It arrived last weekend by special delivery, my first gift of the season. I was puttering around the house when the doorbell rang. Standing on the doorstep, looking a little uncertain in his role as courier, was Jeff, my daughter's boyfriend (now husband).
He'd been called upon to make the delivery — perhaps as a test — something along the lines of, "Look, you don't have to slay a dragon, just take this over to my dad's place and you may win the hand of the princess."
I followed Jeff down to the driveway where he quickly unloaded my gift from the trunk of his car. He looked relieved, especially when he saw my face light up. I recognized the bag immediately — it wasn't gift-wrapped.
The stamp on the side read High Quality, Organic Horse Feed, except both Jeff and I knew that was not what was in the bag (obvious olfactory clues were emanating).
In the bag was high quality, organic horse feed after it has been recycled into organic fertilizer by the finest of thoroughbred race horses. Perfectly aged like a fine wine, it came from a farm down the highway that regularly places bags for sale at the roadside — same concept as a fruit stand.
My daughter had been along one time when I picked up a few bags and she knew how much I'd appreciate even more of the stuff. I thanked Jeff profusely and asked him if he knew what the stuff he'd delivered would do for lazy roses?
I'm not sure he understood. When he drove off he did have the windows down, even though it was cold out, but I suspect that if it had been a big white charger he'd been riding, he would have been sitting a little taller in the saddle.
Not all gardeners can expect to
receive Christmas gifts of this remarkable quality. If you're looking for the perfect gift
for the gardener in your family, it shouldn't be too difficult.
The secret is in knowing what will be
appreciated and what will vanish to the back of the shed. Mine is spread across my rose garden for everyone to admire. It's the gift that keeps on giving (you should see my roses).
Friday, December 18, 2015
Friday, December 4, 2015
You Gotta Love the Things
Bracts of red and
leaves of green — first line of a poinsettia poem. I was hoping to celebrate this amazingly
popular Christmas decoration in rhyme, but that’s all I came up with. I tried,
but once I had the image in my head I couldn’t go any further.
Regular readers know of my difficulty accepting the poinsettia as a plant, even though it is one, yet each year at this time I feel compelled to provide a little information that, if nothing else, might help keep everyone’s favourite centerpiece alive long enough to contribute to the spirit of the season.
I wrote last December of how I felt I’d come to grips with my phobia, of how I’d turned a corner, learned at last to accept the omnipresence of poinsettias, but by Boxing Day my usual disaffection had returned.
I just can’t help it. I mean, who else has been quoted in the Wall Street Journal in an article glorifying the plant’s qualities as someone with an opposing opinion?
That bit of negative exposure sure ruled out any thought of Christmas shopping trips toBuffalo . I had visions of
wanted posters at the border with me holding a poinsettia in one hand and a can
of Roundup in the other.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy everything else about Christmas. The joy, the goodwill to all, and especially my mother-in-law’s mince pies, but I just can’t bring myself to embrace the poinsettia. It isn’t easy.
Just last weekend I was at a Christmas dance and had to leave the dance floor in a hurry when the DJ began awarding you know what as spot prizes.
Regular readers know of my difficulty accepting the poinsettia as a plant, even though it is one, yet each year at this time I feel compelled to provide a little information that, if nothing else, might help keep everyone’s favourite centerpiece alive long enough to contribute to the spirit of the season.
I wrote last December of how I felt I’d come to grips with my phobia, of how I’d turned a corner, learned at last to accept the omnipresence of poinsettias, but by Boxing Day my usual disaffection had returned.
I just can’t help it. I mean, who else has been quoted in the Wall Street Journal in an article glorifying the plant’s qualities as someone with an opposing opinion?
That bit of negative exposure sure ruled out any thought of Christmas shopping trips to
It’s not that I don’t enjoy everything else about Christmas. The joy, the goodwill to all, and especially my mother-in-law’s mince pies, but I just can’t bring myself to embrace the poinsettia. It isn’t easy.
Just last weekend I was at a Christmas dance and had to leave the dance floor in a hurry when the DJ began awarding you know what as spot prizes.
Regardless,
I have a duty here, so despite any misgivings on my part, and the fact that at
this very moment there is a poinsettia within arms reach of practically every
person on this continent, here is everything you need to know to keep them
looking happy and healthy, at least until Boxing Day.
