(adj.) growing in disturbed areas, on waste ground, or among rubbish
I live on a 2×4 mile chunk of dead coral that protrudes only 18 feet above the ocean. The cost of living is exorbitant and the competition for housing is fierce- for both people and plants. Many of our most common wildflowers aren’t much different than the humans in Key West- we both put a lot of effort into living in paradise.
Between the 120 miles to the mainland, blazing heat, minimal rainfall, hurricane winds, and salty soil, a plant has to have some special skills to succeed here.
The tropical ornamentals get shipped in, fed and watered, pruned and pampered by the landscapers and homeowners. The wildflowers, however, have to find their own way by ocean currents or fickle winds, on the feet of a bird or in the scat of an iguana. And once they’re here, they have to survive both the natural limits of the island and the man-made barriers to success. Between the houses, roads, and sidewalks, there’s not much space to settle in.
The red spiderlings understand the value of efficiency and double duty. Instead of working two jobs like many of us, however, they skip producing petals in favor of making glue-tipped colored sepals. These cover the tiny fruits and turn you and me into taxis to other parts of paradise.
Their pale cousins, erect spiderlings, bear fruit that only becomes sticky when wet, increasing the chance for travel at optimal conditions. They’re a lot like our snowbirds who visit from January to July while the weather is moderate.
The gold flowers of purslane turn into treasure chests filled with precious seeds. The slightest brush of a human foot spills hundreds of minuscule offspring across the pavement. When there’s no room available at their parent’s house, they roll right along the sidewalk until they find a place to stay.
Spanish needles have little time for vanity. They grow a tuft of leaves and shoot up naked stems topped with limp flowers few people would be tempted to pick. Their true genius lies in their 2-pronged seeds. These stab deep into the barest soil of sand, gravel, or even sun-bleached wood and quickly take root. They might not be native, but just like the rest of us who live here full-time, they’re scrappy and surprisingly cheerful.
Here in Key West, I’m as likely to wave when I see a familiar face on the street as I am to investigate the progress of a familiar flower. Perhaps it’s silly to love my sidewalk weeds, but the island is small and time is precious. I walk past them everyday, so with only a few minutes over the course of a year, I can watch time pass with the change of the blooms or witness an extinction in a week.