Geoff Duncan

A few years ago, I bought a small potted ficus. I'd not been a tremendous fan of the plants; for one thing, they seem to be a variety of "institutional greenery" in that they're a bit pervasive in commercial office spaces and the like. But, more annoying, ficus can seem to be doing fine but then shed their leaves almost all at once. This makes for annoying cleanup, a bit of depression that you may have killed the plant (you probably didn't), and... well, a leafless twig sitting in your living room for a few months while the ficus engages in philosophical pondering of its own existence, its genes waiting for the wet rainy season.

Some ficus varieties are cute and suitable for bonsai-like contortionist tricks. And this particular one had a cute tag claiming to be time-travelling "Ficus of the Future," offering great leaf retention and low light and humidity requirements. My windows all face north: low light is the only light. It was $8—what the heck.

Future Plant seemed to do well for several months: new leaves, new branches, low water needs, seemingly happy. I was beginning to admit that, possibly, not all ficus were evil. In fact, Future Plant was rather endearing. Cute, even.

But last winter, Future Plant developed scale. Leaves began to fall. Honeydew—aka scale excrement—began to appear. I scrubbed. I applied alcohol. I fussed over the plant for hours. Sprayed mixtures of dish soap. I consulted horticultural experts at local nurseries: they universally shook their heads and said, "Well, you should probably replace the plant." No! There had to be hope for Future Plant! One wizened crone whose experience with plants I've come to trust said, "Scale is the best case for spontaneous generation of infestation out of thin air I've ever seen. Pasteur is lucky he studied maggots, not scale. You can try soaps and neem oil, but...it's not going to work. Just replace the plant." Wah!

Leaves kept falling. I isolated the plant. Applied neem oil repeatedly. I didn't over-water. I kept the temperature as consistent as possible. And, reward for my effort, eventually Future Plant was nothing more than a collection of angular twigs with just two leaves.

But! A few weeks later, Future Plant started showing signs of life! New growth! Neon green eruptions of foliage! No signs of scale! Sure, a few branches were lost altogether and had to be removed, but the plant as a whole survived and thrived! Over the course of a few months, the plant completely recovered: folks who'd seen the dead twigs in my office had no idea they were looking at the same plant. I'd point it out to them. "Uh, wow," they'd say. "That, mere human, is the all-powerful Once and Future Ficus!" I'd announce, with a just hint of paternal pride.

Now, it's winter again. And the Once and Future Ficus has re-developed scale. It's losing its leaves. It's most unhappy.

As I look at it, I keep thinking there's no way I'm going to beat this scale. But how can I abandon the Once and Future Ficus?