Orange Globes Again

It’s hard to avoid those large, orange globes — you know what I mean. What do they call them — pumpkins? Yes, it’s that time of year and they’re sprouting everywhere, even crowding out election signs. They’re also a big news story — that is the big ones are. It seems there’s a record broken every fall for size and weight.

Besides the challenges of transportation to the weighing arena, there’s clearly a lot more involved in competitive pumpkin growing than just scattering a few seeds in the garden. I have grown pumpkins on occasion, and it was exciting the time I had one climb into a tomato cage. When it bulked up it absorbed the whole cage and became a goofy Halloween display all on its own, a performance artist pumpkin tottering on its three spiky legs with wires growing through its head — sort of a man in the iron mask look.

Yet I'm not competitive enough to dive into record breaking attempts, and besides, I really don’t have the room. My suburban lot isn't large enough to grow something the size of a garden shed, although it does sound almost like a practical idea. Plant it in spring, stop feeding when it reaches the appropriate size, scoop out the inside, then cut in the doors and windows and voila —  an orange garden shed. Not large enough? — I could grow a fresh one each year.

Durability might be an issue though, given how regular pumpkins tend to implode over time if left too long on the porch. I imagine a shed sized one could become its own compost pile overnight, then there’s an awful mess to clean up. I think I’ll stick with regular sized pumpkins — or even miniatures ones. Why not? Down sizing happened with pet dogs. If they get any smaller, we’ll be keeping them in bird cages.

As it happens, I did grow miniature pumpkins this year and I’m pleased with the results. They’re not really pumpkins, but they sure look like pumpkins. They’re just as orange, just as creased, and what’s more, my one plant produced dozens. They’re actually a plant in the nightshade family — same as potatoes and tomatoes. In fact, they've been called mock tomato. They’re also called Ornamental Eggplant, pumpkin bush, and my favourite, pumpkin on a stick. Solanum Integrifolium is the botanical name and it’s native to South East Asia.

It’s cooked there in stir fry dishes, but I'm not planning to eat mine without a little more research, but I am happy to grow it as an interesting ornamental plant. It was easy to grow and could have reached over a meter high if I’d given it a sunnier spot. I bought it as a plant in spring, although it can be grown from seed. I thought it looked interesting and stuck it in an out of the way corner in part shade then forgot about it until I saw golf ball sized pumpkins growing. 

Despite a lack of attention, my plant managed to produce a few dozen fruit. They’ll look perfect in a fall display basket — one with gourds and stuff. Not my thing, really. I think I’ll carve them as Barbie sized ghouls — or Barbie sized garden sheds. 

Get Your Mums, Kids

It’s impossible to avoid them. Chrysanthemums are ubiquitous to the point I try to avoid them. I don’t have a single one in my garden. It is a mum free zone, except for the better half. I don’t mind them, but I can view mums any time. One trip to the grocery store, two minutes staring at their glowing heads and I'm mummed out, but I’ll admit they do look a lot better than bags of softener salt. 

Don’t get me wrong; I've no objection to others buying these plants. In fact I encourage it. There’s nothing finer than a pair of simulated headlights at the head of every driveway. I guess my mild aversion to them matches the feelings I have towards poinsettias and Easter lilies. They’re all plants — kind of. That is they’re all grown in greenhouses, but that’s where the similarity ends. They barely qualify as house plants. They’re really just decorations with a half life of a few weeks; then they’re done.

Regardless, however nebulous the connection with gardening might be, I have a responsibility to provide advice on the care of mums. Here it is: Simply place them in a sunny spot — or shady, and water them regularly until it’s time to replace them with pumpkins.

If you’re beginning to get the feeling that it would be a better idea if they grew in your garden as fall blooming perennials, there is no reason this can’t be so, but not with the ones that you buy at the grocery store. Okay, maybe, just maybe, depending on the quality of the plant, the time of planting, and winter weather, it might just be possible to have one survive and flower again in your garden. I've done it, but the odds of success are slim. Alternatively you could try wintering the pot over in a cool, non-freezing location such as an insulated garage or porch. Cut back the foliage as it dies down then keep the soil barely moist until spring. If it survives and shows new growth, plant it out in the garden.

