That Which Grows

I'm not good with plants.   As with everything in my life, I'm an all or nothing person.  There's either a deluge of water or the Joad family might as well pack up and leave the dustbowl for greener pastures (note to the Joads---don't bet on California, it's not a sure thing).    In an effort to twart my cats and their bulimic behaviour, I took to purchasing realistic looking plastic bamboo .  In return, I was met with knocked over vases and consistantly teeth marked plastic grass.
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On the  other hand, my father had a touch.  His hands looked large and clumsy; his nails were often discoloured from having bourne the brunt of misaimed construction implements over the years.  His decades outside had turned his skin a dark brown and he was often mistaken for being First Nations.  A person wouldn't think that these hands could nurture  things the way he did, but at some point, it happened.
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I can't recall what inspired him to initially undertake it, but after the usual  vegetables, the banana trees came first.  Dad didn't have a computer, so he certainly didn't research it.  It was all instinct and it worked.  Somehow, a tiny shoot he'd  come into contact with, took root and grew.    Our winters aren't conducive to tropical fruit tree development, so he then built a small greenhouse in the backyard with some very thick plastic wrap.  A regular extension cord was dragged out there, an ordinary  heater was hooked up and some lights.  Voila....they grew and they thrived.
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I'm actually surprised we weren't raided, as the heating bill must have gone up and Hydro was on the look out for marijuana grow-operations.  I loved stepping into that greenhouse, as it had the smell that only falsely  humid places in cold weather has.   It's the same reason I enjoy Botanical Gardens in the dead of winter---false joy and hope.
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Dad would sit in his greenhouse with a radio playing.  He'd listen to talk shows, the sports and news.  He'd tend to his  plants and water them carefully.  Somehow, he had figured out a  soil balance.  He'd added to his menagerie  by chopping off the tops of pine-apples and they too were blooming.    Not only were the plants themselves managing to develop, but the fruit was edible.  They were shrunken down, dwarf versions.  However, they seemed  to contain all of the flavour and more.  Dad would offer up his wares with great pride and watch as we sampled them.
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My father passed away one November a few years ago.  It was then that I noticed a scent in the house, which became progressively stronger.   Seemingly out of nowhere and within the space of a few days, one of my plants had flowered.  I'd had this plant with me since living in an apartment and it hadn't grown an inch.  Now, there was a very odd looking flower whose aroma could be detected throughout the entire house.
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Some people would take it as a sign.  I'd like to believe.  It's not bloomed since.
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(The white stem and flower part grew within one or two weeks and then disappeared, never to be seen again.)