My seed orders are in the mail, and as usual they have put a dent in my credit card. I order what I believe are the best vegetable seeds available for this area, the primary consideration being that they are grown and developed in the northern latitudes. These seeds are fresh, uniform and clean, and will keep in a dark, dry, cool place for well over two years. The money I spent this week will cover two vegetable gardens and perhaps three for some plants. Bacteria inoculation for beans is a good idea. Of course the Pilgrims, and quite a few later growers, did not have these things, but for modern hybrids it does make a difference.
Onion sets and plants I will buy locally, along with seed potatoes. I have had bad luck with having these shipped and I do like to spend locally. Why doesn't this principle apply to seed orders? Because most of the giant and popular seed companies are in the lower Midwest or in the south, and they may have northern varieties, but it has been a long time since those plants experienced a cool, wet spring.
The seed company I currently use is in Wisconsin, Jung Seed Co. (http://www.jungseed.com). As do most of the large nurseries, they have several names out there. They all try to be homey-folksy these days, like they are all Mom and Pop and Grandpa-the-master-gardener-type businesses. Not so.
I do like Garden Seed Co, but even they have changed from a small Bitteroot Valley Nursery to something more involved. I like Jung because their website is reliable, their seeds are truly fresh, and the subsequent plants come through as represented. Anyway you look at it, ordering seeds at today's prices is a true leap of faith!
I asked my horticulturist friend if he thought it was time to plant the peas and fava beans. He did not give me an answer. I suppose he does not want to be considered a soothsayer, a diviner or even a forecaster, and I can't say I blame him. It all seems so simple. The seed packets and the garden books take care of when to plant the early, cool crop seeds by saying simply "as soon as the soil can be worked". Terrible advice for our lower Clark Fork climate. This winter, so far, except for several weeks around Christmas, the peas and onions could have gone in anytime. Some people use the Farmer's Almanac, which is published in New England, and I must admit that since my Seattle friend transplanted herself to New Hampshire, her winters have been a lot like ours, except she has snow cover most of the winter and we do not, and we have sharp unexpected dips in temperature any time of the year, which she does not. Her soil is not yet ready to work.
Too many factors and so little time! By rule of thumb, one should not waste time with huge jack-o-lanterns. And yet, every Sanders County Fair has some whoppers; maybe not those half-ton winners from Oregon or Alaska, but whoppers nevertheless. How do these gardeners do it? Timing. As in most things, timing is everything. Well, I have only been in this valley 10 years and that is just not long enough to really know, at the gut level where it cannot be explained, the exact time to start the seeds so the pumpkin plants will be at a perfect stage when the soil finally warms up. I do try, though, perhaps this will be the year.
So the seeds will come and I will sort them out and decide where they will go in the garden, and when they should be started in the greenhouse. I will, in other words, make a plan, and in my mind's eye, it will all be perfect and the harvest bountiful. That is what it takes to get me up and going, but I imagine this year will be like all the previous years; some will do very well, most will be okay and a few will flop. By the end of summer I will be able to tell which plants will fit into which category, for this growing year, and I will try to make some long-term sense out the last 10 years. Long-term trends, like in the commodity futures market. At least I am only risking a few seeds!
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Friday, February 03, 2006
A View From My Garden
These posts are a way of further sharing a column on gardening and nature I am writing for the local weekly newspaper. For now, my original stories, articles and poetry, along with photographs, are appearing on Gather.com, a new venture in the world of blogging. Please notice the link on the sidebar of this page and take a tour. I think you will enjoy the site. Gather.com is still in the beta state, and feedback from viewers is valuable.
Friday, January 27, 2006
A View From My Garden
Yesterday the finch crowd were covering the feeders. This morning there is snow. Not much snow, but snow nevertheless. Perhaps calling a person a bird-brain is really a compliment.
I think I will call other people apricot-brains. Both my apricots are swelling their buds. Oh well, what is another year without apricots? Out of the seven years we have lived in this house, we have had apricots only once, and that year the ants got all but a handful, because I had forgotten about using Tanglefoot or some similar product to ring the trunk, and I grew up surrounded by apricot orchards.
The aorucots I knew as a young person have been replaced by silicon chips, but these two trees in my garden remind me of climbing high into the thorny branches to pick the largest and most lucius fruit. I can still feel the warm sun and smell the spring-laden breeze, and I can still taste those cots, can still feel the juice dripping down my chin. I wiped it away with the back of my hand and wiped that on my shirt or jeans. For a glorious month I was covered in apricot juice.
Even in the Santa Clara Valley it was necessary nearly every spring to run smudge pots in the orchards at night. The farmers would fill the round metal pots with rags and used motor oil or diesel which would burn all night, filling the tops of the barely blooming trees with warm smoke. It was a formidable stench, those hundreds of smoldering smudge pots, protecting acres and acres, farm after farm of apricot trees from their own silliness. We all loved it; it was a way of life.
After air pollution began to become a problem, and when there were still a few orchard-men hanging on mightily to their land; before they had been taxed out of existence and the old trees, planted when the first Italian farmers arrived from Tuscany in the great immigrations of the turn of the last century, before the last of the old trees had been bulldozed and pulped into nothingness; before the last strip mall and housing tract of a burgeoning new economy had been built, those farmers turned their sprinklers on at night in early spring and in the morning the budding trees would be coated with ice. They sparkled and shone, pink diamonds in the early morning light. I do not know why that worked, but it did.
Perhaps I should try that with my two silly apricot trees, who always think the January thaw means spring is here. So far from their ancestral homes in Italy and the South of France, they have never learned how to speak English in the robust American style. It is not that the horticulturists have not tried; we do have "northern hardy" trees, but it matters not. Two or three warm days in a row and they are dancing away into spring with a burst of those fine-lace blooms and then it snaps cold again, or course, and it will be another year to anticipate having a few apricots.
The trees, themselves, are lovely and so I shall not cut them down, and I will prune them and take care of their aches and pains, and wait and hope, and hope and hope. The neighbors will call me a bird-brain when in some magic early summer I have both cheeks full of glorious fruit and the juice is running down my chin!
588 words
Gayle Keeney
I think I will call other people apricot-brains. Both my apricots are swelling their buds. Oh well, what is another year without apricots? Out of the seven years we have lived in this house, we have had apricots only once, and that year the ants got all but a handful, because I had forgotten about using Tanglefoot or some similar product to ring the trunk, and I grew up surrounded by apricot orchards.
The aorucots I knew as a young person have been replaced by silicon chips, but these two trees in my garden remind me of climbing high into the thorny branches to pick the largest and most lucius fruit. I can still feel the warm sun and smell the spring-laden breeze, and I can still taste those cots, can still feel the juice dripping down my chin. I wiped it away with the back of my hand and wiped that on my shirt or jeans. For a glorious month I was covered in apricot juice.
Even in the Santa Clara Valley it was necessary nearly every spring to run smudge pots in the orchards at night. The farmers would fill the round metal pots with rags and used motor oil or diesel which would burn all night, filling the tops of the barely blooming trees with warm smoke. It was a formidable stench, those hundreds of smoldering smudge pots, protecting acres and acres, farm after farm of apricot trees from their own silliness. We all loved it; it was a way of life.
