Trees

 Make a statement — plant a tree. If it's only what, where, when, and how that's stopping you, perhaps I can help.

Maybe you've already decided on what type of tree you wish, possibly influenced by childhood memories of lazy afternoons spent beneath a huge maple, or swinging from the branch of a sturdy oak. There's nothing wrong with those choices; however, it may take half a lifetime before those trees grow
large enough for you to relive those dreams, and that's if you stay in your home longer than the Canadian average of only a few years. The beauty of planting a tree, though, is the legacy you will leave. Someday, someone may relax in the shade or swing from the branches of your tree.

The ultimate size of any tree you plant is a serious consideration. Most building lots are small these days and can barely accommodate the house, let alone a tree, and planting large varieties too close to buildings, driveways, or neighbouring properties is a common error. Keep in mind, too, that a tree with a 25 cm wide trunk requires a soil surface of about 20 square metres to stay healthy. Fortunately, nurseries stock a wide range of smaller trees that are more suited to smaller gardens.

Before choosing a tree, consider the conditions around where it will be planted — things like sun and shade or type of soil. Most trees will adapt to local soil conditions, but some will have preferences as to how wet or how dry, how sandy or how clay-like the soil is. Try to select a tree with a shape that will complement the desired function. 

Do you need a  tree that will act as a screen or a windbreak, one that's dense enough to provide summer shade, or one that's airy and open like the honey locust with its lovely lime green foliage? If you have this information before heading out to the nursery or tree farm, it will be easier for knowledgeable staff to make recommendations. Early spring is a good time to plant deciduous trees whilst they're dormant and more so for evergreens. Fall can be a better time to plant deciduous as it allows them to direct growth to the roots before winter. In spring there's a greater demand for water in summer when the tree has leafed out.

After purchasing a tree, be kind to it when handling and transporting. Lift the tree by the container or root ball and not by the trunk. If you can't plant it right away, leave the tree in a sheltered corner out of the sun, but don't forget to water it.

Digging a good hole for a new tree can be a challenge. If the ground is very dry, give it a thorough soaking ahead of time and digging will be much easier. Planting depth is most important. The tree should be planted with the root flare visible --  where the roots leave the trunk. It may be not be visible in the container if it was planted too deep. Always dig the hole wider rather than deeper. Make it bowl-shaped not pail-shaped, up to three times the diameter of the container and loosen up the soil only a little at the bottom, leaving a slight mound on which to set the root ball so that the tree won't settle.

Remove the tree from its container at the last minute before planting and check the roots. If wrapped in burlap or in a fibre pot, remove as much as possible after the tree is in the hole. Current advice is to shake off or even wash off the roots because the material it was planted in will be nothing like the local soil. Check the roots and if they've been circling in the container, loosen them and spread them  out.

When filling in the hole, don’t amend the soil. Enriching a small area around the tree with large amounts of manure and peat moss isn't advised as it will only discourage the roots from spreading. There is no need to add fertilizers. Pack the soil in carefully and water well, but don't drown the roots, especially if the soil is slow to drain. Continue to water as needed until your tree is established, keeping the soil moist but not soaking wet. Mulching with wood chips will help retain moisture, so put down a layer
about 50-70mm deep and do not pile it against the trunk.

Unless the tree is especially tall or in a windy location where it's going to be whipped about, it isn't essential to stake or anchor the tree. If you feel it may be necessary, keep it lower on the trunk and anything wrapped around should be soft — no tight ropes or wire. A piece of loose fabric or old pantyhose is good, but guys, ask first.

And that's the what, when, where, and how, of planting a tree. As for the why, it's because trees are essential to our survival. Care for them and they'll care for us. They are the lungs of the planet.

You don’t need a license to grow trilliums

I can’t say the now defunct design of the last Ontario licence plates concerned me particularly, but it was nice to see the trillium featured on them. I also liked the reference to gardening with the statement that Ontario is a place to grow. The trillium has been Ontario's floral emblem since 1937, and as I’m sure everyone knows, that funny little symbol with three points does represent our provincial flower.

The trillium is also the state wildflower of Ohio, but they don’t honour it the way we do in Ontario. During World War I, the Ottawa Horticultural Society suggested the gentle white trillium should be planted on the graves of Canadian soldiers to signify the homeland left behind, however it was never pursued.

I have a trillium flowering in my garden now, despite suggestions circulating that anyone with a trillium must have plucked it from the wild and in doing so broke the law.

