Last April, when the madness of the pandemic was still new, yet still a little hopeful, and our little corner of the world was largely shut down, a friend bought the lot next door to her, complete with a teardown of a house and an overgrown yard. She graciously allowed me to come over and take a bunch of cuttings from the glorious pomegranate bush and camellias. Rooting hormone, soilless potting mix, carefully keeping them moist. but not wet … none survived.

Except the one branch that I didn’t attempt to root because it was covered in showy blooms that were too pretty to cut off (and didn’t think to take a picture). I just stuck it in a vase with water to enjoy the flowers, figuring the branch would eventually die, maybe after all the buds had opened. It didn’t. It bloomed all the buds and remained a happy little branch of green in a tacky red vase. I changed the water when I thought about it, and then late last year I saw little rootlets budding from the cut end. I changed the water more regularly and carefully after that, and the rootlets grew, slowly.

I had one scare when mold or mildew grew on the stem, but gently wiping the mold off seemed to take care of the problem. Still, probably a hint that it was time to move this little survivor from the vase to a pot so that it would have a chance to grow for real.

Actually doing this was daunting. I mean, it had survived for almost a year in the vase, and now I was going to move it to dirt, and all the other cuttings had died when I potted them properly, and what if I kill this one survivor, my pandemic survivor? Yes, I am emotionally invested in a branch. But a couple weeks ago I finally screwed up the courage and did it. So far, so good.