Treasure in my Garden

I have treasure in my garden, lots of it, but please, don't rush over with picks and shovels. Before I have to bar the gate and electrify the fence, I should clarify my concept of treasure. There is nothing remotely of value buried in my garden apart from the composted remains of numerous plants that were not as hardy as I'd hoped. The ones that are healthy can be found in any nursery or garden centre. Of these, I do have a few favourites that I'd hate to lose. But there are a number of items that I do treasure, things that I couldn't leave behind I were ever to abandon this garden for another.

I think most gardeners feel this way. A friend once wrote to me of her cherished items — a collection of rocks (just shy of boulder variety), cement planter "bowls" made in an art class, an old piece of fence from an address three moves ago, and a the hunk of barbed wire and wood from a rotted fence post, all of which she would be moving to any new address.

The treasures in my garden are similarly varied, and just as eccentric. Many are hidden from sight, but I know roughly where they are. They turn up when I'm weeding or pruning and I delight in rediscovering them. I also rediscover other items that needed to be hidden — garden show paraphernalia that is not to my taste. I don't have the heart to junk it, so back it goes, under the shrubbery.

Amongst my oldest treasures is a huge chunk of root from an ancient cedar tree, a remnant of the giants that once grew around here. It's somehow symbolic of the loss of forest and farmland within this region. The place where I discovered it has long since been swept away by urban sprawl and is now closer to downtown than the present edge of the city. Root, as I call it, has travelled with me from home to home and garden to garden. I think by now it deserves to be designated as a heritage artefact.

Beside Root, attached to the trellis, are three, nifty, glass insulators that might vanish from view for a while if  the new climbing rose stops lolling about and puts a little more effort into doing what it's supposed to do. Glass insulators aren't particularly rare, but these three came from an old telephone post on my late Grandfather-in-law's farm. I tell my wife that they might be useful in case he ever tries to reach us.

Nearby, in the side yard, are a few railroad spikes and a handful of dated nails driven into a post. I found the nails along a stretch of disused railroad track where I used to walk a dog I once knew, many years ago. They would have been used to record the date when the ties were originally laid — 1937 is the earliest.

At the corner of the pathway stands a slender piece of rock. It is, in fact, two pieces of rock, the smaller one balanced on the other. The smaller piece is a piece of weathered limestone which, when approached from the right direction, resembles a face. I call it Albert, the garden guardian, after my old dad.

Across the lawn, beneath the hibiscus, stands Gneville the gnome, a gift from someone special who believes no garden is complete without one. He is of unpainted concrete, wears a wry smile, and believes the garden is his domain. Interestingly, an internet poll lists the acceptance rating for garden gnomes at roughly fifty percent — about the same as cats. Providing Gneville stays put, and stays out of trouble, he is welcome to stay and believe whatever he likes.

There are other miscellaneous items about, including a few best described, charitably, as objet trouvé. I even have a pair of small, plastic rabbits, gifts for a pair of small non-plastic boys. The rabbits disappear for months, even years, one of them even passed unharmed through the compost heap, but they always return, just like the real ones, but with far less frequency. 

These are my treasures, as is the compost heap, and as I wander the garden I'll occasionally reflect on the nostalgia of the inert items that make up my garden. I'm sure you do the same.

Mellow Yellow

It must have been the yellow rose I’d been examining, and then the yellow purslane, followed by a glance at the yellow lilies, because as I pottered about the garden the other day, I found myself singing the words to Mellow Yellow (Donovan from way back). I should point out that I don’t really sing — I simply know the first line to a million songs. Even then, anyone in range would assume they were hearing a coughing goat.

Regardless, as I was pottering and singing, and feeling mellow, it occurred to me that although yellow might be mellow, it sure isn’t when you discover the leaves on a plant have turned that colour overnight. One day they’re a lovely, rich green then one sleep later the jaundice has set in. That’s when the singing stops. In my case it was the lower leaves on a tomato plant in a container on the deck that were fading fast, but why?

I had moved the container the day before and may inadvertently have caused physical damage, but a close examination didn’t reveal any broken stems. Had it only been the odd leaf, I wouldn’t have been concerned, but something was obviously wrong. Yellowing leaves, also known as chlorosis, is a symptom of trouble on any plant, but what was the reason?

As far as tomatoes go, it could be a viral, fungal, or bacterial disease; insect damage, lack of nutrients, lack of water, too much water, sunburn, or possibly, though perhaps not likely, deep rooted psychological problems. The list of possible reasons is so long it really needs a House (popular show) in the garden when it comes to diagnosing a specific cause.

