plant name. Source and provenance. Number of pots. Location. Then, and ONLY then do we pot…Potter. Like a machine. Automated. Conserving motion, energy and time. One after another, after another. Speed, grace and efficiency.”

“This is how I taught you Potter. This is how I taught you.”

“I understand sir, really…”

“I take it as a particular failing, Potter, that you have not absorbed your lessons…that you are not up to the task.”

Harried’s knees began to quiver. The drone of the fans began to oscillate in his ears and his eyes pulsed in and out of focus. Potter couldn’t help feeling that a better breakfast wouldn’t have strengthened him against the onslaught…provided he had been able to keep it down.

“I do not fail Potter. Ever.”

Hortus spun, and in a puff of perlite, he was out the door.

Return to BotanitcalGardening.com home...

_____________________________