First
remove the garish foil from around the pot or at least poke holes in the bottom
and set the pot on a saucer otherwise excess water can rot the roots. Locate in
a sunny window, but not against the glass. Maintain at a daytime temperature of
18 to 21C and if possible move to a cooler place at night, but no cooler than
15C, again to avoid root rot. Water well when the surface is dry to the touch. Poinsettias don’t tolerate drafts so keep them
away from air registers and doorways.
Bracts
of red and leaves of green . . . take em away, they shouldn’t be seen — not bad.
Friday, November 27, 2015
It's a Garden Guy Gift Thing
It's that time of year when I feel compelled to join the Christmas onslaught and suggest a list of possible gifts for gardeners, much as I've done in the past. You know — buy this book, that tool, or those seeds.
If my intention is truly to support gardeners and ensure
they receive an appropriate, garden related gift, then it might make more sense
to disguise this column and connive to have it printed in the sports or
business section of the paper.
This is not meant to be sexist in any way,
suggesting that all garden gifters are male while garden giftees are female,
nor am I claiming that the fairer sex (and even that statement can be
troublesome) never read the sports or business sections — BUT and it's a big
BUT, I have overwhelming evidence to support my argument that the majority of
gardeners in North America are female rather than male. It's much the same in
Europe, although much less so in Britain.
I grew up there where it was perfectly acceptable for men to
grow plants and flowers. My dad did, my uncles did, and so did their male neighbours.
The popular pastime of tending a small allotment (a community
garden) was largely the prerogative of men, and they didn't produce only
cabbages and potatoes. They spent just as much time on growing perfect dahlias,
mums, or sweet peas; although I'll willingly admit there was an element of
competitiveness.
A conversation between men about flowers was just as likely to
be overheard in the local pub as one about cricket, rugby or soccer. This makes
it difficult for me. Whenever I sit down with a bunch of guys, say for coffee
or a beer, the conversation frequently turns to cars, baseball, or hockey. It
never seems quite the right time for me to say, "Hey, anyone like to see
pictures of my prize peony?"
No, the garden world is strongly weighted on the feminine
side. Need more proof? Since 1998, I've operated a website called Garden
Humour. Readers there can take a test to determine if they are a mad,
passionate, gardener. Pass the test (and no one fails), and the applicant
receives a certificate of membership in the fictional International Society of
Mad Gardeners. Thousands have applied and guess what: 95% are women.
I also receive quite a few emails and letters in response to
the columns I write. Guess who writes most often? I often speak at garden clubs
and horticultural societies, too, and I can tell you, there is never, ever, a
line-up at the men's washroom.
This isn't a scientific survey, but I've a feeling that the
majority of my readers are more likely women, although any apparent lack of
interest in gardening on the part of men could be due to them traditionally
preferring not to ask for advice, but rather to figure things out for
themselves.
Regardless, the question of what to suggest as Christmas gifts for
gardeners is more easily solved, since it's a given that, children excepted,
those buying these gifts will most likely be men. As this is the case, there's
a strong possibility that a large number of gifts will be hurriedly purchased
at the last minute from a garden gift store on Christmas Eve.
Many of these
gifts will typically be what I call garden accoutrements. This is not
necessarily a bad thing. Men can have good taste. I mean, you can hardly expect
him to remember the more practical items you hinted at when you dragged him whining
to a garden show last spring.
Because my research on the gender balance of gardeners is
impeccable, I feel I can safely say that gardeners are overwhelmingly practical
types, and more than anything, they will appreciate a gift they can actually use.
Having said that, it is essential that a Christmas gift be a complete surprise,
and so when you make up a list to pin on the fridge or slip into the sports
section, be sure to make it a long one, and yes, it is permissible to underline
certain items.
And what am I putting on my Christmas list? I'm seriously
considering a request for a tee shirt printed with the slogan: REAL MEN GROW
PETUNIAS.
Friday, November 20, 2015
Martha Would be Proud of Me
The frost has finished off the last of the summer plants. This included the bowl of begonias that I've been dragging in an out of the garage every morning and night in a forlorn
attempt to keep a few cheery blossoms going as long as possible.
In late October, it always feels as though there's never enough
time to complete all my fall tasks, but then we're blessed with a few fine
days in November and I find myself puttering about the garden looking for
something to do. I took advantage of the last few days of good weather by making big piles of
leaves for compost, then I tidied up the shed and I emptied the soil from the last of the
planters before storing them away.