I’m happy to report that I have not, nor am I likely to end up in jail or even be arrested. That’s because it is not against the law to pick or remove trilliums from woodland, unless of course the location is private land. With a slow spring this year, trillium blooms are peaking, or may have passed further south, after lighting up the forest floor. With so many in bloom it’s not surprising that someone is tempted to scoop a few blooms, or even dig up the whole plant.

Although not protected by law perhaps they should be, as should all our precious wildflowers. Picking the trillium for its flower causes damage to the leaves and stems that are essential to future growth. Trilliums don’t transplant at all well from a woodland, and besides harming the plants, it removes the enjoyment for others.

Fortunately, you can grow them in your own garden because they can be purchased from many nurseries that specialize in, and propagate, wildflowers. The trillium you most likely see growing everywhere is Trillium grandiflorum, although according to Ontario Parks, there are another four species.  There’s the red trillium, the painted trillium, the drooping trillium (listed as at risk) and the nodding trillium — I’m not sure I’d be able to tell the difference between the drooping and the nodding.

The red trillium is Trillium erectum, and it’s easy to spot when it pops up in the middle of a patch of white ones. It would even be easy to find one in the dark. Unlike the white variety, which has no fragrance, the red one has the delightful fragrance of day-old roadkill, perfectly designed to attract pollinating flies — and another valuable pollinator plant to add to the garden.

Despite being called the red trillium, the flower has a slightly more burgundy look about it. In fact, deep in the forest there have been reports of ones with slight variations in colour, even orange — I’m still looking. The common name for the red trillium is ‘wake robin’, said to have referred initially to the European robin. Both it and our native robin have similar colouring, and I’m only guessing, but as the breast colour of both birds leans toward orange rather than red, maybe an orange trillium was more common a century or so ago.

There is another species of red trillium I’d like to try growing in my garden and that’s Trillium chloropetalum, the giant wake robin, and it’s a beauty, growing as high as forty-five centimetres high (18 inches). Although native to California, it is a zone six plant, making it hardy enough to grow here.

Wait, there are more. About fifty other species of trillium have been recorded, mostly in North America, though generally further south. So, do watch out for any unique species, but no picking. Unlike those old license plates, they’re not collectors’ items.

Triple mixed up about soil?

Enthusiasm for gardening is at its highest this month, for life-long gardeners and for those about to stick their trowels and shovels into soil for the very first time. But what soil? It used to be easy: call up someone and get a load of topsoil dumped in the driveway. Then the big yellow bags appeared offering a tidier delivery system for regular soil. Tidy yes, but getting the soil out of the bag with a shovel and into a wheelbarrow does make demands on rarely used body parts.

Most plain topsoil is what was stripped from farmland prior to the building of new homes. It might have started out as good soil, but after being stockpiled, sometimes for years, it becomes compacted. This results in the loss of much of the important microbial life. Adding compost will help restore life to the soil.

Also available in bulk is triple-mix. Recipes vary, but it’s typically a blend of soil, peat moss, and compost from leaf and yard waste, and it’s a good choice for most situations. The only drawback is it tends to settle as the organic matter decomposes and after one season it will need topping up, so maybe allow for this when ordering.

When the opportunity arrived to pick up small, easily transported bags of soil, it became so much easier to tentatively begin gardening by filling a planter or two with bags of soil brought home with the groceries. These small, colourful bags are currently stacked up at grocery or hardware stores like sandbags in anticipation of a flood.

The sight of all these bags must be confusing for the new gardener. I wouldn’t have a clue what to use in my garden or in planters if I was just starting out. Garden soil, three-way mix, black earth, potting soil, and what about the equally attractive bags of compost that buttress those bags of soil? There’s sheep compost, cattle compost, maybe horse or even chicken compost. Whenever I pass by I find myself humming Old MacDonald’s Farm.

Which one to choose? For small raised beds, the three-way mix, much the same as triple mix is fine. With the one labelled simply as garden soil I’d be inclined to add the compost of your choice. Plain garden soil is fine for a garden, but not recommended for planters — a soil-free mix can be better for that purpose.

A soil-free mix is composed mostly of peat moss and perlite, or maybe with wood fibre as an environmentally friendly alternative to peat moss. It may be labelled as potting soil. If unsure, simply check for the bag that’s soft and feels light compared to ones containing more soggy soil. The latter can be lightened by adding peat moss or coir. Major brands are now adding fertilizer or mycorrhizal fungi to the mix, though not essential.

Black earth can be a puzzle, and I don’t know why it’s called earth and not soil. It would be easy to assume that because it’s black it must be nutrient rich soil; however, that isn’t necessarily so as good soil comes in all colours, like the red soil of Prince Edward Island, for instance. Black soil (or earth) could have come from a swampy area or it could have been darkened by adding leaves. Unlike the composts that are produced and sold, there are no requirements for the analysis of plain soils unless the producer does it voluntarily.

