ABOUT THIS BLOG:

ABOUT THIS BLOG: Much like myself, this site has worn down with many of its features no longer functioning. If you have questions (or answers), feel free to contact me: @WillTinkhamfictionist (Facebook) or @willtink (Twitter). Thanks!

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From Minnesota's Iron Range to Hollywood's Golden Age, Ike Savich discovers America—one Packard at a time. THE PACKARD SALESMAN

About Me

Will Tinkham has published eleven novels. THE PACKARD SALESMAN follows THE TEDDY & BARA SHOW, IF I LIE IN A COMBAT ZONE, FALLING DOWN UMBRELLA MAN, THE MIRACLES, THE CARY GRANT SANATORIUM AND PLAYHOUSE, THE GREAT AMERICAN SCRAPBOOK, THE ADVENTURES OF HANK FENN, BONUS MAN, NO HAPPIER STATE, and ALICE AND HER GRAND BELL. He lives and writes in Minneapolis, MN. His short fiction has been published on three continents and he long ago attended Bread Loaf on a scholarship. An actor of little renown, his credits do include the Guthrie Theater and Theatre in the Round. @WillTinkhamfictionist on Facebook, @willtink on Twitter, instagram.com/willtink

Thursday, August 15, 2019

On Botany and DNA


Several years ago, a plant sat dying in the lobby of the posh condo building I work at. Myrna, the resident who volunteers to provide and keep alive the lobby plants and flowers, gave me the plant to set atop a cabinet in the office where such things go to die. I placed it in its plant purgatory with little fanfare. None, as a matter of fact.

I took to dumping the remains of my water bottle into the vase—the backwash I was too lazy to take all the way back to the sink to pour out. Day after day, I deposited the tepid water from the previous night into the pot. Several times during each shift, I'd pour the KitKat-laced spittle from the bottom of my bottle over the pathetic plant.

One day Myrna noticed the plant atop the cabinet. “That thing still alive?”

“It's my DNA,” I offered.

Myrna decided it deserved a better pot. As she made the transfer, it was hard to imagine the water that poured out of that thing. She commented that no plant could survive such over-watering.

It became the emergency plant—when Myrna couldn't get to the florist after something else had really died—and periodically enjoyed its former place the lobby. I continued to dump my waste water on the thing until one day a pink bud appeared. It had never flowered before.

With Myrna temporarily slowed by a walker, the plant has again become the centerpiece of the lobby. And I've continued to generally abuse it. It sprouted a second bud.

Was it my DNA in the backwash? Had my ancestors hung the Hanging Gardens? Was I a Venus flytrap in a former life? Or perhaps eaten by one?

Questions such as these have mystified botanists since the dawn of time (or perhaps not), but one thing is for sure: This was an obvious fluke, never ever let me near your plants!