Help! I've been overrun by yuletide plants. These harbingers of the holidays are everywhere. They've invaded every room in our home, for better or worse. There are boughs of prickly holly draped atop both the fireplace mantel, which is OK, and the commode, which is not.
To watch TV, I must peer through the branches of a 6-foot evergreen. It's like watching "Northern Exposure" in the woods. There is a Christmas cactus sitting on the dining room table. The plant must want me to diet: The darn thing stabs me when I reach for the sugar bowl.
Sprigs of mistletoe dangle from doorways and muss up my hair; I call them Christmas cobwebs. Yet I dare not raise my eyes to find them, lest I stumble over one of the flowerpots on the floor. I can't tell you how many poinsettias that I've tripped on during the night on my way to the bathroom, where I usually manage to sit on the holly. Ouch.
By Christmas morning, I'm as grumpy as Scrooge. But I limp down the stairs without fussing. The house looks lovely, dressed in colorful seasonal plants whose roots often stretch back thousands of years.
Where do these holiday greens come from, anyway? Before the mall, I mean.
Poinsettias arrived long before shopping centers. Native to Mexico, these bold-looking plants of red and white were found growing wild by Joel Poinsett, the first U.S. ambassador to that country.
Dazzled by their beauty, Poinsett shipped several plants across the border in 1825 -- and not a moment too soon. Poinsett packed them on the eve of political rioting in Mexico, an upheaval that threw that nation into such a tizzy that Poinsett was recalled by the White House on Christmas Day.
In his lifetime, Poinsett proved to be a man of many talents. He served as secretary of war, studied medicine and built roads and bridges. Yet all these efforts pale beside the notoriety he received for introducing the poinsettia to shopping malls.
Mistletoe's history is steeped in folklore. The plant, which is actually a parasite that feeds off the tree to which it clings, was worshiped in Britain by the ancient Druids. The Druids prayed to oak trees and assumed that the oak's sacred spirit lived in the mistletoe lodged in its branches.
In rituals marked by chants and gore, the Druids climbed the trees and removed clumps of mistletoe, which were caught below in white cloths held by maidens. The Druids then slew several white bulls beneath the tree, partied awhile, divided the mistletoe and hung it on their doors for protection -- probably against the owners of the bulls.
The plant was such a pagan symbol that early Christians refused to allow mistletoe decorations in the church. In time, however, opposition waned. Mistletoe became a sign of peace in Britain: If two warring Celts happened to meet beneath a tree filled with mistletoe, they would shake hands and call a truce for 24 hours. (Over the years, handshakes gave way to kissing, except on the battlefield.)
Nowadays, mistletoe thrives throughout the southern United States, where there are several large mistletoe farms. In Oklahoma, where mistletoe is the state flower, rifle-toting entrepreneurs shoot it out of trees, wrap it in plastic bags and sell it on street corners during the holidays.
Holly is a shrub that has been prized for ages, as everything but yule decorations. Holly's hard wood was used to make tools and furniture; its leaves, to make brews thought to cure everything from toothaches to measles. The Romans claimed that placing holly boughs on their roofs protected them against lightning.
The English treated chilblains by beating their sore feet with spiny holly branches, probably because it felt so good when they stopped.
Holly is, of course, a symbol for Christ's crown of thorns. Yet its link with Christmas has pagan roots. During the festival of Saturnalia, in December, the Romans attached holly sprigs to their gifts for good wishes. Thus, when the early Christians sought to brighten their churches with holly at Christmas, the priests balked.
Times change. Today, there is a 50-year-old holly thriving outside my own church, and several prickly plants growing in our yard. I approach them with caution, as I do the commode during the holidays.