After air pollution began to become a problem, and when there were still a few orchard-men hanging on mightily to their land; before they had been taxed out of existence and the old trees, planted when the first Italian farmers arrived from Tuscany in the great immigrations of the turn of the last century, before the last of the old trees had been bulldozed and pulped into nothingness; before the last strip mall and housing tract of a burgeoning new economy had been built, those farmers turned their sprinklers on at night in early spring and in the morning the budding trees would be coated with ice. They sparkled and shone, pink diamonds in the early morning light. I do not know why that worked, but it did.
Perhaps I should try that with my two silly apricot trees, who always think the January thaw means spring is here. So far from their ancestral homes in Italy and the South of France, they have never learned how to speak English in the robust American style. It is not that the horticulturists have not tried; we do have "northern hardy" trees, but it matters not. Two or three warm days in a row and they are dancing away into spring with a burst of those fine-lace blooms and then it snaps cold again, or course, and it will be another year to anticipate having a few apricots.
The trees, themselves, are lovely and so I shall not cut them down, and I will prune them and take care of their aches and pains, and wait and hope, and hope and hope. The neighbors will call me a bird-brain when in some magic early summer I have both cheeks full of glorious fruit and the juice is running down my chin!
588 words
Gayle Keeney
Monday, January 23, 2006
A View From My Garden
The days are getting longer, the sun is rising higher in the southern sky. It is not all that noticeable, I must confess. The skies are grey with winter silence. No cacophony of unbridled bird choirs greets the day. Winter is a time of silence, and spring must burst upon us with brilliant activity. .
Yesterday as I toured the winter garden, I noted the Japanese iris has put up about 4-6 inch bright green leaves, rising out of the pond like slender green swords, put there perhaps by the Lady of the Lake, or her Japanese counterpart. I looked to more practical plants for equal signs of greening but the forsythia's stems are as bare as they were in November, and the native gold stem and red stem dogwoods are still enjoying displaying their vividly colored winter structure. It is still winter, though the grass grows greener with each melting snow.
January 21st is behind us now, and each day the sun will spend a longer time traversing a slightly higher arc, and we can be sure that this increasing sunlight is not going unnoticed by our plants. Trees, shrubs and perennial flowers use various signals to tell them when to start the next season's growth, but primary among these natural signals is the number of hours of daylight; what botanists call the photoperiod. Right now, though it may not appear so to us who watch and wait for signs of spring, there are all sorts of wildly important biochemical changes going on beneath the earth and in the crowns or leader branches around us.
I wonder if in more primitive times, when we lived so very close to nature and to the soil; when we worshiped sun and water for their life-giving support, I wonder if then we too were conscious of these tiny changes in the flow of winter, inexorably advancing toward spring? Does our own blood churn slightly, shiver and reach toward the sun?
A dear friend of mine, a wonderfully cultures and educated woman who is first generation Norwegian and so may have particular insight into the winters of the north country, always does her daily walks in South Dakota's fall in a short-sleeve T-shirt and light jacket. She says, when asked about the cold November winds, "But if I wear a warm coat now, what will I wear in February?" In March, she takes off her winter coat and says, "My blood is thick enough now, it is time to get ready for summer."
Ah, summer. Yes, we must be ready for it, for if we are not, then it will whisk away into fall and winter almost without our notice, and the shortening days will bend our spirits to the winter-silent earth. Still, I would not again live without fully rounded seasons. Like the trees, the forsythia, the dogwoods and the poppies, I raise my face to the sun peeking through a hole in the sky and rejoice within myself.
Friends have reported to me that they have seen several robins in the neighborhood in the last few days, and one reports from Paradise, from the Magic Triangle, that he saw a robin a week ago! Another, has heard an early morhing bird song. These are false signals, no doubt, for it is barely past the 21st of January, and there are days and days of gray skies and cold rain ahead of us. The early robins will go back to the warmer place they ventured from, and the native plants will keep their peace. I will go back to browsing my seed catalogues and try to send off a sensible order. It is not quite time to start up the greenhouse, but it is close!
Yesterday as I toured the winter garden, I noted the Japanese iris has put up about 4-6 inch bright green leaves, rising out of the pond like slender green swords, put there perhaps by the Lady of the Lake, or her Japanese counterpart. I looked to more practical plants for equal signs of greening but the forsythia's stems are as bare as they were in November, and the native gold stem and red stem dogwoods are still enjoying displaying their vividly colored winter structure. It is still winter, though the grass grows greener with each melting snow.
January 21st is behind us now, and each day the sun will spend a longer time traversing a slightly higher arc, and we can be sure that this increasing sunlight is not going unnoticed by our plants. Trees, shrubs and perennial flowers use various signals to tell them when to start the next season's growth, but primary among these natural signals is the number of hours of daylight; what botanists call the photoperiod. Right now, though it may not appear so to us who watch and wait for signs of spring, there are all sorts of wildly important biochemical changes going on beneath the earth and in the crowns or leader branches around us.
I wonder if in more primitive times, when we lived so very close to nature and to the soil; when we worshiped sun and water for their life-giving support, I wonder if then we too were conscious of these tiny changes in the flow of winter, inexorably advancing toward spring? Does our own blood churn slightly, shiver and reach toward the sun?
A dear friend of mine, a wonderfully cultures and educated woman who is first generation Norwegian and so may have particular insight into the winters of the north country, always does her daily walks in South Dakota's fall in a short-sleeve T-shirt and light jacket. She says, when asked about the cold November winds, "But if I wear a warm coat now, what will I wear in February?" In March, she takes off her winter coat and says, "My blood is thick enough now, it is time to get ready for summer."
Ah, summer. Yes, we must be ready for it, for if we are not, then it will whisk away into fall and winter almost without our notice, and the shortening days will bend our spirits to the winter-silent earth. Still, I would not again live without fully rounded seasons. Like the trees, the forsythia, the dogwoods and the poppies, I raise my face to the sun peeking through a hole in the sky and rejoice within myself.
Friends have reported to me that they have seen several robins in the neighborhood in the last few days, and one reports from Paradise, from the Magic Triangle, that he saw a robin a week ago! Another, has heard an early morhing bird song. These are false signals, no doubt, for it is barely past the 21st of January, and there are days and days of gray skies and cold rain ahead of us. The early robins will go back to the warmer place they ventured from, and the native plants will keep their peace. I will go back to browsing my seed catalogues and try to send off a sensible order. It is not quite time to start up the greenhouse, but it is close!
Sunday, January 15, 2006
A View From My Garden
A view from my garden
Even the indoor garden rests during the dark days of January. I have a lot of house plants, for I am by nature a rescuer, and while this may not always be a desirable trait when dealing with friends and loved ones, there seems to be little harm in rescuing plants. I seldom actually go looking for a plant for the house; they seem to come to me.
I have a tiny Haworthia fasciata, called zebra haworthia which came to me as a gift in a 6-inch shallow bowl that had been planted with a small variety of jade plant, a tiny star cactus and this minuscule haworthia. I kept them in their dish for about a year. When they began to crowd each other out, I repotted them, giving each a pot of its own.