Compost is regulated by the provincial government as well as federally through the Canadian Food Inspection Agency. Regulations are set out to ensure heavy metals and other toxic materials etc. are not present. For more information on compost, see The Compost Council of Canada website.

Daffodils Dancing

Winter truly ends with the appearance of the first bright, yellow daffodil. Daffodils evoke joy in spring, and maybe a tinge of regret that someone forgot to plant bulbs the previous fall. Oh sure, there were snow drops as early as January, followed by crocuses, even an eager tulip, but for me, it takes a daffodil; they’re much cheerier, nodding and waving a greeting. As Wordsworth described them in his classic poem, “tossing their heads in a sprightly dance, fluttering and dancing in the breeze”.

Wordsworth claimed he saw ten thousand at a glance. This may be so, but I doubt it rivals the numbers planted at the East Texas ranch of the late Mrs. Helen Lee. She used her Texas oil fortune to plant daffodils by the boxcar, millions of them, scattered over approximately 20 acres.

A few years ago a local man decided to become a guerrilla gardener and began planting daffodils on grassy banks along the Conestoga Parkway in KW. Since it was technically illegal to trespass, he did this under cover of darkness, and his name was never revealed — he called himself the Unknown Gardener. To further brighten the day of commuters, he planted the bulbs in the form of happy faces that may still be seen today.

Happy face or random clump, daffodils will always prompt a smile. In England as a child, I rode a bus to school that stopped each day beside a cottage with a hillside garden that merged at its upper end into woodland. Daffodils grew there in profusion. Each day I looked forward to seeing the springtime progression as they sprouted, flowered, and then vanished, overtaken by taller grass. Now, when the clump of yellow daffodils in my garden appears, I can’t help recalling an image that’s stayed in my head for half a lifetime.

Yet after a recent springtime visit, that image has been eased aside slightly by one that is suggesting maybe there can be too much of a good thing. At some point over the years (many years), someone decided it would be a good idea to plant daffodils along roadsides throughout the country. Some say it began in the dark days of postwar Britain to brighten up the place in the 1950s; however, I don’t recall any particular abundance in my youth. Regardless of when and where it began, the idea spread.

It became a pastime for many. Town councils large and small joined in, some with planting schemes of their own, others donating thousands of bulbs to charitable organisations. The daffodils grew and spread like dandelions, snaking mile upon mile across the country. The sight was amazing — at first. I soon began to picture them as yellow snowbanks, and I confess that after a couple of weeks driving the highways and byways of Northern England, even I was ready for a change of scene, or at least a change of colour.

Despite the popularity, so many were planted it’s feared they’re now becoming a problem for the country’s native species of daffodils, the ones that inspired Wordsworth's poem and the same ones that even Shakespeare mentioned in The Winter’s Tale — “When daffodils begin to peer”. They’re under threat now due to cross-pollination between the non-native species and the many hybrids, especially the larger, brightly coloured ones. The original, more delicate British species are becoming a rare sight in the wild. To counter this, heritage groups are undertaking mass planting campaigns using native species in historic gardens where they can be protected (the roadside battle is lost).

This over abundance isn’t likely to be an issue in Canada as we have no native daffodils. I feel I should point out that the daffodil is not native to Britain, either. Known since antiquity, it’s believed to have originated in North Africa and southwest Europe on the Iberian Peninsula. Somewhat isolated in Britain, the original introduction, perhaps brought by an early traveler or Roman invader, was able to naturalise undisturbed for centuries. At some point it became the national flower and a symbol of Wales where it’s worn on St David's Day each March 1st, potentially supplanting the leek, which has long been the national symbol of Wales. This may be due to some innocent confusion because in the Welsh language, the name, Cenhinen, is almost the same for both plants.

In English, we call them daffodils, but are they? Is it daffodil or is it narcissus, the other oft used term, or are they different plants? The simple answer is no; all daffodils are narcissus. Daffodil, or at one time daffadowndilly, has simply become the common, accepted name. The scientific name for the familiar, trumpet-like daffodil is Narcissus pseudonarcissus. Smaller daffodils, known as jonquils, are Narcissus jonquilla. Rather than a single bloom, jonquils tend to have clusters of fragrant flowers and dark green, tube-shaped leaves, like chives, unlike the seamed, sometimes triangular stems of daffodils.

The name, of course, is from the Greek myth of Narcissus who was turned into the flower of that name, and consequently, it’s perceived as a symbol of vanity. In the East however, it’s seen as a symbol of wealth and good fortune.