The reason fall mums don’t adapt to planting in the garden is they’re greenhouse grown. Sure, they can withstand frost, but they've been forced into bloom for the season. They don’t have good root systems and are often pot-bound. The flowering stage, which is the selling feature, occurs at the end of the growth period, not the beginning. The plant is confused. Under normal conditions in the garden, mums grow through summer, flower in September, then shut down for the winter. Stick it in the ground now and it won’t even consider rooting out as the ground is freezing up.

The answer is to plant mums in spring. They’re available at most garden centres but guess what — they’re often ignored because they don’t have flowers. Few people think about mums in spring, probably because they don’t look anything like the glorious monsters that are presently reigning over every front porch in the city.  

But buy and plant them in spring and you’ll have the pleasure of watching them grow. They won’t need much care — a sunny location in reasonable soil, regular watering, and they’ll grow well. For best blooming, they can be pinched or pruned back up until July to create a bushier plant with more blooms for fall. Mulch around the plant in late fall and they’ll be with you for years.  

Think of the anticipation as the plant sprouts new leaves in spring and those little buds begin to form. Imagine the pleasure when the first one opens. That’s gardening, not decorating.

Don't Panic

The question keeps coming up. Should I cut back the dead foliage on my perennials in fall or wait until spring? This is an important question and deserves a lot of research before I can answer it emphatically. Research done. The answer is . . . please yourself. I say please yourself because the benefits or drawbacks are more relevant to how you feel about your own garden. 

Picture this: You have party at your house; it's 3 a.m. and you've just slammed the door on the last guest. Are you the type that washes all the dishes, tidies up, and then vacuums before going to bed, or do you simply collapse in the squalor? Of course, the answer is probably somewhere in between, depending on how the party went and whether you feel like holding another.

It's much the same in the garden. Whether you cut back the perennials or not largely depends on how you feel about the way things look, or whether it's the front garden or the back. Cut back or don't cut back? More than likely it won't make much of a difference. No one has ever come by my garden in summer and said, Ah, I see you didn't cut back your veronica last fall.

There are practical reasons for cleaning up immediately after a party and there are practical reasons to tidy up the spent foliage of perennials in the garden, but there will always be an opposing opinion, regardless.

In the garden, the pros and cons usually go like this: leaving all the stalks and seed heads on plants will provide food for birds during winter, meanwhile snow will collect and build up on the flowerbed, protecting the tender crowns of plants below. The mounded snow will also be aesthetically pleasing to the eye. On the other hand, insects and disease can remain with the foliage allowing them to be on site in spring ready to have another go at the plant.

Is the latter a concern? I'm not convinced. If you have plants that have obviously been afflicted with disease this year, then by all means remove and destroy the foliage, maybe the whole plant, but accept that many fungal and viral diseases are caused by organisms that winter over in the soil. Finding a needle in a haystack is a breeze compared to picking fungus spores from soil, and if you don't get every last one of the little devils, the problem will be back. The severity, however, is more apt to depend on weather conditions, rather than your diligence.

Remember the tar spot fungus that was plaguing maple trees the last year or so? It caused unsightly black spots on the leaves and we were warned to clean up every last leaf around the garden (I composted mine regardless). There's not much sign of tar spot this fall, but I'm sure it isn't because every leaf with a black spot on it was conscientiously removed from the province. More likely, it was a dry spring that disrupted the spread of spores. This is the cyclical nature of insects and diseases.

I'm afraid I still haven't answered the real question, so if it helps, here's what I do. On my roses, I cut back any extra long canes that will whip about in the wind, but leave pruning until next spring. I will also leave woody or evergreen perennials alone, but I might, if I'm in the mood, remove the mushy dead leaves of herbaceous plants like day lilies or hostas as these can provide hiding places for slugs to hide out. Unlike woody perennials which sprout from their stems, these plants sprout anew from their roots. I will wait, however, until frost has finished them off. Ornamental grasses sprout from their roots, too, but I wouldn't dream of cutting them back until spring. They are a highlight of my winter garden.

If you're still not sure about which perennials to cut back, take a clue from Mother Nature. After the party is over, she throws a blanket of leaves over the whole mess and doesn't worry about a thing. Don't you worry so much, either.