As I dragged away the two large ones from the front porch, I
couldn't help but notice that the approach to the front door was now looking
particularly barren. It had previously sported an assortment of containers,
including the large enamel bowl that had held the begonias, although I'm sure
the mail carrier is happier now that she doesn’t require the leaping skills of
a gazelle to reach the mailbox. In fact, I'd fully expected her to give up by mid
summer and simply toss the mail in the driveway. She's such a trooper.
I wasn't planning to seek out more stuff to replace the
obstacle course, but it occurred to me that I should add something to the front
porch to make it more welcoming, and a winter planter seemed like a good idea. I've
seen pictures of them in magazines, but never got around to making my
own. I already had the perfect container, the enamel bowl with soil still
intact, so I began to think about what I could "plant" in it.
Red willow twigs seemed an obvious choice because I'd seen
them stacked up for sale outside one of the garden centres — so many that I'm
convinced there must be willow plantations to supply the demand. Since
it was a Saturday afternoon, and I was content to be in the garden, there was
no way I was going to fight weekend traffic to fetch a few twigs when there surely
would be stuff out back that I could use.
The red twigs were easy because the variegated dogwood that
annually tries to invade the pathway at the bottom of the garden was asking for
a quick snipping. I continued looking around for potential material. The yarrow
still had large seed heads on and might have made the display, but then I
spotted the limelight hydrangea. The heads are large, in proportion to the
planter, and although a pale brown colour, they still had a faint pink tinge to
them — perfect. The planter needed a little greenery — no problem. I snipped a
few bits from the blue spruce that's hidden in the back corner. It wouldn't
miss a sprig or two, and besides, I have to dig it out and find a new home for
it next year before it grows any larger.
As I plunged my bits and pieces into the bowl, I realized
the soil needed brightening up a little. In the shed I had just the thing — a
lovely, rich brown coir (peat moss would have done almost as well). An inch of
that on the surface made all the difference. A few pine cones I'd used as container
mulch in summer to fill in the gaps, plumes of ornamental grass, and I was finished
— or so I thought.
While walking the dog the next day I picked a few teasel
stalks from the empty lot across the street and brought them home. Next, it was
a pair of red seed heads from a sumac and finally I was done. Knowing when to
stop is important, especially with my primitive Ikebana skills.
I doubt a
master like Martha Stewart would even let me weed the flowerbeds in which her
plants grow, but I'm happy with my winter planter. Fortunately, the resident Ikebana master has tidied it up nicely and now the front porch looks a little
welcoming. It shouldn't be much of a challenge to the mail carrier, but if the
weather is nice this weekend, I might plant up another one — or two.
Friday, November 13, 2015
Enthusiastic, Passionate, Committed Gardener?
Are you an enthusiastic, passionate, committed gardener?
Perhaps you're regarded less charitably by your family and friends as a touch
eccentric, nay, even a little nutty? Ignore them; it's perfectly all right to
be ardent about your pastime.
Most people display passion about something in their lives, although
it's usually something that's strangely more socially acceptable, such as: being
a rabid sports fan, a follower of the Kardashian saga, or waxing a car.
However, admit to relishing the earthy fragrance of compost or brag about your prize
peonies on a coffee break and you're soon relegated to the outer fringes.
And yet only a generation or so back, almost everyone was a
gardener and it was considered a normal part of life. A patch of ground and a
packet of seeds was how the family was fed. That's when a blackberry really was
a blackberry. Meanwhile, flowers were grown to brighten the home and feed the
soul.
Somehow, we're losing this challenge, this connection with
nature. It can't be found in fast food, plastic flowers,
or in the fragrance of an air freshener. It's in the elation felt when a seed
sprouts, the taste of a fruit or vegetable that you grew yourself, or in seeing
the soul feeding magic of petals unfolding. A garden is where the life
enriching spiritual connection between mankind and this precious earth is the
strongest.
With increasing concern about what we are eating, where it
comes from, and what's in the food, plus the realization that we've cocooned
ourselves in an unsustainable world; it may be that soon we'll come full circle
and fully appreciate the skills of the serious gardener.