Another flower sometimes called a daffodil is the paperwhite, Narcissus papyraceus. It’s typically grown in wintertime as a houseplant — if you can stand the intense fragrance. Unlike regular daffodils, it can’t survive the winter outdoors.

Now that that’s sorted, I’ll continue to refer to the springtime garden plants as daffodils. Mention the name and predictably, most people will think of the familiar, bright yellow flower; however, daffodils are available in all shapes, sizes, and hues. They can be white or whitish, greenish, yellow of course, pink, and orange. Colours are then mixed and matched between the two parts of the flower head, the perianth (petals) and the corona (cup).

This is mainly thanks to the Netherlands, where daffodils have been cultivated as far back as the sixteenth century. Today, along with tulips and other bulbs, they’ve become the country’s chief export. In addition, growers and hobbyists everywhere have been breeding new strains. Depending on who is counting, there are as many as 200 different daffodil species and subspecies and a further 25,000 registered cultivars (cultivated variety), including the more flamboyant strains that are causing the problem in Britain.

The best known and most popular variety is the King Alfred. He’s the one said to have burnt the cakes, but there’s no mention of him growing daffodils. The name was chosen by Englishman John Kendall, clearly a long time monarchist. It was first introduced in 1899 when it was immediately awarded a First-Class Certificate by The Royal Horticultural Society, which likely had a bias towards regal names (Kendall was no fool). Regardless, the society was impressed by the rich golden hue of its much larger blooms.

Sadly, Kendall died in 1890 and never saw the astonishing result of his humble breeding program. Successfully promoted and marketed by his sons, for the next fifty years King Alfred the daffodil ruled until production declined in the 1950s when newer, improved varieties were introduced.

Millions of King Alfreds are still being planted and remain available today. You may be watching them bloom in your garden right now, yet it’s unlikely they’re the original. I’m afraid the king is dead — though the name lives on.

So popular was the King Alfred, the name became synonymous with large yellow daffodils, much like Kleenex is commonly used as the name for any tissue. Growers retained the name, and although limited numbers of the original are still produced, it’s been gradually supplanted with superior varieties like Golden Harvest or Dutch Master. These and others are now sold as King Alfred “types”, what you might call floral Elvis impersonators.

They’re big and showy with a golden yellow trumpet — and thanks to Wordsworth and his host of golden daffodils, this is what most people will think of when they picture a daffodil. It represents a country, has Kingly connections, boosts the Dutch economy, was a poet’s muse, and in recent years has become a symbol of hope for all affected by cancer. April is Daffodil Month when the Canadian Cancer Society will be launching their annual fundraising campaign, another reason to appreciate daffodils.

Despite my misgivings after being overwhelmed by the abundance growing along British roadsides, I still love daffodils, even prefer them to tulips, their spring rivals. There’s something about the wild nature of them that’s appealing. Some varieties of tulips will naturalize, but daffs are masters at establishing communities that last for years, as seen by those yellow snow banks in I saw in England. And if there’s one major advantage over tulips, squirrels won’t dig up the bulbs and eat them, and nor should you. Despite having been used in traditional medicines since antiquity, and the bulbs do contain potentially useful compounds, they are poisonous if eaten, so don’t confuse them with onions, but do plant them.

Now is the time to admire the beauties that will be appearing this spring. And it’s the time to mark the calendar or set an alert as a reminder to plant lots come fall, hosts of them, but go easy on the snowbanks.

Blue, blue, my world is blue

 Blue, blue, my world is blue. No, I’m not feeling down, even if the garden is sleeping. Those words are from a song from way back that has stuck in my head and comes to mind whenever I look at blue flowers. Blue is rare in flowers, true blue, that is. Peer closely and there’s typically a hint of purple in tiny streaks throughout the petals or concentrated near the centre. I call it catalogue blue where the blueness is promoted with a glossy picture that’s as blue as can be.

However, take a step back and blue flowers will look blue enough. It’s a favourite of many gardeners and well sought after. There are many plants with varying shades from the elusive blue poppy to the blue hydrangea, except the former does not do well in the heat and humidity of southern Ontario while the later will keep its pinkness in our alkaline soil. And still gardeners will take on the challenge to grow them.

An easier one is the popular morning glory called ‘Heavenly Blue’ often seen climbing fences, trellises, and sometimes hydro poles. It can each three metres (ten feet) and it puts out fresh flowers daily from summer to fall.

 I do love blue flowers and I have one blooming right now, indoors, and the flowers are as blue as Homer Simpson’s pants — okay maybe not that shade, and they do have the tiniest hint of purple. It’s not the morning glory although it is in the same family, and commonly known as dwarf morning-glory.

