The peas are in now, marching in a perfect row the length of their climbing rack. I used that ugly orange bailing twine on the rack this year because the more sedate verson, light blue and white I used last year crumbled under exposure to the elements. The little peas will be up and at it in a few days because I pre-germinated them between layers of damp paper towels in my kitchen, and each seed had a tiny tender sprout when it went in the ground. These are edible pod peas, shugar snaps, which can be used either in the pod or shelled. In the pod is a wonderfully sweet, healthy and hearty way to eat peas; stir fried in a bit of peanut oil they are superb.
Lettuce and radishes will go in today, a little late, as usual. I seem to be more relaxed than usual this planting season. I think this means I have become closer to being a true Montanan. Nothing about the weather surprises me anymore, especially in spring, and so I have accepted that everything I do is a risk and that if I put enough different types of vegies in the garden, some will have a good year. Still, I am more respectful of the early settlers here who had to make it through what appear to have been much worse winters than we experience with little or no outside commerce. In those days, the first tender dandelions and the first rhubarb sauce were real events. Years ago when I was young and foolish, and totally absorbed in doing evewrythiing the "natural" way, I would not buy imported produce, but rather canned the garden produce and atethat all winter. When the first dandelion poked through the early spring ground, I started digging them. What a job it was to pick and clean those baby dadelions; I do not do it today, even though I still mistrust imported produce, and even though they were a delightful treat and marked the end of a long and cold South Dakota winter.
Rhubarb is another matter. I really do love rhubarb and consider it to be one of the purest gifts to gardeners in the north. Why, when I was a child, they even sold it in the markets; a rare sight today, indeed. Rhubarb sauce goes on everything, as far as I am concerned, but the best is probably ice cream, though I like it a lot on oatmeal, also, and on pancakes. I do not can it any longer because I have found it freezes very well with no preparation except cleaning and chopping. I wish everything in this world were as good as fresh rhubarb in the spring and that everybody in the world had some.
The greecian windflowers behind the hot house are in bloom and so is the young peach tree, just reaching the end of its first year. It is a dwarf Elberta on a very northern rootstock and it clearly wants to thrive. The daffodils are still in full bloom, as are the tulips. I have made a note to add to the tulips this fall; they do so very well here. I shall add to the daylillies also, for they are pure pleasure in this climate. And the oriental lillies, also, in fact, the whole lily family is a plus-plus situation in this garden and one I have not really explored before.
Years ago, on the central coast of California, just five blocks from the beach, I had rows of daylillies across the front of the little house we owned then. They got full morning sun when it was not foggy, and we were fortunate to be in a sun spot there so the lillies did fairly well. Well, there was one thing, and that was a combination of huge slugs and land snails by the gallon. The land snails we could have lived on, except I have forgotten, perhaps to my own comfort, the method for preparing them I had learned as a child growing up in the North Beach section of San Francisco. We had a pair of muscovy ducks in those days, and Mrs. Muscovy was absolutely transformed by the slugs and snails she could find in those daylilies! I would let her out of the backyard and she would actually run to the front and dive into the daylillies where she would stay until her crop was so full of slugs and snails that it was ready to burst. Then she would decide to wander; perhaps take a "constitutional" as my Methodist forebears called it, and I would have to herd her back to the rear gate and the fenced yard for her own good. Muscovy ducks are actually great flyers by nature, having made a regular migration up and down the Pacific coast in the old wild days. These domesticated and exceedingly portly Muscovies were not very good flyers, although they could climb a fence if they found convenient footholds.
Actually, the drake was devoted to being a family man and did very little except honk his goose-like call when he thought the invaders were coming. They were lovely ducks and I miss them considerably. I miss their progeny, also, roasted to perfection for a holiday feast. There really is no better bird.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
A View From My Garden
It is Nanking cherry time. One minute they are simply covered with swelling buds as are most shrubs in my garden now, then I turn around and they are in full bloom. Thanks to Himself, the lord of the manor, the lawn has been treated with Weed and Feed and then mowed and edged. It is now in its best springtime dress.. Himself is the one. He has been working long days; finishing a board fence along the alley (which has mysteriously become a "Lane"), cleaning out years and years of old wire fence patched like a crazy quilt. The broken tiller is still broken, but Pat and a neighbor have made a useful trade and the early tilling has been done. The vegie beds look neat and fertile, waiting for planting.
Another neighbor, I notice, prunes Nanking cherries into tamed hedge shapes. The lord of this manor has inclinations that way, also, but I defend the cherry's wild growth, only allowing trimming to keep them in reasonable bounds. These are reflections of our two lives; one requiring order and mastery, the other seeking the wildness of birds. The lilacs and the honeysuckle will come on next, after the violets are through blooming and the forsythia has faded into summer green. Oh, so much to keep up with and so little time!