The star cactus, (Astrophytum sp.) enjoyed the half-light of the side porch in summer. It bloomed once or twice; inconspicuous pale yellow blooms. It also attracted a domestic spider which spun webs around and around it, from thorn to thorn. Those thorns were sharp, but to the little spider, I suppose they looked as big and rough as tree twigs. In the end, the star cactus succumed overnight, perhaps to a steep rise in humidity, coupled with an ill-considered watering. So now, there are only the haworthia and the small jade, which is a limber, drooping variety. The jade has an asymmetrical growth pattern that I like very much.
The common names for Haworthia range from pearl plant to wart plant, and do a fine job of illustrating why a botanical family or generic name is a good idea. There are some excellent field-guide type books on house plants. The one I use I have had for years. It is called Indoor Gardening , edited by Anne M. Halpin. It is an encylopedia type and came from Rodale Press, of Organic Gardening, the magazine, fame. Things have changed over the years since Robert Rodale passed on, and I do not know if this book is still available. I hope so, for it is excellent; I have never failed while following its information.
I have a large old common jade plant (Crassula argentea). It spreads and must be pruned now and then, which gives me its children to do something else with. The Crassulae are a large genus of more than
300 species, and all of the ones I have had have been very worth growing. I had one called a tube jade, which I have never been able to find again, and from which, the last time we moved cross country, I neglected to get a cutting. The leaves were much like those of C. argentea, and the form of the plant was the same, except each leaf was rolled up on its length, like a tube.
I also love asparagus, both on my plate and in the house plant collection. I have two, Aspaerigus. sprengeri and A. densiflorus. They do not get as much light as they would like at the window where they hang, for the Norway maple just outside, offers a lot of shade. I would move them to the greenhouse or to the living room, except I like them at that bedroom window where they form a sort of vegitable curtain. They do all right, but they are constantly sending out very long, and in the case of the A. densiflorus, thorn-covered stems; explorers looking not for the Pacific ocean, but only for a better source of light. Perhaps, if it were up to them, they would have me cut the maple down.
I once knew a couple who lived on an east-facing cliff in an A-frame cabin. In the middle of the living room, which looked out over the canyon through a two-story glass wall, they had hung an A. sprengeri. They had it in a large pot and hanger arrangement, with a rope and pully so they could lower it for watering. The plant was a fully 4 feet in diameter and trailed fronds over half way down from that 20-foot ridge. It was the most beautiful house plant I have ever seen. It was even in bloom for about nine months out of the year. Now that is what my asparagus ferns want!
Even the indoor garden rests during the dark days of January. I have a lot of house plants, for I am by nature a rescuer, and while this may not always be a desirable trait when dealing with friends and loved ones, there seems to be little harm in rescuing plants. I seldom actually go looking for a plant for the house; they seem to come to me.
I have a tiny Haworthia fasciata, called zebra haworthia which came to me as a gift in a 6-inch shallow bowl that had been planted with a small variety of jade plant, a tiny star cactus and this minuscule haworthia. I kept them in their dish for about a year. When they began to crowd each other out, I repotted them, giving each a pot of its own.
The star cactus, (Astrophytum sp.) enjoyed the half-light of the side porch in summer. It bloomed once or twice; inconspicuous pale yellow blooms. It also attracted a domestic spider which spun webs around and around it, from thorn to thorn. Those thorns were sharp, but to the little spider, I suppose they looked as big and rough as tree twigs. In the end, the star cactus succumed overnight, perhaps to a steep rise in humidity, coupled with an ill-considered watering. So now, there are only the haworthia and the small jade, which is a limber, drooping variety. The jade has an asymmetrical growth pattern that I like very much.
The common names for Haworthia range from pearl plant to wart plant, and do a fine job of illustrating why a botanical family or generic name is a good idea. There are some excellent field-guide type books on house plants. The one I use I have had for years. It is called Indoor Gardening , edited by Anne M. Halpin. It is an encylopedia type and came from Rodale Press, of Organic Gardening, the magazine, fame. Things have changed over the years since Robert Rodale passed on, and I do not know if this book is still available. I hope so, for it is excellent; I have never failed while following its information.
I have a large old common jade plant (Crassula argentea). It spreads and must be pruned now and then, which gives me its children to do something else with. The Crassulae are a large genus of more than
300 species, and all of the ones I have had have been very worth growing. I had one called a tube jade, which I have never been able to find again, and from which, the last time we moved cross country, I neglected to get a cutting. The leaves were much like those of C. argentea, and the form of the plant was the same, except each leaf was rolled up on its length, like a tube.
I also love asparagus, both on my plate and in the house plant collection. I have two, Aspaerigus. sprengeri and A. densiflorus. They do not get as much light as they would like at the window where they hang, for the Norway maple just outside, offers a lot of shade. I would move them to the greenhouse or to the living room, except I like them at that bedroom window where they form a sort of vegitable curtain. They do all right, but they are constantly sending out very long, and in the case of the A. densiflorus, thorn-covered stems; explorers looking not for the Pacific ocean, but only for a better source of light. Perhaps, if it were up to them, they would have me cut the maple down.
I once knew a couple who lived on an east-facing cliff in an A-frame cabin. In the middle of the living room, which looked out over the canyon through a two-story glass wall, they had hung an A. sprengeri. They had it in a large pot and hanger arrangement, with a rope and pully so they could lower it for watering. The plant was a fully 4 feet in diameter and trailed fronds over half way down from that 20-foot ridge. It was the most beautiful house plant I have ever seen. It was even in bloom for about nine months out of the year. Now that is what my asparagus ferns want!
A View From My Garden
A view from my garden
Even the indoor garden rests during the dark days of January. I have a lot of house plants, for I am by nature a rescuer, and while this may not always be a desirable trait when dealing with friends and loved ones, there seems to be little harm in rescuing plants. I seldom actually go looking for a plant for the house; they seem to come to me.
I have a tiny Haworthia fasciata, called zebra haworthia which came to me as a gift in a 6-inch shallow bowl that had been planted with a small variety of jade plant, a tiny star cactus and this minuscule haworthia. I kept them in their dish for about a year. When they began to crowd each other out, I repotted them, giving each a pot of its own.
The star cactus, (Astrophytum sp.) enjoyed the half-light of the side porch in summer. It bloomed once or twice; inconspicuous pale yellow blooms. It also attracted a domestic spider which spun webs around and around it, from thorn to thorn. Those thorns were sharp, but to the little spider, I suppose they looked as big and rough as tree twigs. In the end, the star cactus succumed overnight, perhaps to a steep rise in humidity, coupled with an ill-considered watering. So now, there are only the haworthia and the small jade, which is a limber, drooping variety. The jade has an asymmetrical growth pattern that I like very much.
The common names for Haworthia range from pearl plant to wart plant, and do a fine job of illustrating why a botanical family or generic name is a good idea. There are some excellent field-guide type books on house plants. The one I use I have had for years. It is called Indoor Gardening , edited by Anne M. Halpin. It is an encylopedia type and came from Rodale Press, of Organic Gardening, the magazine, fame. Things have changed over the years since Robert Rodale passed on, and I do not know if this book is still available. I hope so, for it is excellent; I have never failed while following its information.
