A friend of mine has spent a lifetime building a collection of plants of which there is no equal in our area. Specialized in perhaps a dozen genera — ranging from miniature geraniums to stately magnolias — the collection has taken on a life of its own, and it would not be an overstatement to say that it has taken over my friend’s life too. He has had to curtail his travels to the Orient — where he would like to continue collecting rare and unusual plants — for the lack of anyone to look after the thousands of pots and flats and plants in the ground that need daily attention for most of the year.

Whether it’s stamps or hubcaps or porcelain teacups, humans have a built in passion for collecting things. Taken to excess, the urge sometimes leaves one a little turned off, shall we say. I’m thinking, for instance, of the wealthy country music fans who hoard the finest old fiddles, banjos and guitars in air-conditioned vaults where they are never played.

And, to be sure, there are a few of the world’s plant collectors who choose to hide their stash from public view, but by and large I find that plant people like to share their experiences and their plants. This is one of the natural spin-offs of being a collector of living things, things which have a knack for reproduction. Half the joy of gardening is in propagation, which leads quickly to population.

Being a dyed-in-the-wool plant fancier, I believe there is a special meaning that one derives from plant collections that are found nowhere else. It is a special meaning that justifies all the bother and expense of maintaining that collection.

Partly, it has to do with the diversity within a species or genus. For instance, there are thousands of varieties of geranium, named and unnamed. The colors range from pure white to almost black, leaves are as variable as you could imagine, and ditto for the height and habit of growth. But they are all geraniums, instantly recognizable even to the novice. To see any number of them under one glass roof is to instantly understand that the genus Pelargonium is incredibly variable.

Now, when you start such a collection, as I have with geraniums, it doesn’t take long before the idea of doing a little cross-pollination occurs to one’s noodle. Wouldn’t it be nice to combine this ivy geranium’s perfect shape with that one’s double red flowers? Interestingly enough, hobby breeders continue to dominate the world of commercial geranium propagation.

Taking a tiny camel’s hair paintbrush in hand, one can easily move pollen from flower to flower, tagging blossoms to record the parentage, and in a morning’s very light work, play God. Chances are the crosses will lead to nothing very special, but with enough repetition one could get lucky.

There is also more to this plant collection business, though, and it’s something as unique as the plants themselves. My father, a retired botanist, says that plants are the most moral creatures. Not that they have a code of ethics, as such, but they never harm anything deliberately, and they contribute everything to the living world. Without them, we would not be. And in their need to be pollinated by bees and birds and an occasional human, they have hit upon the perfect scheme. Plants delight us with flowers of indescribable beauty, heavenly scent and unfathomable diversity. They also nourish us with their fruits. It seems clear that Pop has it right.

I think that plant collections can teach the world the best lesson of all — to cherish the world. You see, the final wisdom to be gained from one’s tiny collection of geraniums, or whatever, is that the world is filled with grand collections of plants. Collections, I hasten to add, which can take care of themselves if left alone. Diversity is their strength, and ultimately ours too.

Michael Zuck of Bangor is a horticulturist and the NEWS garden columnist. Send inquiries to him at 2106 Essex St., Bangor, Maine 04401.