But how passionate and committed are you — to the point
where eyebrows are raised or eyes roll? Do you go out in the garden for a few
minutes and disappear for the day, no matter what the weather? Are you constantly moving plants around in your
garden? Do you visit a garden centre and return with more plants than you can
possibly find room for in your garden? Do you pull weeds in friends' gardens —
or even public gardens? Do neighbours lock their doors and hide when they see
your zucchinis ripening? These are all signs of a passionate, committed
gardener — or should be. Who said that? Who said he's nuts?
Friday, November 6, 2015
Bloom or Bust
“How do I get my
Christmas cactus to bloom in time for Christmas?” Sorry, I can’t help. It’s too
late. This is really not the best time to offer solutions to the big question.
Early fall might have been a better time to bring up the subject, but no one was
thinking about Christmas cactus in September. You
might be thinking about it now, but the time to do anything has passed.
This all came about as I
was wandering around my local monster hardware store last week during a family
excursion to buy paint. I don’t know why, but going there always seems more
like a visit to a popular tourist attraction than a shopping trip — crowds,
long line-ups, and hot dog vendors.
While we were in the
store waiting for the paint to be mixed, I wandered over to a nearby rack that
had caught my attention — it was full of bright red and green items, more colourful than the pastel paints I’d
been staring at for twenty minutes trying to decide between blue, blue, or a different
blue. And no, it wasn’t an early shipment of the Poinsettias, it was a large display of Christmas cactus plants. They were all in bloom doing their darnedest to entice shoppers to buy, a classic case of plant marketing -- sell while in bloom and let the petals fall where they may.
Sadly, the ambient temperature might have been fine for keeping the
paint flowing, but it was much warmer than these plants prefer. They were
being subjected to a lot of movement, too, as shoppers picked them up and
sorted through them, looking for something that wouldn't clash with the new wallpaper they'd just purchased. And they were under lights that hardly ever turn off — all the wrong conditions
to promote blooming. However, at a buck fifty each they were a deal for those wily gardeners who are able to restore life to a dead stick.
Fortunately, the
Christmas cactus (CC) is a resilient plant, and with a little care can potentially
outlive the average shopper, but the plants I saw on display will likely have
dropped all their blooms by Christmas day, and consequently far too many will
go out with the wrapping paper, just like the other red and green Christmas
plant, the one that every year is looking more and more like Christmas wrapping
paper. But, with a little care, a CC can live for years and produce a show of
blooms that the P plant can only ever dream of.
So buy
now while the plants are on sale, but don’t worry about whether it will be in
bloom this Christmas. We’re thinking about next year, we’re planning ahead.
Friday, October 30, 2015
The Garden Shed of Doom
It may be Halloween, but I don't believe there are any
ghosts or goblins lurking about in my garden, although a person might possibly
be startled by Gneville. He's only a garden gnome, although in the dark I
suppose he could be mistaken for a goblin, or one of the other malevolent
denizens of the underworld, but then he doesn't have an evil grin. It's more of
a silly smirk, making him about as scary as Barney the Dinosaur in a field of
daisies.
As for ghosts, plenty of slugs and earwigs have met their
end in my garden, in most cases rather suddenly. I suppose if they had souls and
were inclined to do a little haunting, they'd be back to settle the score, but after
a good frost, I've never seen a live one, let alone an apparition.
There are, however, plenty of folk who've believed all along
that slugs are creatures from the dark side, and would rather think they don't
exist in this world. So often, I hear complaints from daytime gardeners of
holes appearing mysteriously in the leaves of plants, whole leaves missing,
even complete vegetable gardens disappearing overnight. Trails of ectoplasm
criss-cross flowerbeds supporting their belief that it must be some ghostly
monster.
I've never been a believer in ghosts or monsters from the
other side — common, or garden, but it's easy enough to be spooked in a garden
after dark. There are always creepy things happening during the night — strange
sounds, slitherings, clinging spider webs, and of course, raspberry canes that
grope and grasp and won't let go. But these things don't frighten me.
I will admit, however, to being startled one night by a pair
of eyes glaring at me from the back corner of the shed — probably just a cat or
a rabbit I said to myself as I pitched the trowel and slammed the door shut behind
me. For months, I avoided the shed after dark.
If you have reason to go into a garden shed at night, cough
loudly, rattle the handle, and then kick the door before entering — and carry a
your biggest hoe. And keep an eye on garden gnomes. Don't let the silly
smirks fool you.
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