The meaning of the word is clear. There’s a plant. It’s been planted. Then it needs to move to another location. It’s being “transplanted.” Simple. However, in practice, there’s another word that is more descriptive of the process: “Uprooted.”
To be fair, I don’t take this lightly. I know, from practical experience, that the likelihood of successfully uprooting and moving a plant that has settled into a location (put down roots, to belabor the point) can be iffy. So, I don’t gloss over this like I’m a Hollywood director telling the crew to move a tree from one location to another and expecting for it to happen immediately. After all, that tree was rented and could easily be moved with a front-loader. No, in this case we’re examining a shrub or perennial that was planted carefully and lovingly by the same numbskull who has now decided to move it.
Every amateur landscaper has experienced it. The story goes something like this: “This Physocarpus ninebark is going to look spectacular under the front bedroom window! I wonder…Wait! I should get two of them. They’ll fill the space faster and look spectacular.” There are some variations on this scenario but the underlying problem is that the garden in my yard and the garden in my mind bear little relation to each other. One is always on the verge of being “spectacular” and the other looking like the train car full of mistreated and neglected toys found by the Hero Boy in The Polar Express.
This original mistake in judgement for our illustration may have occurred two years ago, maybe longer. The bitter truth now has to be faced. This is the time. This is the season. The reasoning goes something like this:
- These two ninebarks are crowding the perennials.
- I could move one of them, but that won’t solve the problem.
- I have to move them both.
- There’s a chance I’ll kill them both.
- I have no choice.
- They’ll look spectacular.
Planting a new specimen straight from the nursery is a relatively fail-safe proposition. Requisite amount of sunlight? Check. Planting it with a collection of neighbors that have similar needs? Check. Appropriate choice for the color scheme and overall design? Check. Utilizing all the short-cuts I’ve developed after ignoring expert advice? Check.
The new plant is probably root-bound and happy to be out of that tight pot. You’ve selected a healthy, hearty specimen and the likelihood of success is high, all things considered.
Transplanting is a different proposition altogether. You’re talking about digging up a plant which, through no fault of its own, just happens to be planted in the wrong spot. This entails severing roots, sending the shrub or perennial immediately into shock, and then trying to baby it along so that it can establish enough of a hearty root system to survive the winter in its new location.
At first, the plant may look fine and you feel cautiously optimistic. Then the blooms begin to droop and dry up. “Still doesn’t look too bad,” you lie to yourself. Next the lower leaves begin to turn yellow. “Not good. Not good at all.” All the same, you’ve seen worse and you hold fast to the prospect of a miracle recovery. The creeping yellow slowly progresses toward the tips of the branches. “Hey, it’s doing fine. Hasn’t lost any leaves.” No, but they shrivel up and cling defiantly to the branches. Never give up hope.
I realize, from a practical perspective, if something doesn’t survive being transplanted in the fall I can replace it with a fresh-faced, perky understudy next spring. Still, my conscience gets the better of me sometimes and I blame the plants.
What Then? 