To the Rescue Again

I feel a moderate sense of pride when I reflect on my current success story. It began almost a year ago when I stopped by a large local hardware store. I was only there to purchase a light bulb. Of course, it's almost impossible to purchase one light bulb thanks to multiple packaging. And thanks to psychologically effective display patterns and subconscious messaging, it's practically impossible to walk out of a large hardware store without a shopping cart full of things one isn't aware one needs when one enters the store.

However, I consider myself immune to advertising and subliminal messages and I managed to leave the store with only a two-pack of light bulbs. I did have a weak moment, though, just outside the door where I had to pass by the rejects from the attached garden centre.

They were mainly evergreen shrubs and half dead perennials, none of which I needed. I did give them the once over, but since I was in a hurry to get home and restore light to the bathroom, I didn't linger. The following day I went back to pick up a light bulb for the outside light over the front door. Since it was a sunny Saturday morning, there was no rush for the light bulb, so I was able to look over the plants a little more carefully.

I focussed on the perennials, hoping there might be something unique that I could scoop for next to nothing, but typically, these plants are ones that arrived at the store by the thousand and are only stacked at the door for a quick sale because it's closer than the dumpster.

It was then that I spotted it, almost hidden among the abundant spireas going for $3.99. At first, I thought it was a discarded support cane stuck in a pot, except it had a few yellow leaves hanging from it. There was a tag attached, though a faded one. I could just make out the words — Caryopteris 'Sunshine Blue', a small shrub. No Caryopteris had ever been grown in my garden. I'd never thought of planting one as they're barely hardy here. But, at $3.99, I'd nothing to loose.

I took my new plant home and sat on the bench while I figured out where I was going to plant it. These days, a new addition inevitably means replacing something else I'm tired of, or something that's performing miserably. The rose mallow (perennial hibiscus) that's been growing against the shed for years qualified on both counts — out it came (ironically, it was probably in better shape than many of the plants I'd seen crowding the door to the hardware store).

I then did a major refurbishing of the soil before planting the caryopteris, digging deeply, adding compost. I watered well then stood back. Nothing happened, other than the two leaves falling off. Later in fall, I mulched seriously all around the plant, hoping to ensure it would survive its first winter, more in hope than anticipation. 

It did indeed survive, although I had my doubts as it was the middle of June this year before it so much as sprouted a leaf. These were yellow, the same colour as the ones that fell off in fall. I've since learned that they're supposed to be a golden yellow, so it had not been quite so sick as it looked when I brought it home.

Right now, I'm feeling pretty good because over the summer the plant has flourished. Small blue flowers are appearing and it looks perfect in it's location beside the shed. Hmm, I just noticed the bulb is out on the table lamp. I'm off to buy a new one.

You Know You Need One

Zucchini — it can be a tricky word in a spelling bee. But it’s not a tricky plant; it’s a terrific plant. The zucchini contains valuable antioxidants and is a good source of vitamins A and C and potassium. It’s also low in calories making it an excellent choice for dieters.

The trouble with zucchini begins when it comes time to dispose of the crop. Place a few zucchini out on the sidewalk with a FREE sign on them and next day your pile will have increased. To avoid unwanted donations, people in my neighbourhood make darn sure they lock their cars each night. If you happen to arrive at harvest time with more zucchini than you can find homes for, remember that the food bank will always be able to use them — and anything else your garden produces. In fact, an extra row or two planted especially for them is a worthwhile venture.

The origins of zucchini lie in Mexico where they were grown as far back as 7,000 to 5,500 BCE. They were an integral part of the ancient diet of corn, beans, and squashes. These foods, known as the three sisters, are still the mainstay of Mexican cuisine. Because the climate there is ideal for these plants, I imagine the Mexican people must have the same problem with overly productive zucchini as we do, so if you happen to vacation there, it’s a good idea to check your luggage before leaving.

This is probably how zucchini made it to Europe, secretly stuffed into the packs of returning explorers, along with cheap Aztec souvenirs and three or four years of dirty laundry. The zucchini eventually found its way to Italy where it received its current name. In France it’s known as the courgette, a name the folks in the UK have adopted, although they refer to a larger and plumper variety of zucchini as a vegetable marrow, apparently because it resembles bone marrow — I’ll stick with zucchini, thank you.

Farmers today are developing lots of hybrids. We no longer have to settle for plain old green. Look for yellow ones or a combination of green and yellow. There are round ones too, and one that is a cross between zucchini and the fluted patty pan squash.