I have a large old common jade plant (Crassula argentea). It spreads and must be pruned now and then, which gives me its children to do something else with. The Crassulae are a large genus of more than
300 species, and all of the ones I have had have been very worth growing. I had one called a tube jade, which I have never been able to find again, and from which, the last time we moved cross country, I neglected to get a cutting. The leaves were much like those of C. argentea, and the form of the plant was the same, except each leaf was rolled up on its length, like a tube.
I also love asparagus, both on my plate and in the house plant collection. I have two, Aspaerigus. sprengeri and A. densiflorus. They do not get as much light as they would like at the window where they hang, for the Norway maple just outside, offers a lot of shade. I would move them to the greenhouse or to the living room, except I like them at that bedroom window where they form a sort of vegitable curtain. They do all right, but they are constantly sending out very long, and in the case of the A. densiflorus, thorn-covered stems; explorers looking not for the Pacific ocean, but only for a better source of light. Perhaps, if it were up to them, they would have me cut the maple down.
I once knew a couple who lived on an east-facing cliff in an A-frame cabin. In the middle of the living room, which looked out over the canyon through a two-story glass wall, they had hung an A. sprengeri. They had it in a large pot and hanger arrangement, with a rope and pully so they could lower it for watering. The plant was a fully 4 feet in diameter and trailed fronds over half way down from that 20-foot ridge. It was the most beautiful house plant I have ever seen. It was even in bloom for about nine months out of the year. Now that is what my asparagus ferns want!
Even the indoor garden rests during the dark days of January. I have a lot of house plants, for I am by nature a rescuer, and while this may not always be a desirable trait when dealing with friends and loved ones, there seems to be little harm in rescuing plants. I seldom actually go looking for a plant for the house; they seem to come to me.
I have a tiny Haworthia fasciata, called zebra haworthia which came to me as a gift in a 6-inch shallow bowl that had been planted with a small variety of jade plant, a tiny star cactus and this minuscule haworthia. I kept them in their dish for about a year. When they began to crowd each other out, I repotted them, giving each a pot of its own.
The star cactus, (Astrophytum sp.) enjoyed the half-light of the side porch in summer. It bloomed once or twice; inconspicuous pale yellow blooms. It also attracted a domestic spider which spun webs around and around it, from thorn to thorn. Those thorns were sharp, but to the little spider, I suppose they looked as big and rough as tree twigs. In the end, the star cactus succumed overnight, perhaps to a steep rise in humidity, coupled with an ill-considered watering. So now, there are only the haworthia and the small jade, which is a limber, drooping variety. The jade has an asymmetrical growth pattern that I like very much.
The common names for Haworthia range from pearl plant to wart plant, and do a fine job of illustrating why a botanical family or generic name is a good idea. There are some excellent field-guide type books on house plants. The one I use I have had for years. It is called Indoor Gardening , edited by Anne M. Halpin. It is an encylopedia type and came from Rodale Press, of Organic Gardening, the magazine, fame. Things have changed over the years since Robert Rodale passed on, and I do not know if this book is still available. I hope so, for it is excellent; I have never failed while following its information.
I have a large old common jade plant (Crassula argentea). It spreads and must be pruned now and then, which gives me its children to do something else with. The Crassulae are a large genus of more than
300 species, and all of the ones I have had have been very worth growing. I had one called a tube jade, which I have never been able to find again, and from which, the last time we moved cross country, I neglected to get a cutting. The leaves were much like those of C. argentea, and the form of the plant was the same, except each leaf was rolled up on its length, like a tube.
I also love asparagus, both on my plate and in the house plant collection. I have two, Aspaerigus. sprengeri and A. densiflorus. They do not get as much light as they would like at the window where they hang, for the Norway maple just outside, offers a lot of shade. I would move them to the greenhouse or to the living room, except I like them at that bedroom window where they form a sort of vegitable curtain. They do all right, but they are constantly sending out very long, and in the case of the A. densiflorus, thorn-covered stems; explorers looking not for the Pacific ocean, but only for a better source of light. Perhaps, if it were up to them, they would have me cut the maple down.
I once knew a couple who lived on an east-facing cliff in an A-frame cabin. In the middle of the living room, which looked out over the canyon through a two-story glass wall, they had hung an A. sprengeri. They had it in a large pot and hanger arrangement, with a rope and pully so they could lower it for watering. The plant was a fully 4 feet in diameter and trailed fronds over half way down from that 20-foot ridge. It was the most beautiful house plant I have ever seen. It was even in bloom for about nine months out of the year. Now that is what my asparagus ferns want!
Monday, January 02, 2006
A View From My Garden
January 4, 2006
Now it is the new year. Already the snow is all but gone from my garden, and from all of the gardens in town. There is green grass where the snow was and it fools me into thinking the winter is on its way out. The winter has only started and we know there will be more snow and more gloomy days, and perhaps another spell of bitter cold. Still, the bird of hope flies with us, and the chickadees at the feeders, taking their one seed at a time, are not so completely fluffed out.
Today I took a tour of the winter garden, not really hoping for, but still looking for some sign of change. The leaves covering the perennial beds are dank, now, and stick to my shoes and to the dog's feet and are tracked into the house. I don't really fuss about it, or not much anyhow, because it is just winter with long nights for sound sleep and a gray restful sky most days. It is a time to rest.
I passed by the Mahonia (Oregon Grape) which broods in purple now, and by the blue fescue grasses, flattened by snow but still with good color. The sun came out for a minute or two, more warming to the soul than to the skin.
I stepped inside the shut-down hothouse for the first time in a couple of months, just to see how it felt with the sun shining low on its south face. The carcasses of the heirloom tomatoes still stand, tied to their stakes, like dark skeletons suddenly uninterred. I must clean them out, soon, and tidy things up a bit. It was not much warmer in the hothouse than outside, though the fennel planted last summer is still green. It has collapsed with cold, but I wonder if these plants, not in the ground long enough in the warmth of summer to make their bulbs, I wonder if they will try to come back. I will watch and wait.
When I was a child, fennel grew wild on the west coast; every road-side and fence line attended by escapees from some Italian family's garden. We chewed its fronds and stems for the good licorice flavor there. Similar to tarragon, but not quite the same; smoother somehow, more simple. Fennel must have grown on the hillsides of ancient Rome.
The garlic bed outside the west wall of the hot house shows not a speck of emerald green. That is good, for there will be more snow and more cold before it needs to sprout. I am still using last year's garlic (planted in fall, 2004 and harvested in summer, 2005) and it is keeping very well in the under 60-degree basement. The cloves are large and easy to peel and the flavor is full and mild, heavy with oil. I love really fresh garlic and it is hard to come by any other way than to grow it. Planted in fall, it provides a link to the coming year that is reassuring. Perhaps the seasons will roll on, after all.
The first seed catalogues came in December this year, and before they have all checked in, the pile will be over 4" high. Seed catalogues are the stuff that dreams are made of, and every year they become more attractive and interesting to browse. I have not started a proper list, but my mental list is already too long. I am prone to scattering my resources when it comes to seed catalogues; just try a few here, perhaps there, no not enough sun, well then how about the rock garden to be?
There is no better way for me to pass through the dark days of January than with a bright and beautiful seed catalogue in my hand, promising perfection for the coming year. Even though I know it is a vain pursuit, this belief that every plant will thrive and that my garden will be more beautiful than it has ever been, still, I cannot resist and so I dream away the days of January, and perhaps on my next tour of the garden there will be only the very tiniest change, whispering ever so softly of spring!
