I stopped after work at Holly Park Greenhouse for some kiwi (male and female) plants and basil. Alas, P. took the camera with him to D.C., so no snaps of the ferns growing between the aisles, the signs in multiple languages ("if you pick a leaf you pay $1"). It's one of my favorite Seattle places, and was glad to see that the light rail construction didn't put them out of business. In a residential neighborhood, in an iffy area: it's like walking into someone's subconscious. I've not decided -- in the 20+ years I've been a customer -- if it matters if they sell anything. It's a muddled jumble of pots, seed potatoes, exotic cacti, orange trees, hand-packed seeds marked in a language I don't speak, water lilies, Thai basil, pumpkin starts, petunias, grape vines -- I could go on for paragraphs. Often from year to year things seem not to move a centimeter. A black and white fluffy cat yowls as it struts by. This is the kind of place where things grow out of other things which are planted within yet other things -- a twist, a zigzag, an immensely appealing snarl of life.
When I asked the nursery-man how far apart to plant the kiwi, he said (in a heavy Asian accent) "Oh, ten feet, more. They will find each other." Knowing that kiwi won't fruit unless a male and female plant are within pollination-distance, I was quietly pleased at his confidence that the two plants will indeed make contact. The imperative to reproduce is paramount, I suppose, but I prefer the idea that these two kiwi starts -- twigs at best -- were meant for each other.