On the way to NJ last week, Mr. Red House was patted down by the TSA. Then he was led away to another room for another pat down by the supervisor, as something on the glove that he was first patted down with set off alarms. The TSA were very nice about it (and kudos to our two little kids plaintively crying, "Daddy! Daddy!" throughout most of it), and revealed that this was due to nitrates found on the glove as well as on the bottom of Mr. Red House's bag.
Nitrates. As from fertilizers. As from plants that I am constantly filling the car with during my plant shopping sprees.
So Mr. Red House blames me for the whole TSA debacle, and I must say, I can't really blame him.
Fast Forward:
After finding out how much I love moss, Radhika, whose house we stayed at, generously and rather gleefully took to her moss with an ice scraper and gave me some. (I can't grow moss; she, apparently, can't get rid of it.) I carefully packed the moss in damp paper towels and plastic bags and packed it in my suitcase for the trip home.
After the whole nitrate incident, I was rather worried that my suitcase would send off some sort of TSA alarm. Images of TSA employees rifling through my delicate sheets of moss with puzzled looks on their faces kept popping into my head, compelling me to write notes for my moss, "FRAGILE: PLANTS!", for anyone who looked into my suitcase of contraband.
Thankfully my suitcase must have not triggered any alarms, as I don't think anyone even opened it. My untroubled, valuable moss is now in its new home.
Isn't it a pretty addition to my NC shade garden?
Here's hoping that after flying it down here, I don't kill it!
