The View from Here:
A Garden of Orchids

Lynne K. Fukuda
Distance Learning Specialist, University of Hawaii at Hilo
lfukuda@hawaii.edu

Preface

This article came to me one day when I was at the meeting of the Hilo Orchid Society. Seeing all the unique individuals who attend- growers, botanists, agriculturalists, hobbyists, and admirers, I knew that I had to write something about them.

Farming and nursery work is a back-breaking job and many of their children and grandchildren are selling their farms and businesses and becoming office workers. The Big Island was such a rough and wild place when I was a kid- just volcanic rubble- black lava rocks- pumice, etc. and some areas with no soil. Drought and natural disaster and financial problems brought down a few. Now there are foreign competitors with cheap labor and cheap products that compete with them, but they continue in Hawaii, proud that they are breeding the best hybrids of beauty, shape, color, scent and integrity.

They taught me about patience--imagine waiting for a hybrid for a generation or two or waiting a lifetime for a new breakthrough. It is a life-long experience. Since they went into the business, they have to learn about cloning, DNA, viruses and other diseases, agricultural issues and all sorts of stuff. Some have no degrees but are smarter than top botanists who come to visit.

I just wanted to give them some applause.

Dedicated to all orchids, young and old.

When I moved to Hilo town, I found a garden of orchids. I was drawn by their scent and their colors. It was not mere beauty or novelty that drew me to the garden but my interest in the unique. These were not orchids of the common sort. They came in many different shapes and sizes. Some were shy and others were bold. Some were dainty and sweet. Others took up the whole space, demanding to be noticed. One emanated the scent of perfume and others of fruit. Another smelled like a raw egg, a scent I did not like. I found one beautifully shaped orchid that I expected to smell nice but was instead shocked with what can only be described as the scent of a cat's behind. What pollinated that orchid in nature, I wondered, my nose twitching in disgust. What creature could possibly be in love with such a smell?

I visited an expansive orchid nursery and nearly fainted. Bombarded with sensations from the colors and shapes, they reached out to me and threatened to climb onto my skin and take root. The scents drew a series of silken threads to my nose like the sticky substance that makes a spider's web. I looked about at all the potted orchids, some in baskets, some on the ground and others hovering in the area in midair. Tiger faces looked out at me, and some had the face of a mouse. In some I saw the shapes of fairies and angels and in others the mischievous grin of an elf. Some were shaped like insects or birds. Others harbored demons that threatened to suck my blood. I was overtaken by rapture and horror. Never in my thirty-something years of life had I encountered such flowers, such orchids.

The orchids I was acquainted with were gentle house pets of pastel colors. There was a cool, velvety sheen over their faces, and a soft, subtle smile. The scents were muted, like in the blossoms of spring in a cool climate, and yet the orchids in the nurseries on the Big Island and the orchids that members brought forth were pulsing with love potion that resembled poison as they exploded with bloom.

I stared at each one, some being dark and tanned. Some pulsating with tropical nectar that beckoned with a unique form of seduction. I tried to pull away, afraid that I too would be drawn into the face of the mysterious orchid like a hapless insect that was its eternal love slave. Others dripped with a heady perfume that blanketed all things. I gasped for fresh air and found myself drowning. I found orchids that were gentle and kind. They bent their shy heads and gestured for me to listen. I bent my head towards them and understood. I found the images of forests vibrant with life. For some orchids, the rainforests of their birth were rich with moisture that blanketed the air several feet thick, allowing the plants to grow in midair. In the darkness of the primeval forest, dappled light, so scarce and so precious, gently danced around them in glee.

Some came from the mysterious highlands of Peru, silent with the song of the Incas. They remembered the land of their birth, skies white with clouds and snow covered peaks, bracing against the cold that threatened their lives. And yet, like the brave flowering plants of the temperate climate, orchids made a living in places that were far from the tropics.

Orchids had emerged in ancient times, long before many other flowering plants. Had they recorded what they had seen and what creatures roamed the ancient earth? Did they remember what creature kissed them in a ritual dance? Would they remind us of how flowering plants were in the ancient past?

Orchids in the wild embrace the living branches of a tree, the nooks and crannies of a plant, hang from vines, kiss rock faces, and walk on the ground, not rooted squarely like regular plants, but somehow suspended over the soil. Orchids interact with other living creatures--birds, butterflies, various insect pollinators. What mysterious furry creature tastes the nectar of the orchid? What little being hides beneath its leaves?

I understood their plight and was transported to the rainforests of their ancestral origin. These beautiful creatures were once wild and free and clinging to a living tree or the side of a cliff, where the music of nature played for them as they basked in dappled light that was soft and kind on their leaves. The droppings of birds fertilized them, as did the gentle rain that trickled down from the canopy. But now they were now trapped in plastic pots filled with bark and soil. How would I feel, I wondered, if I once embraced a living being but was forced to marry a dead thing?

I look on my third-floor balcony each morning and see a forest of orchids. I wonder if they talk to one another during the night while I sleep. Sometimes one leans softly on another. One might be in bud, humming a private tune, while another is singing at the top of its lungs with blooms opened. I devotedly tend to them, checking each one for thirst. I mist them and water them and given them the fish sludge from the tank. I put a few plants on the pot of another plant and nestle another in the branches of a larger plant. I wonder if the contact gives them joy.

Many of my lovely orchids prosper under care. My orchids are slow bloomers and slow to grow, much like the owner who cares for them. Some bloom once a year without fail, others have their day after five years. Some go on a downward spiral, never to return. Each loss is great--a rare beauty gone one day. I preserve each one with a portrait on film. Never have I met such individualistic creatures. My regular garden plants seem downright common in comparison.

A sulk, a tantrum, and a groan emanates from my pet plants. Others will giggle and smile like a happy child. I know I did not give that one enough attention, and another one was growing impatient. Like a worried mother, I try to calm the restless ones, so that my absence on trips would not upset them. Like a gourmet, I drink them in and taste them and touch them all the same. Like an obsessive disorder, I find my nose in their faces. I wonder if they appreciate this attention, the attention of a person gone mad.

If I must move away some day, away from my makeshift greenhouse on the third-floor lanai with the shadecloth to a place with no space for orchids, I must find them good homes. I prick my ears to hear the likes and dislikes of orchid lovers, wondering who will watch my babies well. I search faces for those who will adopt my beloved orchid children.

I see the sea of faces, some pale and some dark. Some wearing bright clothes and others not. Some are shy and others are bold. I hear the giggles and unique laughter of those amused. Some like spicy snacks, while others like them sweet. Some live in Hilo that is wet and humid, others in dry Kau and Puna. Some in the cool hills of Honokaa and Waimea. Others seem to prosper in wet, cold Volcano.

Why do people compare orchids as if they were all the same when they may be different like cabbages to roses? The orchid lovers--growers, hobbyists, admirers--are not all the same. They too come in different sizes and shapes, with unique personalities. And they, like the orchids, reflect what they love. Like their favorite pets, orchid lovers too are unique. I understand them as I lean towards them to hear them speak. They love to nurture and see the beauty of their orchids, large and small. Like the plants that are exquisite, the people drawn to them are inspirations for all those who love to grow flowers with the devotion of a timeless tune.

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