We have a flock of about 100 evening grosbeaks at the feeders, in the trees, finding the last of the crabapples and haws, and the dried up rowan berries, flinging themselves from feeder to feeder until all are empty, calling and fussing, and holding long threatening conversations with the cat. They do not know she has given up any true bird hunting for bird watching (not unlike myself, actually) with only an occasional rush to nowhere to keep herself in form.
The grosbeaks are most welcome. They love the pond and bathe and drink and walk about with their feet in the shallowest water. We love their natty spring outfits, not garish, but just right, and they are like the robins; they speak a good line about feeling threatened by us, but it is all an act; they are very self-contained birds.
It is time to hustle now, to drain every valuable moment from such short seasons. The potatoes are cut and hardened and so they will be first in. Then the onion sets and the peas, and broad beans, these English favas that may be planted as early as peas, and which bear all summer long. Past time for early lettuce; my palate tells me so while waiting for that lovely crunch and burst of flavor that only spring garden lettuce provides. Of course the garlic is up and growing well; six to eight inches high now. I plant garlic in September or early October. More garlic every year, and still we run out before the new crop comes in July.
In the lean-to greenhouse, the epiphyllum are starting to bloom, easing my greyed-out spirit with their tropical colors and shapes. Epis are the joy of my life; more beautiful then orchids and so easy to grow and to propagate. There were only a few species brought in from the central Mexican highlands to begin with, and now there are thousands of hybrid varieties and they are collected and admired all over the world. You must come and visit my epis while they are in bloom, and if you like, I will give you a piece of a stem to start your own, for such is the nature of gardeners everywhere. Such is the nature of true growth.
Another neighbor, I notice, prunes Nanking cherries into tamed hedge shapes. The lord of this manor has inclinations that way, also, but I defend the cherry's wild growth, only allowing trimming to keep them in reasonable bounds. These are reflections of our two lives; one requiring order and mastery, the other seeking the wildness of birds. The lilacs and the honeysuckle will come on next, after the violets are through blooming and the forsythia has faded into summer green. Oh, so much to keep up with and so little time!
We have a flock of about 100 evening grosbeaks at the feeders, in the trees, finding the last of the crabapples and haws, and the dried up rowan berries, flinging themselves from feeder to feeder until all are empty, calling and fussing, and holding long threatening conversations with the cat. They do not know she has given up any true bird hunting for bird watching (not unlike myself, actually) with only an occasional rush to nowhere to keep herself in form.
The grosbeaks are most welcome. They love the pond and bathe and drink and walk about with their feet in the shallowest water. We love their natty spring outfits, not garish, but just right, and they are like the robins; they speak a good line about feeling threatened by us, but it is all an act; they are very self-contained birds.
It is time to hustle now, to drain every valuable moment from such short seasons. The potatoes are cut and hardened and so they will be first in. Then the onion sets and the peas, and broad beans, these English favas that may be planted as early as peas, and which bear all summer long. Past time for early lettuce; my palate tells me so while waiting for that lovely crunch and burst of flavor that only spring garden lettuce provides. Of course the garlic is up and growing well; six to eight inches high now. I plant garlic in September or early October. More garlic every year, and still we run out before the new crop comes in July.
In the lean-to greenhouse, the epiphyllum are starting to bloom, easing my greyed-out spirit with their tropical colors and shapes. Epis are the joy of my life; more beautiful then orchids and so easy to grow and to propagate. There were only a few species brought in from the central Mexican highlands to begin with, and now there are thousands of hybrid varieties and they are collected and admired all over the world. You must come and visit my epis while they are in bloom, and if you like, I will give you a piece of a stem to start your own, for such is the nature of gardeners everywhere. Such is the nature of true growth.
A View From My Garden
And so now it is spring! Daffodils are blooming, tiny grape hyacinths, naturalized into the grass years ago, made a brave showing until Himself got out the lawn mower and the grass treatment and mowed them down. We enjoy them briefly, and I let them grow in the flower beds, but there is no room for them in a truly green lawn. If we do not cut the lawn it will all too soon display its true nature, for after all, this lawn is mostly pasture grass and in the worst places, nothing but jointed quackgrass, Johnson grass and other unmentionables. It requires aggressive attacks in spring; at least weekly.
Still, there are violas and buttercups, also, and a patch of forget-me-nots. There was a patch of true violets, also, but they have disappeared. I tell myself these little wild-like plants really do not matter, but they are such a joy; belly flowers we call them because one has to be down on the grass to truly see them. Every spring I plan to make a series of photographs of them, before the mowing starts, and every year I lag and linger until it is too late. Perhaps next year.
