My Grandmother's Christmas Cactus: A Living Heirloom

Every December, my grandmother Gladys Nichols's Christmas cactus erupts in hot pink blooms on my enclosed porch—a vivid, living memory of a woman whose green thumb could rival the Grinch's (though her heart was anything but small).

A Gardening Legacy

Grandma's central Iowa farmhouse (built 1941 with Grandpa Merrill) was surrounded by gardens: peonies, gladioli, irises leading to the front door. I climbed the crabapple, made elf hats from trumpet vine flowers for spring kittens. Inside, 30+ African violets on glass shelves were her pride. But the Christmas cactus—a huge, cascading specimen covered in brilliant blooms—was the star. She also had a striking pink-and-white Thanksgiving cactus (a gift from my mother during a hospital stay).

Unconventional Wisdom

As a newlywed, I watched her pour yesterday's cold coffee into the watering can, top it off, and feed the cactus. "Mostly water and organic matter," she winked, "and some plants like a little extra acid." Tea got the same treatment. The cactus thrived—larger, more blooms every year.

Passing the Torch

When Grandma moved to assisted living, I inherited her jungle: 50-year-old jade, 5-foot mother-in-law's tongue, wandering jew, funeral ficus, and the Christmas cactus. It didn't bloom for this article's photos, but here it is on the cherry table Grandpa made for their kitchen—one of my most treasured pieces.

Continuing the Tradition

Grandma passed in 2004, but her cactus (nearly as old as I am) blooms once or twice yearly, shaming my decorating. I've started cuttings for family and friends, as she taught me the joy of sharing plants. And when I find cold coffee in my pot, I smile and give the cactus a sip in her memory.

For care and identification (Christmas vs. Thanksgiving cactus), see excellent Dave's Garden articles by Marie Harrison, Tina Bolin, and Geoff Stein.