Last week I attended a horticultural conference with the title “Blogger” strapped around my neck.
I found myself self-consciously wondering if some less internet-savvy attendees would misconstrue me for a large humanoid monster rather than an online writer. I mean, my spell check doesn’t even recognize blogger as a legitimate word, let alone a profession. Ogre, however, is totally cool.
Oh well. If assuming the label “Blogger” gets me passes to more conferences, I’m committed to being the best bloggess I can be. Besides, attending my first trade show as a blogger felt more legit than when I attended the entire ANLA Management Clinic as “Diane.” (The real Diane still has no idea how much fun she had that week.)
Despite my new age title, I’m no newbie to big horticultural trade-shows. As a member of the White family, pack trials and trade shows are in my blood. I know the show floors of Mid-Am, OFA Short Course, and Ohio CENTS. Perhaps more impressive, I even know what all those acronyms mean.
This was, however, my first visit to the Independent Garden Center (IGC) show at Navy Pier in Chicago. The first lesson I learned is that one day isn’t nearly enough time to attend two educational seminars and still make it through 5 acres of exhibits. On the other hand, one day does allow ample opportunity to miss two trains, be proposed to by your cab driver, trip on a corndog, grow three blisters and help start a blueberry farm.
But, I digress.
Tidbits from the educational seminars I attended will likely appear in future blog posts, but I can’t delay confirming that as expected, the ladies of Garden Rant rock! They are bona fide bloggers, who much to my pleasure, are just as witty in person as they are in prose. Free from the squelching dollars of advertisers who support (or more notably, threaten not to support) printed horticultural news, these well-versed gardeners unabashedly rant about the industry when and where it’s deserved. Any lady who can make a cerebral case against the marketing ploys of Hort Couture—while sipping a mimosa—deserves my utmost admiration.
At first glance, the IGC Expo looked like any other big horticultural trade show, but upon cruising the floor, it was apparent that this event showcased just as much—if not more—shelf material than plant material. There was A LOT of “stuff.” In general, gardening “stuff” is not really my thing. See what I mean?
Of all the “stuff” I whizzed past, I was most drawn to the worn and weathered iron trellises and the gnarled mammoth-sized pots. Wait, what? You mean I have hangnails older than this rusty iron arbor?
Trend alert. Nothing is more American than refusing the natural processes of aging. While the starlets of Hollywood are infatuated with making themselves look younger, the makers of garden products are obsessed with making new things look old—chemically and mechanically fading, rusting, and distressing “character” into their goods.
Why can’t we just be happy with new and old being exactly what they are and accept that everything in nature is fluid?
Okay fine, so maybe the demand for an antiqued look (which I do like) is greater than the antique supply. But what’s really goofy is that then they shellac and/or polyurethane (a la botox) the hell out of everything so that there’s absolutely no chance, heaven forbid, that these faux antiques will undergo even a millisecond of additional natural aging. Guaranteed, or your money back.
As a gardener, I’d like to be given a little credit for my understanding that nothing left to the mercy of Mother Nature is static, or even predictable. Gardening is an investment that requires visualization, patience, and adaptability so why can’t you sell me a shiny copper trellis and let me watch it tarnish naturally under the elements of my own garden?
End of rant.
The most amusing part of my IGC show experience was sticking around to witness the chaos that ensued at 3:00 pm on Thursday when the expo ended.
Imagine 1000 worn-out vendors, wanting nothing more than to drown themselves in a cold beer, simultaneously deconstructing in minutes what took them hours to build. I’ve seen mass x-c ski starts look more graceful.
Then imagine that you have a friend with you—a passionate horticulturalist—who despite having a train ticket home, is using his charm to inherit as much loot from these tired vendors as possible.
Then imagine hauling said loot the length of Navy Pier on a hot Chicago summer afternoon, dodging strollers and corn dogs and gum wads. And I’m not just talking 1000 seed packets (though we had those too); I’m talking a couple dozen live and fruiting Oregonian blueberry plants. I really wish I’d thought to pull out my camera to capture this scene. Maybe someday my willingness to conspire will be rewarded with a blueberry pie (hint, hint.)
I wrapped up my IGC show day with a happy hour (or three) with a few of Chicago’s finest (and funniest) horticulturalists, followed by a dreamy dining experience amid the tropical foliage and glowing lanterns on the Conrad Hotel’s roof terrace.
I definitely hope to be back at the IGC show next year, and in the meantime, if I become homeless, I’m going to take up residence in the canopy of one these planters on Michigan Avenue. I’m pretty sure I could live happily ever after in there.
