Plastic Bags
In the bay near old fisherman Serafin, a bit west of the southernmost tip of Gran Canaria, it was there that I met a woman who turned out to be an ardent environmentalist. How she scolded the shellfish divers, who, in her opinion, were in the process of extracting the very last giant oysters to sell to tourists befuddled by their holidays. She was right, although I couldn’t imagine that the three divers were capable of eradicating this species of shellfish just like that, no matter how long and how much they dived. She was right, and I had to agree with her, honestly. And I agreed with conviction, even though I must admit, but only here, and I ask you not to make it public, that such a shellfish, brought back as a souvenir by a neighbor, already adorned my stone collection. I kept that to myself. What was I to do?
She was also on the ball pedagogically, this quite charming woman, about forty years old. She had completely convinced her husband. He agreed with everything. I didn’t pay much attention to his facial expressions, whether out of real conviction or rather resignation. I was fascinated by this woman, no, this person, who represented a cause so passionately and completely.
We still agreed on the issue of disposable bottles. They should be abolished. And beer cans too! Where to put all that waste? And first, the problem of raw material procurement in the near and distant future.
But our paths diverged on the issue of plastic bags. She categorically refused to take plastic bags from the supermarket. Everything she bought went into her own net bag. And me? I stole, – well, well – always one or two more, so that I always had enough of these plastic bags at home. Yes, here our paths diverged, and the once so lively discussion became tepid and ebbed away. She went with her husband to their environmentally friendly, well-behaved son playing off to the side, and I went to bathe in the surf. Environmental ignoramus!!
But I need these plastic bags! Every hardcore, obsessed garden fan, plant enthusiast, or whatever you want to call it, will understand me. Just visit a gardening friend who has so many treasures that you don’t have yet, a gardening friend who is also generous and kind-hearted, a real friend. You can have everything from him that is divisible or spare. And there you stand without enough plastic bags.
Recently, I opened the trunk of my car and a non-gardener was standing there, also one of those admirably super tidy people. He said nothing. He just turned very pale, and something strange appeared in his eyes, a mix of horror, sadness, and pity. There were three stones, beautiful flint stones from Holstein with caves and bays, holes and hollows for the tiniest garden diamonds, for dwarf sempervivums, spiky saxifrages, for delicate aspleniums, or just for moss. Next to them crumbled four chunks of wonderful, rich clay, garnished with several remnants of coarse-fibered sphagnum peat. And everything was covered, and thank God, partly concealed by about a dozen colorful, advertising-shouting plastic carrier bags, mostly of the usual size. There was also a large sky-blue plastic bag. You can never know! Trees are best transported wrapped in plastic too.
They are indeed a blessing for us gardeners, these containers made of thin plastic film. I have transported entire trees, small ones of course, over hundreds of kilometers and through days of the driest weather, their roots carefully packed in a plastic bag, safely and lively to my home and happily integrated into my garden. Can you now understand why I could no longer argue convincingly about plastic bags in that discussion at Serafin’s?