The forsythia is a marvel this spring; just as I hoped it would be. It sits at the point where the driveway divides, where everyone who comes and goes has to pass right by it. One would think it could not go unnoticed, and yet it does. That amazes me, though I realize not everyone in this world is as tuned to the plant world as I, and perhaps we humans could be divided by this; those who notice plants and animals first, and those who are tuned to their own kind's comings and goings. I will not apologize for being in the plant and animal group, though it would not hurt me to polish up a few social skills, either. We are divided by enough walls in our stony society; we do not need more.
Many of the perennials are poking their noses up through the leaves that still cover them. The delphinium beside the lean-to greenhouse is slowly making its way through the leaves and I must set a triangular tomato cage over it for I know I will turn around twice and it will be three feet tall! All the perennial beds need to be cleaned out now, and the scrap run through the shredder and into the compost. There is no end to plant waste here, and no end to the need for it.
The roses are leading out and seem to have come through the winter with no damage. Such a mild winter is bound to be followed by a buggy summer. Two sides to every coin; the balance in Justice's scales, the deep natural balance of Yin and Yang. As I philosophize, I also make a mental list of the bug arsenal which needs replenishing. Get after them early with the safe and moderate means and later on it may not be necessary to use those grand chemicals I abhor!
And so the season changes and so do we. One thing is certain, Himself is determined to have a princely lawn and I will have to enjoy the bright yellow spirit of dandelions elsewhere. I will repeat this little message from a long past Ladies Home Journal, I believe. This says it all.
Your child brings to you the first dandelion of spring, and you say,
"Throw that weed away and go wash up for lunch."
Still, there are violas and buttercups, also, and a patch of forget-me-nots. There was a patch of true violets, also, but they have disappeared. I tell myself these little wild-like plants really do not matter, but they are such a joy; belly flowers we call them because one has to be down on the grass to truly see them. Every spring I plan to make a series of photographs of them, before the mowing starts, and every year I lag and linger until it is too late. Perhaps next year.
The forsythia is a marvel this spring; just as I hoped it would be. It sits at the point where the driveway divides, where everyone who comes and goes has to pass right by it. One would think it could not go unnoticed, and yet it does. That amazes me, though I realize not everyone in this world is as tuned to the plant world as I, and perhaps we humans could be divided by this; those who notice plants and animals first, and those who are tuned to their own kind's comings and goings. I will not apologize for being in the plant and animal group, though it would not hurt me to polish up a few social skills, either. We are divided by enough walls in our stony society; we do not need more.
Many of the perennials are poking their noses up through the leaves that still cover them. The delphinium beside the lean-to greenhouse is slowly making its way through the leaves and I must set a triangular tomato cage over it for I know I will turn around twice and it will be three feet tall! All the perennial beds need to be cleaned out now, and the scrap run through the shredder and into the compost. There is no end to plant waste here, and no end to the need for it.
The roses are leading out and seem to have come through the winter with no damage. Such a mild winter is bound to be followed by a buggy summer. Two sides to every coin; the balance in Justice's scales, the deep natural balance of Yin and Yang. As I philosophize, I also make a mental list of the bug arsenal which needs replenishing. Get after them early with the safe and moderate means and later on it may not be necessary to use those grand chemicals I abhor!
And so the season changes and so do we. One thing is certain, Himself is determined to have a princely lawn and I will have to enjoy the bright yellow spirit of dandelions elsewhere. I will repeat this little message from a long past Ladies Home Journal, I believe. This says it all.
Your child brings to you the first dandelion of spring, and you say,
"Throw that weed away and go wash up for lunch."
Thursday, March 29, 2007
A view from my garden
I am broken down, and so is the tiller. Not a very good start for what appears to be an early spring. And yet these warming days and unpredictable nights are lovely, as is Mt. Baldy when he peeks out of the clouds. "Springtime in the Rockies" is the old song that runs in my head now.; so very welcome after all the grey skies of a northern Rockies winter.
So, what to do? I can at least get the tomatoes started, and some lettuce and peas outside. I soak the peas between damp paper towels until they have sent out their little first root, then they do not have to stay in the cold ground so long before sprouting. They germinate freely this way/
There is so much clean-up still to be done; shredding and moving compost, digging what must be done by hand, and if the tiller is not back soon, then finding another to rent or borrow, for I cannot do it all by hand anymore. I hate to admit it, but the years are taking their toll even though I beat them back with the biggest stick I can wield!
On touring the garden, I find that spring is here, ready or not, for the daffodils are up, the lilacs are budding, and the forsythia, in its fourth year, is covered from head to toe with bright yellow blooms! How I have waited for this forsythia to find its place and begin to really perform.
In my life I have planted too many forsythias and too many roses, and then moved on, leaving them for someone else to enjoy. This is not a bad thing to do. Giving, even of plant life, is what we should be doing, and so I look back and admire that string of roses and forsythia; after all, what can one do with one’s favorite plants except plant them, even when it takes several years for them to become truly worthwhile, and when you already know the gardener is a gypsy, a basically incompatible situation.