Now it is the new year. Already the snow is all but gone from my garden, and from all of the gardens in town. There is green grass where the snow was and it fools me into thinking the winter is on its way out. The winter has only started and we know there will be more snow and more gloomy days, and perhaps another spell of bitter cold. Still, the bird of hope flies with us, and the chickadees at the feeders, taking their one seed at a time, are not so completely fluffed out.
Today I took a tour of the winter garden, not really hoping for, but still looking for some sign of change. The leaves covering the perennial beds are dank, now, and stick to my shoes and to the dog's feet and are tracked into the house. I don't really fuss about it, or not much anyhow, because it is just winter with long nights for sound sleep and a gray restful sky most days. It is a time to rest.
I passed by the Mahonia (Oregon Grape) which broods in purple now, and by the blue fescue grasses, flattened by snow but still with good color. The sun came out for a minute or two, more warming to the soul than to the skin.
I stepped inside the shut-down hothouse for the first time in a couple of months, just to see how it felt with the sun shining low on its south face. The carcasses of the heirloom tomatoes still stand, tied to their stakes, like dark skeletons suddenly uninterred. I must clean them out, soon, and tidy things up a bit. It was not much warmer in the hothouse than outside, though the fennel planted last summer is still green. It has collapsed with cold, but I wonder if these plants, not in the ground long enough in the warmth of summer to make their bulbs, I wonder if they will try to come back. I will watch and wait.
When I was a child, fennel grew wild on the west coast; every road-side and fence line attended by escapees from some Italian family's garden. We chewed its fronds and stems for the good licorice flavor there. Similar to tarragon, but not quite the same; smoother somehow, more simple. Fennel must have grown on the hillsides of ancient Rome.
The garlic bed outside the west wall of the hot house shows not a speck of emerald green. That is good, for there will be more snow and more cold before it needs to sprout. I am still using last year's garlic (planted in fall, 2004 and harvested in summer, 2005) and it is keeping very well in the under 60-degree basement. The cloves are large and easy to peel and the flavor is full and mild, heavy with oil. I love really fresh garlic and it is hard to come by any other way than to grow it. Planted in fall, it provides a link to the coming year that is reassuring. Perhaps the seasons will roll on, after all.
The first seed catalogues came in December this year, and before they have all checked in, the pile will be over 4" high. Seed catalogues are the stuff that dreams are made of, and every year they become more attractive and interesting to browse. I have not started a proper list, but my mental list is already too long. I am prone to scattering my resources when it comes to seed catalogues; just try a few here, perhaps there, no not enough sun, well then how about the rock garden to be?
There is no better way for me to pass through the dark days of January than with a bright and beautiful seed catalogue in my hand, promising perfection for the coming year. Even though I know it is a vain pursuit, this belief that every plant will thrive and that my garden will be more beautiful than it has ever been, still, I cannot resist and so I dream away the days of January, and perhaps on my next tour of the garden there will be only the very tiniest change, whispering ever so softly of spring!
A View From My Garden
December 28, 2005
There are, I believe, at least two living Christmas trees in my garden. One is a relatively recent and young Colorado blue spruce (Picea glauca var.) planted in an area where the soil is difficult because subsoil at one time was laid over the bed of an old creek. This allows for such good drainage and so little humus that a Saguaro cactus might be happy there. I do give the blue spruce a good soaking once or twice in the dry season. Many high mountain trees enjoy this sort of perfect drainage, high in minerals, low in organic nutrition.
The other is, I believe, and after consulting with a friend who has studied and been degreed in such matters, an Englemann spruce (Picea englemannii). It may not have been a living Christmas tree, because it is native to this part of the world, from here to the coast and from British Columbia to southern Oregon. It may have been transplanted from a nearby location, but I still like to think it would have made a splendid living Christmas tree; it certainly is the star of the front yard here, a young tree, gracing our entryway.
The Englemann spruce may outgrow the spot it is in, for they become tall and wide, lush in their soft foliage. Since conifers in general grow very fast when young and then slow to a snail's pace, or slower in maturity, it is not a present worry that it is planted so close to the house. It will probably outlast the house.
When I was a child during the Great Depression and World War II, we were too poor to afford a blue spruce, the elite of Christmas trees, and had instead, an ordinary Douglas fir, usually marked down on Christmas Eve, or even given away. Dad would make a stand out of boards for that scrappy little tree, set it up and we would decorate it with old fashioned bulbs and ornaments passed down through my mother's family.
There was always something under the tree for my brother and me; something my parents had sacrificed for. They would come home from Christmas Eve service, and stay up most of the night putting together whatever major "Santa" gifts there were. We children would try to be patient and quiet until they woke up in the morning, not daring to peek at what Santa had brought until we were called.
By New Year's Eve the tree would be dangerously dry. We would pack away the ornaments and haul the tree out to where Dad would cut it up for firewood. I secretly cried for that poor little tree, thinking that it had not had a very happy life and had been discarded in such a sad way. Even then I was sensitive to the spirit in plants of all shapes and types. Living things are always a wonderment to me.
When I had my own home, I chose a living tree whenever possible and after New Year's set it out gradually in a sheltered spot to get accustomed to winter. A few of these trees did not make it; usually the little florist-grown Scotch pines in tiny pots which were sometimes the only tree I could find room for.
Many of those trees were successfully transplanted. There is a Scotch pine in San Diego, a Douglas Fir in Palo Alto, a blue spruce in Lakeside, Arizona, a Noble Fir in Crowley Lake, in the Sierra where the snow piles up to 4-5 feet on the level. There is another blue spruce and a Scotch pine in Dyer, Nevada. I don't know if all these trees are still living; some of them may now be large and healthy, as are the two in this yard; messengers of Christmas Past. It is a legacy, the two spruce trees here in Plains.
When a tree is planted does it take on some of the life of the person who plants it? Does it give back life to those who care for it? I believe so, for a tree is truly planted for the future. What better memorial could there be?
There are, I believe, at least two living Christmas trees in my garden. One is a relatively recent and young Colorado blue spruce (Picea glauca var.) planted in an area where the soil is difficult because subsoil at one time was laid over the bed of an old creek. This allows for such good drainage and so little humus that a Saguaro cactus might be happy there. I do give the blue spruce a good soaking once or twice in the dry season. Many high mountain trees enjoy this sort of perfect drainage, high in minerals, low in organic nutrition.
The other is, I believe, and after consulting with a friend who has studied and been degreed in such matters, an Englemann spruce (Picea englemannii). It may not have been a living Christmas tree, because it is native to this part of the world, from here to the coast and from British Columbia to southern Oregon. It may have been transplanted from a nearby location, but I still like to think it would have made a splendid living Christmas tree; it certainly is the star of the front yard here, a young tree, gracing our entryway.
The Englemann spruce may outgrow the spot it is in, for they become tall and wide, lush in their soft foliage. Since conifers in general grow very fast when young and then slow to a snail's pace, or slower in maturity, it is not a present worry that it is planted so close to the house. It will probably outlast the house.