Zucchini are a warm season plant and will shrivel at the first hint of frost. This has been a cool, wet spring, but now that the soil is warming up it’s about right to plant a few — two or three are plenty. Like all members of the squash family they can be started easily from seed, but it may be getting a little late. Depending on how early frost comes in fall, the fruit may not have time to develop, so I’d go with plants. They’re inexpensive and available at many garden centres.

Plant zucchini a couple of feet apart where they can receive plenty of sunshine — the more the better. As for soil, they won’t complain as long as it’s well drained. Add organic matter if you can, but they are light feeders. Feeding zucchini with a high nitrogen fertilizer will only encourage over-production of leaves and stems, and a well fed one can easily take over a veggie garden, so don’t use up the lawn fertilizer on them.

They like to be watered regularly, and deeply, but zucchini hate to be wet as mildew can develop on the large flat leaves. To discourage this, avoid watering with a sprinkler. This is where mulch such as wood chips or straw is useful — I like to use straw myself. Besides keeping weeds down and moisture in the soil it will keep fruit clean and healthy.

As the plant begins to grow, the flowers, precursors of fruit, won’t appear until the plant has developed fifteen or so leaves. The first to appear will usually be male and won’t produce fruit. If you can spot a small swelling at the base of the flower, it’s a female and will grow on into a fruit. If there’s only a prickly stem, it’s a male. The male flowers can be picked off and eaten in a salad, but some are required for pollination of the females. Insects, primarily bees, will take care of this job. If bee activity is low, female flowers are likely to drop.

Other insects will take up pest duty. The cucumber Beetle is the worst of the bunch, attacking any members of the cucurbita family. Cucumber Beetles are either striped or spotted, and like to feed on the leaves of the plants. They can cause a lot of damage as they spread disease from one plant to another. Thrips and cutworms will also have a go at your plants too. I’d use insecticidal soap to discourage them.

Zucchini are susceptible to powdery mildew and bacterial wilt, diseases that are most common in hot and humid weather. A strong, healthy plant will be more resistant to these problems. Blossom end rot can also be a problem in dry weather. Zucchini seem to keep on growing without too much trouble. They’re best picked before they get too large because the bigger ones can be tough and lacking in flavour. But if you do want to try for the record, it’s around 2.5 meters — almost nine feet long.

Zucchini are such productive plants that first time growers, especially children, on seeing the rate at which the plant grows and the bounty it produces will be spurred on to try other plants that are much easier to spell, like peas and beans.

Start 'em Young

In Gardening news recently, I came across the results of a survey and subsequent stories that were hardly flattering to young gardeners. The survey found most can't recognize Latin names for flowers, while almost nine in ten are unable to identify a hoe, and nearly half do not know what a perennial is. 

But is this a problem? By gardeners, did they mean those who garden somewhat seriously, or did they mean casual gardeners who might only buy a few plants to stick in the ground each spring? I suspect the latter. The fact that a huge number are unable to spot a hoe tells me only that they’ve never used one. I mean, a hoe is hardly something you’d forget if you’d spent any time at all on the end of one. I have, but as I now mulch wherever possible, I find I rarely use a hoe. Again, I’m sure most regular gardeners, young or old, know what a perennial is, but anyone new to the hobby could be forgiven.

As for the Latin, I’m surprised anyone can recognize the botanical name for plants. I have enough trouble myself, even though many assume I know the Latin name of every plant in my garden. Have I got news for you!

Just last week, when I opened my garden for visitors, there were the inevitable questions about the identity of plants, and in many cases I’d either forgotten or never knew. To avoid embarrassment I might occasionally have mumbled a phony Latin word like anonamenthenum, or casually said I’m not sure, but I believe Shakespeare called it hedgehog bane. Fortunately, no one has ever asked which play.

Common names are certainly useful, but can be confusing and inaccurate. For instance, I once made the mistake of saying my Aunt Violet called a particular plant bachelor buttons. The curious visitor told me that it didn’t look anything like the bachelor buttons she was familiar with, and next thing you know we were arguing about half the plants in my garden.

But seriously, when studying or writing about plants, the correct botanical name is essential. Latin is a universal language with strict rules of grammar and has remained virtually unchanged since Roman times, which makes it very useful for keeping order in the plant world — genus and species, followed by non-Latin variety — one plant, one name, and no confusion.