I had a woman bring m4e her house plants recently; a sorry lot, though basically healthy. At the encouragement of her husband she had decided to find them a better home. I know the feeling; sometimes it is better to remove one source of endless guilt when life becomes too demanding. I am happy to report that each one is doing well and that a beautifully planted basket is flourishing to the point where it must be separated. It has a Dracena, a small red striped one, very good looking among the pothos and ivy. I just gave a friend a Dracena that is fully seven feet tall, for her new high-ceilinged house. So it seems that I am launched on another several years of growing this new Dracena through all its interesting stages.
Life is full and, shall I say, rewarding? Even though sometimes the tiller breaks down and is not ready for spring plowing (in 35 years, this is not the first time this has happened) and even though I am not at my own usual 100% level, but only somewhere near. Spring and new growth, and help from my friends. What can be better in this life?
So, what to do? I can at least get the tomatoes started, and some lettuce and peas outside. I soak the peas between damp paper towels until they have sent out their little first root, then they do not have to stay in the cold ground so long before sprouting. They germinate freely this way/
There is so much clean-up still to be done; shredding and moving compost, digging what must be done by hand, and if the tiller is not back soon, then finding another to rent or borrow, for I cannot do it all by hand anymore. I hate to admit it, but the years are taking their toll even though I beat them back with the biggest stick I can wield!
On touring the garden, I find that spring is here, ready or not, for the daffodils are up, the lilacs are budding, and the forsythia, in its fourth year, is covered from head to toe with bright yellow blooms! How I have waited for this forsythia to find its place and begin to really perform.
In my life I have planted too many forsythias and too many roses, and then moved on, leaving them for someone else to enjoy. This is not a bad thing to do. Giving, even of plant life, is what we should be doing, and so I look back and admire that string of roses and forsythia; after all, what can one do with one’s favorite plants except plant them, even when it takes several years for them to become truly worthwhile, and when you already know the gardener is a gypsy, a basically incompatible situation.
I had a woman bring m4e her house plants recently; a sorry lot, though basically healthy. At the encouragement of her husband she had decided to find them a better home. I know the feeling; sometimes it is better to remove one source of endless guilt when life becomes too demanding. I am happy to report that each one is doing well and that a beautifully planted basket is flourishing to the point where it must be separated. It has a Dracena, a small red striped one, very good looking among the pothos and ivy. I just gave a friend a Dracena that is fully seven feet tall, for her new high-ceilinged house. So it seems that I am launched on another several years of growing this new Dracena through all its interesting stages.
Life is full and, shall I say, rewarding? Even though sometimes the tiller breaks down and is not ready for spring plowing (in 35 years, this is not the first time this has happened) and even though I am not at my own usual 100% level, but only somewhere near. Spring and new growth, and help from my friends. What can be better in this life?
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
A View From My Garden
During our last storm I stood in the main corridor of the hospital, IV pump by my side, and watched the wind blow. Just outside, framed by the corridor window, grows a European white birch (Betula pendula) of size and proportions I have seldom seen. It is truly a perfectly beautiful tree.
The IV pump? Simply the result of an overly stubborn nature which managed to turn a minor infection into a major pneumonic crisis. Thus a stay in our hospital and an attachment to an IV pump following me in unphased devotion wherever I went. Thanks to the skilled people at our hospital and to miraculous antibiotics, I am home now and on the mend. A hard lesson learned.
But on that dark late afternoon as I watched the white birch dance with the wind, I was reminded again of how little intercession on our part it takes to make a happy and healthy plant. This European import is a good example.
I don't know who planted it or when. I asked around a bit but so far have no answers. I also cannot orient myself in the new hospital so that I can say for sure what its relationship to the old core buildings was. But however it happened, the tree was planted where it stands, a number of years ago judging by its size, and for better or worse, there it has grown into a nearly perfect specimen; the sort of tree gardeners and landscapers dream about.
Now, the new buildings have grown up around it; suddenly changing its habitat radically and requiring in maturity that it make some new adaptations. If I study a map of the new construction, I see that it has always been sheltered from the northeast, and that the major change in the white birch's world is that it is now partially shaded to the southwest by the large and tall new main entrance. During the time I was there, there was also a pipeline being laid beside it, to serve the new whirlpool in Physical Therapy. A small bobcat and another small tractor were doing the work, even in the blowing rain and snow, and seemed to practice careful consideration for the tree, as nearly as possible.
You see, they are our victims, really, these imported and nursery plants of all kinds. They are not allowed to make any sort of decisions as to where or under what conditions they will grow. We put them there, they are expected to do well, and when they do very well, as has this dancing black and white poem to what a European white birch should be, then we tend to take them for granted. Some of the very most important decisions we make in this life are concerned with where trees are planted.
