T is For...

Transplanting Cactii

This must surely be one of the most miserable jobs in existence… and I have to do it soon. (Can you spell, “dread”?)

It doesn’t help that, overall, I’m only so-so on cactii to start with. But I have an heirloom collection inherited from my dad, a couple of which actually are kind of cool-looking, so I take care of them in dad’s memory… plus, I have one that SP bought me as a souvenir from his travels - so obviously that one is cherished! 

Unhappily, however, it’s also the one causing me the most headaches at the moment.

When SP presented me with this cactus, it was a sweet little thing. He held it, nestled in his hand, and made much of the fact that this little bit of prickly green looked like a small phallus… and that the bristles down near the base were actually quite soft. 

      “So you should stroke it - A LOT.”

Well, let me tell you, prurience aside, there was absolutely no need for me to do any stroking — that sucker has shot up at practically land-speed-record pace without any help at’all, at’all. I’ve already had to transplant it once from it’s (admittedly somewhat small) little pot. I had hoped that the new one would have sufficient room to accommodate the adolescent growth spurt and still house the cactus well into a comfortable maturity.

Instead, (and I should not be surprised by this, given the giver!) there is no end in sight to the rampant growth of this spiny succulent. From tiny phallus to randy teenager, my modest cactus has burgeoned into the John Holmes of the Cactaceae world. And, much as Mr. Holmes used to claim he couldn’t wear underwear because there wasn’t enough room in there, so too is my porn star cactus finding life a little cramped these days.

There’s only one shelf with enough height to accommodate the plant, it has sprung such a plethora of offshoots that they form a stubbly merkin about its base, and the pot I’d so optimistically selected as its permanent home is now woefully inadequate for the root structure. The plant bows so energetically toward the sun that one almost suspects religious fervor, and I live in fear of it toppling over under its own weight. 

So really, I need to quit stalling and just transplant the thing.

But, oooh, how I dread it!

The spines on John H. Cactus aren’t nearly as rigidly ferocious as some on the heirloom plants, but they are about eighty-six times more plentiful and impossible to avoid. Even enveloped by several layers of brown paper bag, they can still pierce the sturdiest suede glove and leave broken tips embedded in the flesh of your fingers. 

And lord help you with stabalizing it upright as you press the new soil around it!

(Not to mention that how on earth am I going to deal with that merkin, I do not know…)

Transplanting Cactii…

It’s not for the faint of heart.