The name is Evolvulus alsinoides, and despite being a distant cousin to the more familiar morning glories, it makes no attempt to climb anything but it might trail a little. The plant is a hybrid from Proven Winners called Evolvulus ‘Blue My Mind’, although there are similar plants from different producers with names like ‘Beach Bum Blue’ or ‘Blue Daze’.

 I grew it outdoors in summer in a planter and I liked it so much I brought it indoors for winter where it’s now happily flowering away. Come spring I’ll return it to the garden because it’s a tender perennial sold as an annual, as are many plants. It has to be growing a few zones to the south to stay alive outside through winter.

 Mine didn’t flower as well outdoors as it has in past years because this summer was cooler and wet. That’s not surprising since this plant loves sun and heat but not the cold. In the wild it grows like a weed in a band of tropical and warm temperate regions around the globe, in habitats ranging from marshland to deserts.

Evolvulus is not a large plant, only growing to a few inches high, and outdoors it will do best alone in a planter where it doesn’t have to compete with more vigorous plants. It loves hot sun and when growing well it can survive for a while should someone forget to water it.

The flowers are much the same shape and colour as the heavenly blue morning glory, but they’re much smaller, about the size of a dime or maybe a nickel — remember real money? The leaves are small, too, greyish green and hairy if you look close enough. You’ll see them when you’re peering closely, trying to spot that bit of purple. If I had favourites (oh no, not me), this one would be high on the list.

Blue, blue, my world is blue — rhymes much better than purple. Paul Mauriat’s ‘Love Is Blue’ was fourth in the 1967 Eurovision Song Contest. Darn those ear worms.

Spring is Bouncing About

Finally, I am able to see part of my garden again. Most of the snow has almost left, revealing a very grubby scene. I cleaned up the patio, tidied the shed a little — just enough to be able to get past the doorway. I even did a little pruning when I tentatively approached my climbing rose, snips in hand. We don’t get along. A snip here and there at a couple of wayward canes and I was soon reminded that full combat gear is essential.

Sure, it looks lovely in full bloom, but winter reveals a bad tempered monster fully intent on crushing the arbor. It’s the Jekyll and Hyde of my garden. I have to cut out old, woody branches, plus dead or damaged ones. I try to remove all the weak, stringy shoots, if I can get at them, and I must shorten the healthy ones that are trying to snag my neighbour’s gazebo. The trick is to bend a few healthy canes horizontally to encourage more blooms.

It’s all worthwhile in the end, but it’s rarely a painless process when every thorn is out for blood. They’re only wannabe thorns as technically they’re prickles — outgrowths of the stem surface rather than true thorns. Call em what you like, they’re still nasty, but I’ll forget that come June when the arbor is a mass of pink blooms.

I have other shrubs that need attention and are far less trouble, but I couldn’t get near them until the snow melted. Most shrubs and trees are best pruned while dormant, especially deciduous ones, and right now they’re about to wake up. A little pruning after leaves sprout won’t cause harm, it’s just easier to see what needs trimming — dead, diseased, and wayward branches. They should be cut out, and if the shrub needs shaping at all, now is the time to do it unless it’s a spring flowering shrub.

Here’s the standard reminder: Do not prune spring flowering shrubs until after they’ve finished blooming or you’ll be removing flower buds and it won’t bloom at all.

It’s easy now to check online for pruning requirements of specific plants, but it’s essential to know the species or variety. For instance, I often hear of problems with hydrangeas not blooming. Sometimes it’s due to environmental conditions, but it might just be because someone with a sharp pair of snips and misplaced enthusiasm has lopped off the flower buds.

Mop head, lacecap, and oakleaf species all bloom on old wood, that is, stems that have been on the plant since the previous summer, so prune immediately after blooming (if neccessary), but no later than the end of July.

Paniculata and Annabelle types set flower buds on new growth and can be pruned in fall, winter, or early spring. The so called endless blooming varieties can be pruned almost anytime.

A similar situation exists for clematis. Again, some bloom on old wood, some on new, and some on both old and new, which means there are three different pruning methods. It’s usually noted on the tag, but if that’s long gone, to correctly identify the type, simply observe how and when the flowers appear. 

Fortunately, pruning at the wrong time won’t kill clematis, not when it’s well established. If it’s an out of control, straggly mess and doesn’t flower at all well, it may be worthwhile to have a fresh start by cutting it back severely. This may result in fewer flowers this year but it will recover.

The bottom line for any pruning is 1. Know the plant. 2. Only prune if necessary. 3. Be absolutely sure because you can’t glue branches back on the tree.