When I was a child during the Great Depression and World War II, we were too poor to afford a blue spruce, the elite of Christmas trees, and had instead, an ordinary Douglas fir, usually marked down on Christmas Eve, or even given away. Dad would make a stand out of boards for that scrappy little tree, set it up and we would decorate it with old fashioned bulbs and ornaments passed down through my mother's family.
There was always something under the tree for my brother and me; something my parents had sacrificed for. They would come home from Christmas Eve service, and stay up most of the night putting together whatever major "Santa" gifts there were. We children would try to be patient and quiet until they woke up in the morning, not daring to peek at what Santa had brought until we were called.
By New Year's Eve the tree would be dangerously dry. We would pack away the ornaments and haul the tree out to where Dad would cut it up for firewood. I secretly cried for that poor little tree, thinking that it had not had a very happy life and had been discarded in such a sad way. Even then I was sensitive to the spirit in plants of all shapes and types. Living things are always a wonderment to me.
When I had my own home, I chose a living tree whenever possible and after New Year's set it out gradually in a sheltered spot to get accustomed to winter. A few of these trees did not make it; usually the little florist-grown Scotch pines in tiny pots which were sometimes the only tree I could find room for.
Many of those trees were successfully transplanted. There is a Scotch pine in San Diego, a Douglas Fir in Palo Alto, a blue spruce in Lakeside, Arizona, a Noble Fir in Crowley Lake, in the Sierra where the snow piles up to 4-5 feet on the level. There is another blue spruce and a Scotch pine in Dyer, Nevada. I don't know if all these trees are still living; some of them may now be large and healthy, as are the two in this yard; messengers of Christmas Past. It is a legacy, the two spruce trees here in Plains.
When a tree is planted does it take on some of the life of the person who plants it? Does it give back life to those who care for it? I believe so, for a tree is truly planted for the future. What better memorial could there be?
A View From My Garden
December 21, 2005
I suppose it is almost a certainty that we will have a white Christmas. My garden is grateful for snow and steady cold as we have been having, and so am I.. The most difficult thing about our valley is its winters of constant freezing and thawing. A long fall, a deep mulch of leaves, snow and then steady cold is the preference of most all hardy perennials and young trees. And so I find I have many things to celebrate this Christmas.
If it is true that plants enjoy music, then I hope the indoor jungle is as grateful as I am for the steady diet of good Christmas music being served us by our local radio station. Teaks for that, and especially for playing The Messiah recordings each morning. I am sure the Epidendrum orchid in the dining room appreciates it, for it is putting out three stalks of blooms this year instead of one or two. I wonder at this orchid, for it faithfully blooms each Christmas, the darkest part of the northern year, and being an Epidendrum, the blooms last nearly into March, when it is time to seriously start on the early planting! What could be a better Christmas present than that?
Winter solstice, the first day of winter (though this year perhaps a trifle redundant) is the shortest day of the year in the north. It is December 21st this year, and although the perception of lengthening days following is minuscule and the darkness seems to linger on, the days actually are lengthening. January 21st is the magical day when the sunrise actually turns its back on the sunset, dawning away toward spring. This period of darkness in our north is balanced, of course, by the first day of summer in the southern hemisphere.
Orchids are found all over the world, in just about every climate and condition, but those we treasure most in our homes are the large and conspicuous orchids from the area between the Tropic of Cancer and the Tropic of Capricorn. The easiest to grow and bloom are from the higher mountains in that rain-forested, 12-hour day region of the Equator. Orchids, like most plants, are extremely adaptable. Has anyone seen the local orchid growing along our river and the streams that feed it? It is Ladies' Tresses (Spiranthes romanzaoffiana), and is very shy and rare, even here in the Northern Rockies which are its home. I have seen it once and loved its delicate pale-skinned beauty; little tubes edged with ruffles, spiraling up its stalk.
I am told there are 16 or more varieties of orchid in Glacier National Park, and I believe there is an annual field trip to see how many can be found. All are precious, and something to check into in spring and summer.
My intermediate-house orchids are fun to grow and care for once one understands their needs, but not so easy to bring to bloom. I have a Cattleya (of corsage fame) that has grown well for about 6 years and never bloomed. I am grateful this Christmas for the vagrant Epidendrum, whose specific name I do not know, and its dependable bloom in winter. A reminder that there is always new life just around the corner, no matter how dark the day.
Merry Christmas to All, and may your blessings be many.
I suppose it is almost a certainty that we will have a white Christmas. My garden is grateful for snow and steady cold as we have been having, and so am I.. The most difficult thing about our valley is its winters of constant freezing and thawing. A long fall, a deep mulch of leaves, snow and then steady cold is the preference of most all hardy perennials and young trees. And so I find I have many things to celebrate this Christmas.
If it is true that plants enjoy music, then I hope the indoor jungle is as grateful as I am for the steady diet of good Christmas music being served us by our local radio station. Teaks for that, and especially for playing The Messiah recordings each morning. I am sure the Epidendrum orchid in the dining room appreciates it, for it is putting out three stalks of blooms this year instead of one or two. I wonder at this orchid, for it faithfully blooms each Christmas, the darkest part of the northern year, and being an Epidendrum, the blooms last nearly into March, when it is time to seriously start on the early planting! What could be a better Christmas present than that?
Winter solstice, the first day of winter (though this year perhaps a trifle redundant) is the shortest day of the year in the north. It is December 21st this year, and although the perception of lengthening days following is minuscule and the darkness seems to linger on, the days actually are lengthening. January 21st is the magical day when the sunrise actually turns its back on the sunset, dawning away toward spring. This period of darkness in our north is balanced, of course, by the first day of summer in the southern hemisphere.
Orchids are found all over the world, in just about every climate and condition, but those we treasure most in our homes are the large and conspicuous orchids from the area between the Tropic of Cancer and the Tropic of Capricorn. The easiest to grow and bloom are from the higher mountains in that rain-forested, 12-hour day region of the Equator. Orchids, like most plants, are extremely adaptable. Has anyone seen the local orchid growing along our river and the streams that feed it? It is Ladies' Tresses (Spiranthes romanzaoffiana), and is very shy and rare, even here in the Northern Rockies which are its home. I have seen it once and loved its delicate pale-skinned beauty; little tubes edged with ruffles, spiraling up its stalk.
I am told there are 16 or more varieties of orchid in Glacier National Park, and I believe there is an annual field trip to see how many can be found. All are precious, and something to check into in spring and summer.
My intermediate-house orchids are fun to grow and care for once one understands their needs, but not so easy to bring to bloom. I have a Cattleya (of corsage fame) that has grown well for about 6 years and never bloomed. I am grateful this Christmas for the vagrant Epidendrum, whose specific name I do not know, and its dependable bloom in winter. A reminder that there is always new life just around the corner, no matter how dark the day.
Merry Christmas to All, and may your blessings be many.
A View From My Garden
December 14, 2005
I have had blue jays at the feeder! It is not only an excitement because these birds are an eastern species not commonly seen west of the Continental Divide until fairly recently, but also because they are so supremely confident, taking no quarter nor giving any, and because their brisk feather coat of blues, white and black is truly heart-lifting on a winter day. Even their raucous calls are welcome in the silence of snow. Because of all of this, I have been doing my best to keep them in this yard for winter.