Did some of the same caring hospital staff who took such good care of me, who provided me with just the exact conditions I needed for my continued welfare, did they also think of the welfare of the white birch? It stood outside the Emergency Department and Radiology before, now it graces Physical Therapy and the wing of administrative offices. It would seem it has been promoted. Except there is this question about that southwest exposure; so important to our northern plants; providing that last ounce of sunlight when the dreary long winters are upon us. Underground there is the new pipeline and a matter of torn roots to replace and to mend.
Still, the birch dances with the wind, and shakes off the driving sleet and rain with a practiced shrug. Without a shred of self pity, with no complaint, it takes the next slice of life it has been handed and goes to work on the necessary adaptations. A new pipeline, a new two-story building, it is all the same to the birch. And so it dances. And so must I.
The IV pump? Simply the result of an overly stubborn nature which managed to turn a minor infection into a major pneumonic crisis. Thus a stay in our hospital and an attachment to an IV pump following me in unphased devotion wherever I went. Thanks to the skilled people at our hospital and to miraculous antibiotics, I am home now and on the mend. A hard lesson learned.
But on that dark late afternoon as I watched the white birch dance with the wind, I was reminded again of how little intercession on our part it takes to make a happy and healthy plant. This European import is a good example.
I don't know who planted it or when. I asked around a bit but so far have no answers. I also cannot orient myself in the new hospital so that I can say for sure what its relationship to the old core buildings was. But however it happened, the tree was planted where it stands, a number of years ago judging by its size, and for better or worse, there it has grown into a nearly perfect specimen; the sort of tree gardeners and landscapers dream about.
Now, the new buildings have grown up around it; suddenly changing its habitat radically and requiring in maturity that it make some new adaptations. If I study a map of the new construction, I see that it has always been sheltered from the northeast, and that the major change in the white birch's world is that it is now partially shaded to the southwest by the large and tall new main entrance. During the time I was there, there was also a pipeline being laid beside it, to serve the new whirlpool in Physical Therapy. A small bobcat and another small tractor were doing the work, even in the blowing rain and snow, and seemed to practice careful consideration for the tree, as nearly as possible.
You see, they are our victims, really, these imported and nursery plants of all kinds. They are not allowed to make any sort of decisions as to where or under what conditions they will grow. We put them there, they are expected to do well, and when they do very well, as has this dancing black and white poem to what a European white birch should be, then we tend to take them for granted. Some of the very most important decisions we make in this life are concerned with where trees are planted.
Did some of the same caring hospital staff who took such good care of me, who provided me with just the exact conditions I needed for my continued welfare, did they also think of the welfare of the white birch? It stood outside the Emergency Department and Radiology before, now it graces Physical Therapy and the wing of administrative offices. It would seem it has been promoted. Except there is this question about that southwest exposure; so important to our northern plants; providing that last ounce of sunlight when the dreary long winters are upon us. Underground there is the new pipeline and a matter of torn roots to replace and to mend.
Still, the birch dances with the wind, and shakes off the driving sleet and rain with a practiced shrug. Without a shred of self pity, with no complaint, it takes the next slice of life it has been handed and goes to work on the necessary adaptations. A new pipeline, a new two-story building, it is all the same to the birch. And so it dances. And so must I.
A View From My Garden
This morning I awakened to sunshine pouring in all the windows. The dogs and the cat saw it too and began romping and chasing each other, trying their best to get me involved. I thought about it. Maybe it would be a really good idea to set all other responsibilities aside, load the dogs in the pickup and take off for our favorite spot along the river. Then I looked at the thermometer and had a second thought. I was right, I guess, because the clouds have now moved in and it will be another dreary day with the dogs and the cat sleeping and me at the computer in this nice warm office. There has not been enough writing in recent weeks and at least that can be corrected.
There is so much to be done in the garden, and yet the ground has just now thawed and the worms have certainly not yet turned; the robins wait impatiently while they finish the last of the tiny apples on the ornamental crab along with a few bright red currents on the high-bush cranberry.
High-bush cranberry is probably one of the best illustrations of why we really ought to use the botanical names for plants. This is not a cranberry; cranberries grow in bogs in the wild but moderate climates of the coasts of Oregon and New England. High-bush cranberry is one of the large and varied Viburnum family which also contains the currents and hydrangeas, and maybe the chokecherry. I will have to look that up to be sure. A friend gave me a start from a plant he called a cranberry, and I said it looked like a red current to me, but he insisted. So, I thought maybe it was another high-bush cranberry which has done very well in this garden, or maybe another variety of that very nice ornamental. I did not want any more red currents because the ones I have are afflicted with some virus or another which spoils their foliage and I do not grow them for the berries, except that the birds like them. My friends shrubs turned out to be red currents. Close, but no cigar!
