Blue Orchids

“Yeah, I’ll take a bag for the flower. It’s cold out there.”

The cashier put the discount Phalaenopsis orchid in a cocoon of plastic, the doors slid, the night smacked my face, and the car started.

Any driveway mechanic will tell you what a luxury that is–a car always starting. I will. See that scar on my index finger? Oh, cold metal hurts.

Lynchburg stoops and stomps and beats collective gloved hands together in the frost. The earth stirred a bit in her sleep Sunday, dreaming of fiddleheads and loam, rolled over, and sank back into a chill so quiet, the occasional chickadee sounds like a whole brass section.

I’ve been working with amps and speakers forever. Nothing sounds as loud as a bag of potato chips at 3 am. But in this hush, the birds are close.

And now, safe indoors, a “blue” orchid sits on my counter. I’ve got a Cattleya specimen that I’ve had for twenty years, and a Dendrobium nearly as long. The Phalaenopsis knack has eluded me. They always die.

This one jumped out at me, sitting on the bottom of the discount cart at Home Depot. The blue dye of the flowers seemed splotchy, like someone’s tired face.

Once upon a time, I was involved with an organization that delighted in endless meetings and circling back. As the festivities dragged on into the wee hours, I sat and watched everyone wilt. (Looking back, I should have left.) People get splotchy when they’re exhausted, and so do orchids.

So I picked the little fella up. I’ve got a care book on the shelf. It’s a new year, and time to learn how to grow ‘em properly. Let’s do this.

I think the next bloom cycle should be the natural white. Google says it’s injected blue dye. “Real” blue orchids are hard to find.

Ray Eberle says something about how rare blue orchids are, too, in a forgotten rhapsody of grace and warmth.

As the sun chips away at the ice on the pond, I’ve got a Glenn Miller recording of this excellent Hoagy Charmichael tune on the platter. This one is from ‘39.

I hope you enjoy.

Stay warm,

Josh