I found raw Spanish peanuts at a bargain price and bought two packages to mix with the black oil sunflower seed (called BOSS in birder circles) along with a few raisins. I also got a large bag of chick feed, all cracked corn, and mixed some of that in also. None of this is expensive except for the peanuts and the raisins. My three blue jays eat peanuts and raisins.
The chickadees do like the plexiglass roofed platform feeder where this special mix goes. They come when the blue jays have finished the peanuts and raisins, are off to greener pastures. Chickadees have excellent table manners; they take one BOSS seed at a time to the mock orange nearby, or up into the maple, to eat it before returning for another. It is a wonder to me how a chickadee keeps his energy level so high in cold weather by picking only one seed at a time to eat; I have watched them do this by the hour. Chickadees will also eat peanuts, but the blue jays do not often leave any behind.
I have another trick up my sleeve, and that is called GORP in birding circles. It is a mixture of peanut butter and lard, with various other addictions. There are nearly as many recipes for GORP as there are individual back-yard bird feeders. Mine is relatively simple and I only put it out in winter, or after the starlings are gone. I add molasses and corn to my GORP, and anything else I have at hand that I think will go over with the flickers and other woodpeckers who regularly entertain us in winter. The blue jays should like this also, so today I will put out a good ration of fresh GORP and see what happens.
Blue jays, like crows, ravens and magpies, all members of the Corvid family, stash surplus food for lean times. People sometimes doubt the jay's ability to find his stashes, but I can assure you that he does. Many studies have been done of this incredible behavior, under suitably controlled field conditions (marking each stash with a marker that means nothing to the crow or jay, and then counting how many seeds are retrieved) and these birds have invariably proved themselves to be more than 80% accurate over the several months of winter. I suppose if I were motivated enough, I could learn to tell one clump of dead leaves from another, one stone, one piece of bark, but I doubt I would remember even half the spots after 2-3 months. Necessity is a relentless driver and we are talking, of course, about survival.
I have not seen the jays, now, since this early cold snap started. I imagine they have flown to a warmer, more sheltered spot than our valley. We have temperature inversions here and there are days when the mountain tops will be in sunlight and warmer then we are. Anyway, the jays know.
I have had blue jays at the feeder! It is not only an excitement because these birds are an eastern species not commonly seen west of the Continental Divide until fairly recently, but also because they are so supremely confident, taking no quarter nor giving any, and because their brisk feather coat of blues, white and black is truly heart-lifting on a winter day. Even their raucous calls are welcome in the silence of snow. Because of all of this, I have been doing my best to keep them in this yard for winter.
I found raw Spanish peanuts at a bargain price and bought two packages to mix with the black oil sunflower seed (called BOSS in birder circles) along with a few raisins. I also got a large bag of chick feed, all cracked corn, and mixed some of that in also. None of this is expensive except for the peanuts and the raisins. My three blue jays eat peanuts and raisins.
The chickadees do like the plexiglass roofed platform feeder where this special mix goes. They come when the blue jays have finished the peanuts and raisins, are off to greener pastures. Chickadees have excellent table manners; they take one BOSS seed at a time to the mock orange nearby, or up into the maple, to eat it before returning for another. It is a wonder to me how a chickadee keeps his energy level so high in cold weather by picking only one seed at a time to eat; I have watched them do this by the hour. Chickadees will also eat peanuts, but the blue jays do not often leave any behind.
I have another trick up my sleeve, and that is called GORP in birding circles. It is a mixture of peanut butter and lard, with various other addictions. There are nearly as many recipes for GORP as there are individual back-yard bird feeders. Mine is relatively simple and I only put it out in winter, or after the starlings are gone. I add molasses and corn to my GORP, and anything else I have at hand that I think will go over with the flickers and other woodpeckers who regularly entertain us in winter. The blue jays should like this also, so today I will put out a good ration of fresh GORP and see what happens.
Blue jays, like crows, ravens and magpies, all members of the Corvid family, stash surplus food for lean times. People sometimes doubt the jay's ability to find his stashes, but I can assure you that he does. Many studies have been done of this incredible behavior, under suitably controlled field conditions (marking each stash with a marker that means nothing to the crow or jay, and then counting how many seeds are retrieved) and these birds have invariably proved themselves to be more than 80% accurate over the several months of winter. I suppose if I were motivated enough, I could learn to tell one clump of dead leaves from another, one stone, one piece of bark, but I doubt I would remember even half the spots after 2-3 months. Necessity is a relentless driver and we are talking, of course, about survival.
I have not seen the jays, now, since this early cold snap started. I imagine they have flown to a warmer, more sheltered spot than our valley. We have temperature inversions here and there are days when the mountain tops will be in sunlight and warmer then we are. Anyway, the jays know.
A View From My Garden
December 5, 2005
Snow, beautiful and welcome snow! Snow covers the oak leaves laid thick over the perennial beds, and over the strawberry patch. The leaves of the two large Burr Oaks (Quercus macrocarpus) are down, and the excess pilled in the compost bins, along with the leaves from the Norway Maple (Acer platanoides).There is, though, that recalcitrant Shingle Oak (Quercus imbricaria) a youngster at about 40 years of age, stubbornly hanging onto its leaves until spring. All through the winter months the ragged brown leaves dangle from the Shingle Oak's branches like pioneer ladies' dresses hung out to dry. . Every spring I try to catch it in the act of dropping those leaves, and every spring I fail. One day the drooping left-over leaves hang there, even as I bolster my lagging energy; each of us tired of winter and without an end in sight. The next day the leaves are gone, and in their place, each twig shows a new green spring bud.
On this day in early Winter, the Shingle Oak's leaves are still a coppery brown color, reflecting the brilliant rust and dark gold of only a few week ago. The Shingle Oak may fool me each spring, but it brings great joy each autumn, and this has been a very good year.
The large Burr Oak in the front yard has dropped all its leaves and bared that great structure of corky branches, stark against snow and overcast sky. Burr Oaks are of the Beech family and so second cousins of the eastern White Oaks, perhaps the greatest timber trees in our country. Once the monster White Oaks stretched all across the northern states into the Midwest, some trunks measuring six feet in diameter after growing for 500-600 years, gaining a grand height of over 100 feet. There are few of these monsters left outside of parks and preserves. They have given us oak barrel staves and Grand Rapids Oak Furniture, and all those golden oak desks and cupboards in schools and courthouses across the land. A few still give us some of the finest country furniture being built today, from Shaker to Stickly, from very old to very modern.
My father was a furniture maker and he loved to work in oak, though he said it fought the woodworker all the way, never letting go and never giving in. The old time craftsmen were like that, it seems to me, men of oak who always had the time to do it right. There are still some around today, if you look for them. You will even find them here around the valley of the lower Clark Fork..
The last major project my Dad made, in his tiny shop in a desert town at the foot of the Sierra, was a dining room set with a large rectangular table and eight chairs. The chairs were steamed and bent to a pattern, and like those barrel staves, were made of white oak. The table top was assembled of matching quarter-sawn white oak boards. The woman he made it for was a long-time friend of my mother's and she had stood by my mother through a protracted final illness. My Dad charged her only for the materials (expensive enough in our time) and contributed his skill out of friendship. He was in his late seventies then, an oak of a man, and it took him a long time to finish the dining set. When it was finished, my mother's friend did not like it; said it did not fit her dining room. My Dad offered to take it back, but the woman said no, she had an offer for it and she was going to sell it. Later, my father found out the price. She sold that last dining set to someone from Los Angeles for $10,000. Itmust have fit that person's dining room just fine.