The local birds, the ones that over winter here, are plentiful around the feeders these days, along with a flock of pine siskins and an occasional flock of juncos. The siskins are of the finch family so they sit on the feeders and drop a messy pile of black oil sunflower seeds whole, as well as hulled, while the juncos jump and scratch like chickens underneath them, finding the good seeds and gobbling them down. It is a beautiful example of symbiosis. Neither of them knows they are creating it, of course, nor cares.
The flickers, the hairy woodpecker and his diminutive cousin, the downy woodpecker, have all been nibbling steadily at the GORP I put out. It is a mixture of peanut butter, mollasses, corn meal, oat meal and lard, with a few raisins for the occasional early spring blue jay. (No need to worry about these energetic winter denizens having high cholesterol counts!) I spread it into the hollows on their feeder or onto the bark and natural holes in the old gravenstein apple tree outside the livingroom window.
Soon it will be time to put the GORP away, for the starlings love it also, and while I do not subscribe to practicing genocide against these extremely successful immigrants, for they did not make the decision to come here from the Old World but were brought by the colonists. That would give them as much right as I to tear up the countryside. Still, I do not encourage them. I much prefer that the chickadees and the violet-green swallows, and the robins nest here. Starling flocks are a dependable sign of spring and as yet I have not seen any. Perhaps you have, for my real birdwatching days are over now. Still, I like to have the news and I am grateful when someone stops me on the street or in the store to tell me they have robins in their yard, or that the redwings are back, or even that the starlings have arrived. By such signs do I count my days, even now.
There is so much to be done in the garden, and yet the ground has just now thawed and the worms have certainly not yet turned; the robins wait impatiently while they finish the last of the tiny apples on the ornamental crab along with a few bright red currents on the high-bush cranberry.
High-bush cranberry is probably one of the best illustrations of why we really ought to use the botanical names for plants. This is not a cranberry; cranberries grow in bogs in the wild but moderate climates of the coasts of Oregon and New England. High-bush cranberry is one of the large and varied Viburnum family which also contains the currents and hydrangeas, and maybe the chokecherry. I will have to look that up to be sure. A friend gave me a start from a plant he called a cranberry, and I said it looked like a red current to me, but he insisted. So, I thought maybe it was another high-bush cranberry which has done very well in this garden, or maybe another variety of that very nice ornamental. I did not want any more red currents because the ones I have are afflicted with some virus or another which spoils their foliage and I do not grow them for the berries, except that the birds like them. My friends shrubs turned out to be red currents. Close, but no cigar!
The local birds, the ones that over winter here, are plentiful around the feeders these days, along with a flock of pine siskins and an occasional flock of juncos. The siskins are of the finch family so they sit on the feeders and drop a messy pile of black oil sunflower seeds whole, as well as hulled, while the juncos jump and scratch like chickens underneath them, finding the good seeds and gobbling them down. It is a beautiful example of symbiosis. Neither of them knows they are creating it, of course, nor cares.
The flickers, the hairy woodpecker and his diminutive cousin, the downy woodpecker, have all been nibbling steadily at the GORP I put out. It is a mixture of peanut butter, mollasses, corn meal, oat meal and lard, with a few raisins for the occasional early spring blue jay. (No need to worry about these energetic winter denizens having high cholesterol counts!) I spread it into the hollows on their feeder or onto the bark and natural holes in the old gravenstein apple tree outside the livingroom window.
Soon it will be time to put the GORP away, for the starlings love it also, and while I do not subscribe to practicing genocide against these extremely successful immigrants, for they did not make the decision to come here from the Old World but were brought by the colonists. That would give them as much right as I to tear up the countryside. Still, I do not encourage them. I much prefer that the chickadees and the violet-green swallows, and the robins nest here. Starling flocks are a dependable sign of spring and as yet I have not seen any. Perhaps you have, for my real birdwatching days are over now. Still, I like to have the news and I am grateful when someone stops me on the street or in the store to tell me they have robins in their yard, or that the redwings are back, or even that the starlings have arrived. By such signs do I count my days, even now.
A View From My Garden
This morning I awakened to sunshine pouring in all the windows. The dogs and the cat saw it too and began romping and chasing each other, trying their best to get me involved. I thought about it. Maybe it would be a really good idea to set all other responsibilities aside, load the dogs in the pickup and take off for our favorite spot along the river. Then I looked at the thermometer and had a second thought. I was right, I guess, because the clouds have now moved in and it will be another dreary day with the dogs and the cat sleeping and me at the computer in this nice warm office. There has not been enough writing in recent weeks and at least that can be corrected.
There is so much to be done in the garden, and yet the ground has just now thawed and the worms have certainly not yet turned; the robins wait impatiently while they finish the last of the tiny apples on the ornamental crab along with a few bright red currents on the high-bush cranberry.
