All About Aloe

It's been a good year for bugs. I rarely ever notice them since they seem to have no interest in me but others around me are quite well aware of them. After severe drought warnings last summer, this year's spring brought with it an abundance of rain, flooding my town and all surrounding areas. I think the rain brought every bug known to mankind right to my yard.  I've been fortunate; I've seen them but never felt them.

I watched my neighbor follow the path made by the setting sun as she walked across an acre of grass from her house to mine an evening or two ago. I could see little creatures jumping around her legs with every step she took. They were tiny bugs with sunlit bodies; some were also flying around her face. Here she came, swiping her legs with one hand, while the other batted at the bugs near her face.

I met her at the door with scissors in my hand, my mind on the plant that in summer lived on my back deck but in winter decorated my kitchen windowsill.

A sense of deja vu nearly startled me; I had lived that same scene many times years ago in the mountains of east Kentucky.  There was Aunt Bett, trudging up the dirt road, her hand wrapped in a wet towel. There was my little brother with tears in his eyes and dirt in his scraped knee. And there was my mother, scissors in hand, cutting a spike from her prized Aloe vera (the plant I was never supposed to touch), coming to the rescue.

Aunt Bett, my mother's aunt, had no place in her life for houseplants; the plants that grew in hidden pockets of our mountains kept her busy. They were the source of her tonics and salves that lined the shelves of her kitchen cupboard. It was my role in life to trudge up the mountains right beside her as we gathered the wildflowers she needed. She was known for her healing herbal medicines.

Aloe has a long history in the world of medicine. It originated in the Sudan and is mentioned for its healing properties throughout recorded history. Pliny wrote about it in the first century and it appears several times in the Bible. Today most cosmetic counters carry shampoos, lotions and creams containing aloe. Its value seems to be in its ability to regenerate damaged tissue quickly. There was a time recently when modern medicine used it for treating radiation burns and even now there are ongoing studies related to its effectiveness in that area.

The plant itself is ideal for rockeries and low water use gardens. The United States has a large scale production of aloe vera to supply the cosmetics industry with its gel. Production sites are in California, Texas, Florida and Arizona. In other areas of our country, most people consider it a houseplant.

It's a succulent with a rosette of narrow, prickly-edged fleshy leaves (spikes) filled with a thick bitter juice. Its blooms grow from a stalk when it's growing in a natural state. Rarely will it bloom as a houseplant.

It was probably beneath Aunt Bett's dignity to depend on my mother's prized houseplant to help heal the burn she received from her hot iron skillet, but she never admitted it.  In my mind, I watched my mother slice the aloe spike in half and gently rub its juices on Aunt Bett's hand. The thick juice glistened on her old weathered skin but stayed in place as it dried.

I did the same for my friend who walked through an acre of grass to get to my house. I did the same for my grandson who got too much sun last weekend. I do the same for myself when I tangle with my thorny rose bushes.  My aloe plant is looking a little wretched.

Succulents usually produce 'pups' attached to the base of the mother plant. I'm not sure how many generations of pups I've had, but I know that my aloe is a descendant of that houseplant that sat on my mother's kitchen windowsill; the one I was never allowed to touch because of its prized curative powers. Being the good little girl that I was, I never touched it until my mother brought my first pup to my house years ago.

Mine is pretty bedraggled this summer; it seems that I've touched it pretty often. It's healed a lot of skin and everytime it's needed, it loses a spike. I've given away generations of its pups and now after this buggy summer, I'm hoping it starts reproducing quickly. I think I need to remove its mangled self from its pot, replenish its sandy soil and then let it rest for awhile. It was, after all, my mother's prized plant. I plan to be around awhile longer; I want Mom's prized Aloe to last as long as I do but I never ever let anyone touch it, except me.

First photo:  Wikimedia Commons: Erin Silversmith