Snow, beautiful and welcome snow! Snow covers the oak leaves laid thick over the perennial beds, and over the strawberry patch. The leaves of the two large Burr Oaks (Quercus macrocarpus) are down, and the excess pilled in the compost bins, along with the leaves from the Norway Maple (Acer platanoides).There is, though, that recalcitrant Shingle Oak (Quercus imbricaria) a youngster at about 40 years of age, stubbornly hanging onto its leaves until spring. All through the winter months the ragged brown leaves dangle from the Shingle Oak's branches like pioneer ladies' dresses hung out to dry. . Every spring I try to catch it in the act of dropping those leaves, and every spring I fail. One day the drooping left-over leaves hang there, even as I bolster my lagging energy; each of us tired of winter and without an end in sight. The next day the leaves are gone, and in their place, each twig shows a new green spring bud.
On this day in early Winter, the Shingle Oak's leaves are still a coppery brown color, reflecting the brilliant rust and dark gold of only a few week ago. The Shingle Oak may fool me each spring, but it brings great joy each autumn, and this has been a very good year.
The large Burr Oak in the front yard has dropped all its leaves and bared that great structure of corky branches, stark against snow and overcast sky. Burr Oaks are of the Beech family and so second cousins of the eastern White Oaks, perhaps the greatest timber trees in our country. Once the monster White Oaks stretched all across the northern states into the Midwest, some trunks measuring six feet in diameter after growing for 500-600 years, gaining a grand height of over 100 feet. There are few of these monsters left outside of parks and preserves. They have given us oak barrel staves and Grand Rapids Oak Furniture, and all those golden oak desks and cupboards in schools and courthouses across the land. A few still give us some of the finest country furniture being built today, from Shaker to Stickly, from very old to very modern.
My father was a furniture maker and he loved to work in oak, though he said it fought the woodworker all the way, never letting go and never giving in. The old time craftsmen were like that, it seems to me, men of oak who always had the time to do it right. There are still some around today, if you look for them. You will even find them here around the valley of the lower Clark Fork..
The last major project my Dad made, in his tiny shop in a desert town at the foot of the Sierra, was a dining room set with a large rectangular table and eight chairs. The chairs were steamed and bent to a pattern, and like those barrel staves, were made of white oak. The table top was assembled of matching quarter-sawn white oak boards. The woman he made it for was a long-time friend of my mother's and she had stood by my mother through a protracted final illness. My Dad charged her only for the materials (expensive enough in our time) and contributed his skill out of friendship. He was in his late seventies then, an oak of a man, and it took him a long time to finish the dining set. When it was finished, my mother's friend did not like it; said it did not fit her dining room. My Dad offered to take it back, but the woman said no, she had an offer for it and she was going to sell it. Later, my father found out the price. She sold that last dining set to someone from Los Angeles for $10,000. Itmust have fit that person's dining room just fine.
A View From My Garden
November 28, 2005
It does seem to me that fall is an unlikely time to start a column dealing primarily with the natural world and yet here I am, picking up a thread from many years ago, when I was a young woman, in another corner of our everlasting intermountain west. At that time I lived at the foot of some of the highest mountains in the lower 48, in the extensive rain shadow they cast over eastern California and Oregon, Nevada, southern Idaho and Utah; some of the harshest and loneliest land I know.. I wrote about that land because it was what I knew, and people rewarded me with their blessings and their praise. I hope to be able to do the same thing here, in this better watered, more lush land that is also harsh and lonely in its own way, and which has adopted me.
Fall is the ending of the seasons, but it is also a beginning. It is like our river, always going and coming, never really finishing, but only leading us on into the next season and the season after that, with remembrances of the season past. And so as I put the garden to bed for winter, my head is full of visions of spring. Will this just-dug and moved perennial like its new home better than its last, or will it just choose to not show up? I have no way of really knowing because I am still new to this garden and each year of the nine that have passed since the Montana Boy moved us here from our desert home, has had a different lesson to present. The year just passing is no exception. A long rainy and cold spring during which I waited too long to plant even the early cold-earth vegetables, and then when the soil warmed, in late June it was too late, so the Early Girl tomatoes ripened only three or four in the garden, and the Romas, none at all. The potatoes were the size of large marbles and well suited to one of those very, very French presentations that I do not favor. They have ended up whole in the first potato soup of fall, each perfect little dark red Norland holding a whole grown potato's share of flavor.
The green beans were another matter. I have found a variety of bush bean that is flavorful and fast to grow, and that does not mind cool nights and light shade. I had just gathered our first supper's worth when the deer moved in and chomped them down. The deer have been here every winter, but never in summer, and they have never before ruined anything.
White tail deer are extremely adaptable animals and if they are pressured out of their usual feeding ground by, for instance, a nurseryman's electric fence, then they will find another way to live. For our local herd, the other way is in town. I am looking at electric fence myself, and then where will they go?
It does seem to me that fall is an unlikely time to start a column dealing primarily with the natural world and yet here I am, picking up a thread from many years ago, when I was a young woman, in another corner of our everlasting intermountain west. At that time I lived at the foot of some of the highest mountains in the lower 48, in the extensive rain shadow they cast over eastern California and Oregon, Nevada, southern Idaho and Utah; some of the harshest and loneliest land I know.. I wrote about that land because it was what I knew, and people rewarded me with their blessings and their praise. I hope to be able to do the same thing here, in this better watered, more lush land that is also harsh and lonely in its own way, and which has adopted me.
Fall is the ending of the seasons, but it is also a beginning. It is like our river, always going and coming, never really finishing, but only leading us on into the next season and the season after that, with remembrances of the season past. And so as I put the garden to bed for winter, my head is full of visions of spring. Will this just-dug and moved perennial like its new home better than its last, or will it just choose to not show up? I have no way of really knowing because I am still new to this garden and each year of the nine that have passed since the Montana Boy moved us here from our desert home, has had a different lesson to present. The year just passing is no exception. A long rainy and cold spring during which I waited too long to plant even the early cold-earth vegetables, and then when the soil warmed, in late June it was too late, so the Early Girl tomatoes ripened only three or four in the garden, and the Romas, none at all. The potatoes were the size of large marbles and well suited to one of those very, very French presentations that I do not favor. They have ended up whole in the first potato soup of fall, each perfect little dark red Norland holding a whole grown potato's share of flavor.
The green beans were another matter. I have found a variety of bush bean that is flavorful and fast to grow, and that does not mind cool nights and light shade. I had just gathered our first supper's worth when the deer moved in and chomped them down. The deer have been here every winter, but never in summer, and they have never before ruined anything.
White tail deer are extremely adaptable animals and if they are pressured out of their usual feeding ground by, for instance, a nurseryman's electric fence, then they will find another way to live. For our local herd, the other way is in town. I am looking at electric fence myself, and then where will they go?
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