High-bush cranberry is probably one of the best illustrations of why we really ought to use the botanical names for plants. This is not a cranberry; cranberries grow in bogs in the wild but moderate climates of the coasts of Oregon and New England. High-bush cranberry is one of the large and varied Viburnum family which also contains the currents and hydrangeas, and maybe the chokecherry. I will have to look that up to be sure. A friend gave me a start from a plant he called a cranberry, and I said it looked like a red current to me, but he insisted. So, I thought maybe it was another high-bush cranberry which has done very well in this garden, or maybe another variety of that very nice ornamental. I did not want any more red currents because the ones I have are afflicted with some virus or another which spoils their foliage and I do not grow them for the berries, except that the birds like them. My friends shrubs turned out to be red currents. Close, but no cigar!
The local birds, the ones that over winter here, are plentiful around the feeders these days, along with a flock of pine siskins and an occasional flock of juncos. The siskins are of the finch family so they sit on the feeders and drop a messy pile of black oil sunflower seeds whole, as well as hulled, while the juncos jump and scratch like chickens underneath them, finding the good seeds and gobbling them down. It is a beautiful example of symbiosis. Neither of them knows they are creating it, of course, nor cares.
The flickers, the hairy woodpecker and his diminutive cousin, the downy woodpecker, have all been nibbling steadily at the GORP I put out. It is a mixture of peanut butter, mollasses, corn meal, oat meal and lard, with a few raisins for the occasional early spring blue jay. (No need to worry about these energetic winter denizens having high cholesterol counts!) I spread it into the hollows on their feeder or onto the bark and natural holes in the old gravenstein apple tree outside the livingroom window.
Soon it will be time to put the GORP away, for the starlings love it also, and while I do not subscribe to practicing genocide against these extremely successful immigrants, for they did not make the decision to come here from the Old World but were brought by the colonists. That would give them as much right as I to tear up the countryside. Still, I do not encourage them. I much prefer that the chickadees and the violet-green swallows, and the robins nest here. Starling flocks are a dependable sign of spring and as yet I have not seen any. Perhaps you have, for my real birdwatching days are over now. Still, I like to have the news and I am grateful when someone stops me on the street or in the store to tell me they have robins in their yard, or that the redwings are back, or even that the starlings have arrived. By such signs do I count my days, even now.
There is so much to be done in the garden, and yet the ground has just now thawed and the worms have certainly not yet turned; the robins wait impatiently while they finish the last of the tiny apples on the ornamental crab along with a few bright red currents on the high-bush cranberry.
High-bush cranberry is probably one of the best illustrations of why we really ought to use the botanical names for plants. This is not a cranberry; cranberries grow in bogs in the wild but moderate climates of the coasts of Oregon and New England. High-bush cranberry is one of the large and varied Viburnum family which also contains the currents and hydrangeas, and maybe the chokecherry. I will have to look that up to be sure. A friend gave me a start from a plant he called a cranberry, and I said it looked like a red current to me, but he insisted. So, I thought maybe it was another high-bush cranberry which has done very well in this garden, or maybe another variety of that very nice ornamental. I did not want any more red currents because the ones I have are afflicted with some virus or another which spoils their foliage and I do not grow them for the berries, except that the birds like them. My friends shrubs turned out to be red currents. Close, but no cigar!
The local birds, the ones that over winter here, are plentiful around the feeders these days, along with a flock of pine siskins and an occasional flock of juncos. The siskins are of the finch family so they sit on the feeders and drop a messy pile of black oil sunflower seeds whole, as well as hulled, while the juncos jump and scratch like chickens underneath them, finding the good seeds and gobbling them down. It is a beautiful example of symbiosis. Neither of them knows they are creating it, of course, nor cares.
The flickers, the hairy woodpecker and his diminutive cousin, the downy woodpecker, have all been nibbling steadily at the GORP I put out. It is a mixture of peanut butter, mollasses, corn meal, oat meal and lard, with a few raisins for the occasional early spring blue jay. (No need to worry about these energetic winter denizens having high cholesterol counts!) I spread it into the hollows on their feeder or onto the bark and natural holes in the old gravenstein apple tree outside the livingroom window.
Soon it will be time to put the GORP away, for the starlings love it also, and while I do not subscribe to practicing genocide against these extremely successful immigrants, for they did not make the decision to come here from the Old World but were brought by the colonists. That would give them as much right as I to tear up the countryside. Still, I do not encourage them. I much prefer that the chickadees and the violet-green swallows, and the robins nest here. Starling flocks are a dependable sign of spring and as yet I have not seen any. Perhaps you have, for my real birdwatching days are over now. Still, I like to have the news and I am grateful when someone stops me on the street or in the store to tell me they have robins in their yard, or that the redwings are back, or even that the starlings have arrived. By such signs do I count my days, even now.