 

The tomatoes in my raised beds were doing fine; it was just the one container plant that was suffering. I checked over and under the leaves for insects or insect eggs and found nothing, and besides, the problem was spreading upwards from the lower leaves, which made insects the less likely culprit. There were no spots, irregular markings or leaf curling to indicate a disease, so that left an environmental or nutritional reason. I doubted the latter as the plant was in good soil, the same soil as other plants, none of which were suffering.

So was it environmental, specifically the weather, more specifically rain, and lots of it? I’ve been rejoicing in the regular rainfalls we’ve had this spring, but too much and trouble can arise here and there, particularly where there’s poor drainage.

This, I believe was the problem. Because the container was sitting tightly on the deck, the drainage holes were sealed, and with excessive rain this resulted in waterlogged soil. I’ve since set the pot on three or four pebbles (my own advice that I sometimes forget to follow), and I also took a thin twig and carefully poked a few holes into the soil. This improved drainage considerably. I can’t do much about the yellow leaves, other than pull them off, but there shouldn’t be more. Meanwhile, there are lots of tomatoes forming on the plant.

It isn’t easy to diagnose plant problems. If an insect pest is the culprit, they’re usually a little easier to spot, but diseases and ailments caused by nutritional deficiencies are harder to identify. As in humans, prevention is the best policy when it comes to good health. Think of plants as people. Give them a healthy balanced diet, sufficient clean water, and plenty of fresh air. Exercise is essential too, but don’t force a workout on your plants, just spend some mellow time with them.  

I do -- I Think

They will have been featured in a number of wedding bouquets this summer, or any floral display for that matter. But right now, they're blooming in my garden and as always, they're gorgeous.

Zantedeschia or, if you prefer, calla lilies, are one of my favourite flowers, and despite their almost tropical appearance, they're one of the easiest plants to grow. I have a couple of pink varieties, but somehow it's the plain white that always stand out, particularly after sunset. Like many white flowers they almost glow in the dark, but more so because of the expanse of the spathe, which is really one large petal.

We call them calla, although the true calla is a plant called Calla palustris, also known as bog arum. It's a hardy little plant native to our northern hemisphere that will grow happily in a pond or bog garden. The flower has a similar form to that of Zantedeschia, and they are in the same family, but of a different genus. In fact, Calla palustris is the only species in its genus, whereas the genus Zantedeschia comprises six species, all of which originate in the moist soil and swamps of southern and eastern Africa.

But that’s enough of the botanical language. We all know a calla when we see one, and calla is what we calla them. I don't get to many weddings, but I've yet to hear anyone exclaim, "Isn't she beautiful, and aren't the Zantedeschia rehmannia in her bouquet simply divine?" Maybe I attend the wrong weddings.

Wedding white may be the most familiar calla, but many other colours have been created through the hybridization of two slightly different groups. The above-mentioned rehmannia have lance-shaped, green or dark green leaves. The flowers, or spathes as they are called, are typically white to pink or purple and surround a yellow spadix (oops, the botanical crept back in there).


The other group is the Elliottiana. Callas in this group generally have green leaves covered with translucent white spots. I think this is probably what I have growing beside my pond. I'm only being vague because I've had them so long I can't remember where they came from. I probably had them given to me at least ten years ago. That's how callas proliferate. It's not that they're invasive.

On the contrary, they grow from tuberous rhizomes that tend to increase in size. Leave them in the ground over winter in this climate and they're goners, but dig them in fall for cool storage and come spring you can cut the big ones in half and pass them on to friends, as in — here, take this knobbly looking thing that looks like Mr. Potato Head's disowned cousin and stick it in your flowerbed. If the friend has never grown a calla, you'll hear the "Wows" a mile away when it blooms.

Between the hybridising and ongoing tissue culture of callas, the colour range keeps expanding. There are pinks, reds, peaches, and purples with names like Pink Chiffon, Pillow Talk, Bridal Bliss, and Garnet Glow. You can see that these are being marketed to the wedding planner rather than the gardener. There's also a black calla (read dark burgundy) called Black Forest. I suppose it's best suited to the "She should never have married him" wedding.

Pots and plants

Finally, the weeds are under control and I’m getting caught up on planting. I fully intended to plant fewer containers this year, but a quick count yesterday revealed over ninety. It sounds ridiculous, although it might not appear to be that many to a casual observer because the total includes window boxes, spare pots, and odd stuff lying about the yard. Still, they all have to be watched and watered. Obsessive compulsive? Not me. It’s all the fault of hybridisers forcing new plant varieties on me, plus there are old favourites that I always have to have.