And yet I’m sure we gardeners don’t spend a lot of time thinking in Latin when in our own gardens. In fact, we’re probably not thinking in words much at all. When I’m deciding where and how to place a plant, I’m visualizing; when it blooms for me I feel — I feel pleasure, satisfaction, and sometimes astonishment. That’s why I garden. 

In my own back yard, I’m always trying new things, and as most planting takes place in spring, I’m always in a rush — empty pot goes one way, trowel another, and if I’m lucky, the tag ends up beside the plant. Eventually, I get around to retrieving the tags and recording what’s where, and I do note the correct botanical name, but as for memorizing every single one, I’ll happily confess that it’s a challenge. It doesn’t help that gardening is so seasonal. When it’s under a foot of snow, I lose the familiarity and by spring many names have faded a little. So take heart fellow gardeners, botanical names are important, but what’s more important is that you enjoy your garden.

Carpe rutrum (seize the spade).  

Yard Art

I have a piece of sculpture in my garden. It’s a natural sculpture, not a traditional hunk of marble, chipped into shape by Michelangelo. My sculpture is made of wood, a piece of root from an ancient cedar, about my height and width, but otherwise without any human characteristics. I don’t display it prominently, in fact, it can easily be missed where it stands, slouched against the arbour. At times it makes me stop in wonder as I try to imagine the size and majesty of the tree that formed this remarkable shape. I suppose that’s its role now, like any sculpture, to cause one to pause and ponder.

Some would say that a garden is not complete without a sculpture or artwork. For many, a garden gnome might be the principal feature of their little plot, and I confess, I too own one, but he’s not easily spotted, partly because he’s not painted in garish colours, but mainly because he wanders off and I forget to look for him. Sometimes it’s months before he reappears, usually after the leaves have fallen from the shrubs. Interestingly, an internet poll shows gardeners are equally divided over whether gnomes should be welcomed into a garden.

If garden gnomes are indeed an artistic benchmark, then I’m guessing that plastic deer, fat fannies (those colourful plywood cut-outs of a person bent over weeding), or items that have served time in a bathroom would fall below the line.

A notch or two up the scale would have to be gazing balls, also known as gazing globes, rose balls, good luck balls, Victorian balls, or witch balls. The first recorded history of these hand-blown glass garden accents dates back to the 13th century where they were made in Venice.  In the 16th century Francis Bacon stated that a proper garden would have round coloured balls for the sun to play upon. I find them intriguing, but I’m happy to gaze at them in someone else’s garden.

I suppose at the top of the statuary heap would be something by Rodin, a little beyond my range, but there are tons (literally) of beautiful replicas, including Michelangelo’s David. Many are now cast in concrete and are long lasting, although they don’t look their best until they’ve attained that ancient, moss covered look.

Besides the work of the old masters, it’s possible these days to find something to suit anyone’s taste from cute hedgehogs to ancient urns, or even fascinating, but hideous, Victorian gargoyles. They make a great conversation piece but I think they look more at home lurking in a huge gothic garden than lurching off a suburban deck, unless, of course, they happen to frighten rabbits away.

Since most garden accents are not meant to have such a practical use, then placement becomes the most important factor. Smaller items are useful for punctuating an entrance or creating particular interest within a planting, but using too many can disrupt the flow and confuse the design.

A garden is enhanced by a sculpture, and many an expanse of green lawn cries out for a focal point, but a cleverly placed statue awaiting discovery at a turn in the pathway will gently delight the unwary visitor. Similarly, a magical effect is created when a piece concealed by plantings is revealed only when a breeze stirs foliage or tall grass, or when Aphrodite, framed by an archway, is positioned to emerge in the distance from a September mist. Scale, theme, and location, should be considered when choosing a sculpture for the garden.

I have in my collection of well-placed garden art (?), in addition to my old cedar root and my concrete gnome, one broken pedestal that originally supported an old birdbath; a pink cherub; a concrete fedora; a steel heron; and Albert, a small, stone figure—my favourite. Most of these were gifts, found, or simply wandered in and I haven’t the heart to dispose of them, despite their artistic merit, which I suppose is how other folk feel about their fat fannies and plastic Bambis.