On the Trail

The F.I.T. Squad

No—that’s not F.I.T. as in Fashion Institute of Technology but rather F.I.T. as in Ficus In Trouble.

How exactly does a ficus tree get in trouble? Exceeding the speed limit in the Ficusmobile?

Perhaps only true gardeners’ heartstrings would be tugged at the sight of a F.I.T. Then again, ficus being so common, maybe not. But if there was an ER for hurtin’ plants, I’d be working there for sure. I see a plant in need and transform into a First Responder mode. Such was the case with this F.I.T.—a lanky 6 or 7-footer whose leafy green crown I spotted poking above a dumpster.

"It’s alive!" I cried to my four-legged partner, eagerly sniffing a pizza box that hadn’t quite made it inside the same dumpster. "How could someone do that to a living thing?" The dog showed no interest in my outrage, but appeared ardently appreciative that the pizza box tosser had had such lousy aim.

I clambered up the side of the dumpster for a better look. Massive piles of files buried most of the ficus’ trunk. When I worked for a law firm I used to see files like these, that attorneys strapped to luggage carriers then toted like stackable washer/dryer units down the halls of justice. I tugged at one—an instant mistake. The manila folder disintegrated and 4,000 or so now unbound pieces of paper skated free. Boxes and boxes of paperwork hemmed in the plant. Hadn’t these people heard of a shredder?

The ficus was held fast by bills of lading, correspondence, Chinese lunch menus and employee lottery pools. Plus several odorous black plastic bags of trash.

To be honest, this was not the most attractive ficus I’d ever seen. It was utterly one-sided as if it had lived in a dark corner and grown towards a bright light. While a still healthy-looking green canopy crowned the leggy trunk, there was much naked skeletal growth.

How badly did I need another ficus? There were at least four at home already including Ike Ficus, Sr., part of our lives (and living rooms) since our ‘80s apartment-dwelling days, and Ike Ficus, Jr., a variegated newcomer that brightened our deck in summer.

But this consignee to a garbage dump was still alive. It just wasn’t right to close down an office and toss everything into a cold metal smelly dumpster—I didn’t notice any axed CEO or secretaries poking out of there.

Still, it’s easier to talk up perseverance than wrest free one skinny tree pinned under an avalanche of discarded paperwork. I pulled, tugged, wiggled, rocked, cursed, shoved, dug, flailed, cursed some more, begged, yanked. This was one stuck ficus. Climbing down in defeat, I felt guilty.

Guilt is the ultimate motivator.

I climbed back up, lit with a new and fierce determination. Grabbing the trunk in one hand, I hurled files every which way with the other. It was endless. How many years’ worth of paper processing was accumulated in this one vast pit anyway? Secretly I hoped the damn business had gone bankrupt and its owner ridden out of town on a rail.

Righteous indignation is the next best motivator.

When I let out a war whoop, the dog dropped the pizza box she’d been busy dismantling. Miraculously the tree’s rootball was intact, still firmly lodged inside its pot as I hauled it up and out. Winded and achy and not smelling too prime, either, I looked at our prize a moment than carefully bungeed the ficus in my truck bed and for once did not threaten to break my land speed record for the six-mile drive home. For the well-being of the ficus, we crawled. After all it had been through, exposing the poor thing to wind rash seemed unthinkable.

By the light of the next day (the rescue had been at 3 a.m., the time we get off work) the ficus looked better than I felt—sore shoulder and an old pulled chest muscle flaring back to life. It perfectly fit a gap along my new fence that needed a screening plant, and once trimmed up looked normal if not handsome. Ficus are known to go into shock and drop leaves if they’re moved suddenly but this one’s a real trouper, just shiny green and happily settled, sprouting tiny slivers of new leaves within days of its relocation.

And that’s why I’m in this plant rescue business after all.