A View From My Garden
These dark mornings of the New Year with all their gloom, fog and snow, represent the turning of a page. It is time to plan a garden, time to start lettuce plants under the grow lights in the lean-to greenhouse (guaranteed to be free of E. coli!) and eaten in baby lettuce salads during February. I have been receiving one gorgeously colorful and tempting seed catalogue per day and the stack is approaching record height. There are all the old faithfuls along with a few new ones - some I asked for and some I did not. Never mind, they all make great browsing; the very stuff that dream gardens are made of.
I only pay real attention to the nurseries that grow their own stock above the 47th parallel. It is a belief I have which transcends the US Department of Agricultures time-honored zone system. My experience has shown me failed zone 4 plants and scant germination from seeds grown in the south. They just do not understand. Here in the northland it is already time to be up and doing! No naps until fall (well maybe now and then, at least in July).
Seriously, my insisting on stock and seed from northern nurseries pays off for me. On that basis, I can cut that pile of catalogues by at least two-thirds, although the pages of southern-grown roses are wonderful to look at and to dream over. But I have lived in zone 8-9 country and I know there is a down side to those gorgeous but tender types. The bugs are endless, and the viruses and molds are not far behind. It takes a real winter to keep the foe at bay, for plants and for humans, also. How often we say, "We need a good freeze to knock back the cold and flu bugs." Not very scientific, I guess, but nevertheless, perhaps true.
At the beginning of the cold weather, I dug the carrots and packed them in slightly damp, clean sand in a large Styrofoam cooler in the basement. There were 45 pounds of scarlet Nantes in all and they are keeping well. When they need moisture to keep them from wilting, I put an ice cream bucket full of ice cubes on them. Never enough to truly wet the sand.
Near the carrot cooler is the bench that holds potted geraniums and a couple of other tender perennials which over-winter well under fluorescent tubes. The lights are about 15 feet away from the cooler which sits on the basement floor against the north wall. When I went to the cooler yesterday to bring a supply of carrots up to the refrigerator, I noticed that the lid was lifted about two inches on the front side, facing the grow lights. When I lifted the lid away I found a small jungle of carrot tops, most scrawny white things, but still strong enough to lift the lid of the cooler. And, this is to me the real miracle, a few of those tops, closest to the lifted edge of the lid, were a pale green and formed into real carrot leaves!
We take our plants so much for granted; I, at least, think little of pulling them up and storing them to suit my needs, but there they were, even confined in a dungeon, given only the tiniest chance to actually grow, they were nevertheless, growing. I paused for a moment, with a mental nod toward these sturdy, dedicated, totally honest root beings. Later, while crunching them in time with the games of Wildcard Weekend, I noted that their sweetness had increased - or maybe it was my appreciation that made the difference.
I only pay real attention to the nurseries that grow their own stock above the 47th parallel. It is a belief I have which transcends the US Department of Agricultures time-honored zone system. My experience has shown me failed zone 4 plants and scant germination from seeds grown in the south. They just do not understand. Here in the northland it is already time to be up and doing! No naps until fall (well maybe now and then, at least in July).
Seriously, my insisting on stock and seed from northern nurseries pays off for me. On that basis, I can cut that pile of catalogues by at least two-thirds, although the pages of southern-grown roses are wonderful to look at and to dream over. But I have lived in zone 8-9 country and I know there is a down side to those gorgeous but tender types. The bugs are endless, and the viruses and molds are not far behind. It takes a real winter to keep the foe at bay, for plants and for humans, also. How often we say, "We need a good freeze to knock back the cold and flu bugs." Not very scientific, I guess, but nevertheless, perhaps true.
At the beginning of the cold weather, I dug the carrots and packed them in slightly damp, clean sand in a large Styrofoam cooler in the basement. There were 45 pounds of scarlet Nantes in all and they are keeping well. When they need moisture to keep them from wilting, I put an ice cream bucket full of ice cubes on them. Never enough to truly wet the sand.
Near the carrot cooler is the bench that holds potted geraniums and a couple of other tender perennials which over-winter well under fluorescent tubes. The lights are about 15 feet away from the cooler which sits on the basement floor against the north wall. When I went to the cooler yesterday to bring a supply of carrots up to the refrigerator, I noticed that the lid was lifted about two inches on the front side, facing the grow lights. When I lifted the lid away I found a small jungle of carrot tops, most scrawny white things, but still strong enough to lift the lid of the cooler. And, this is to me the real miracle, a few of those tops, closest to the lifted edge of the lid, were a pale green and formed into real carrot leaves!
We take our plants so much for granted; I, at least, think little of pulling them up and storing them to suit my needs, but there they were, even confined in a dungeon, given only the tiniest chance to actually grow, they were nevertheless, growing. I paused for a moment, with a mental nod toward these sturdy, dedicated, totally honest root beings. Later, while crunching them in time with the games of Wildcard Weekend, I noted that their sweetness had increased - or maybe it was my appreciation that made the difference.
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