The challenge is trying to have them get along with each other in the same pot. The old rule is one trailing annual, one mounding, and a spiky plant in the middle. Not for me. There are no rules in a garden as far as I’m concerned, and there’s no reason the plants have to be annuals. I’m quite happy to grow shrubs in pots or stick perennials in the mix. Many clematis, for instance, are recommended for patio pots.

If there’s a plant that’s caught my interest this year, it’s succulents. I’m using a couple of galvanized

tubs to hold my new collection. Most are varieties of Echeveria, Sempervivum, or Aeonium. They’re often confused because varieties of each can all resemble the more familiar hens and chicks (Sempervivum), but it’s important to note that Echeveria and Aeonium are not hardy. They can, however, be over wintered as houseplants. in our climate (zone 5)

Hybridization has produced a number of fascinating forms that mix and match beautifully. The leaves form rosettes that are ruffled or wrinkled, in contrasting shades of pink, grey, and purple. I have my groups planted in a moderately fertile, loose, almost sandy soil. To prevent the lower leaves from rotting, I’ve mulched the surface of the soil with fine gravel to keep it dry. Grow in full sun for best results.

I find it helps a lot to know the conditions in which plants originated. Sometimes just the country will give a general idea. Many Echeveria are native to Mexico, so right away it’s hot food, siestas and sandy beaches that come to mind — okay, hot and dry. Similarly, Aeonium hale mainly from the Canary Islands off the coast of Africa, another vacation destination with Spanish overtones — sounds sun, sand, and sangria to me. Sempervivum, meanwhile, are found in southern Europe, North Africa, and the near east. What all these plants have in common, besides belonging to the Crassulaceae family, is the ability to store water in their leaves. This allows them to survive dry periods, but they do need to be watered well when the soil dries out.

Speaking of soil drying out, and even though there hasn’t been much chance of that lately, it’s important to remember to mulch. If there’s a patch of soil visible anywhere in my garden or in a container, it either gets a plant stuck into it or it gets mulched. Mulching helps soil retain moisture and suppresses weeds. Considering the cost of water saved, it doesn’t make sense not to mulch. In addition, organic mulch will break down and feed the soil — a horticultural win-win. It even comes in bright red for those who have a hankering for that red Georgia clay look.

Mulch is readily available in bags from the grocery store if you have a small area or in huge, more economical bulk bags for larger areas. I have one waiting in the driveway that should take care of the front yard — and maybe my lower back. 

Weed em or Weep

In many respects, it’s been a perfect spring. The cool start with only a couple of days of bloom blasting heat allowed spring flowering bulbs to appear on stage long enough to receive a standing ovation. We did have a nasty frost in May, which punished the keeners who planted annuals too early. It also severely abused one of my tender hydrangeas — ‘Big Smile’.  It survived winter under the snow, sprouted leaves in earnest, and then lost them all to the frost. Guess who isn’t smiling now.

The good news is the regular rainfall this June. Instead of having to water at every legal opportunity to ensure new stuff actually grows after I planted it, as was the case the last few Junes, I’ve been watching my rain barrels overflow. The frequent rain is tough on farmers trying to harvest hay, but at least the corn is racing skyward, as is a columbine in my garden. It normally grows to about waist height, but thanks to the extra moisture and perhaps a little too much compost, it’s outpaced the nearby delphinium and is now as tall as I am, tall enough that I’ve had to give it a ski pole for support.

Everything is growing well in the veggie garden too, especially the zucchini. I like to see enthusiastic plants, but with zucchini, there’s a fine line between a good harvest and a disposal problem.

But, along with the good news goes the not so good, and the bad, and the worse. This weather has created perfect conditions for opportunistic vegetation, that is — you guessed it — weeds. When I say weeds, I mean anything that sprouts where it I don’t want it to sprout. Trouble is, I swear every seed that ever floated into my back yard, plus every seed produced by plants actually growing in my garden has sprouted. This is because they were protected this past winter by a good snow cover. With all the rain, germination has been guaranteed.

It’s the weeds in the cracks in the patio and pathways that are the problem. Out front, the gravel paths are especially susceptible and have taken on the look of an urban wasteland.

If you’re faced with out of control weeds, there are options. Plenty of mulch is a fairly easy solution for most flowerbeds unless the weeds are outnumbering preferred plants, as can be the case if a bed has gone untended. The only solution is to dig out the good plants, replant elsewhere temporarily, then cover the whole bed with plastic sheeting to smother out the weeds.

If things are especially bad, it may mean leaving the plants in and sacrificing everything. The plastic will need to stay in place for as long as a year, but it does the trick. As for weeds in pathways, I use a crack weeder, a hook shaped knife that works very well, especially after a rain.

Using boiling water, vinegar, or even salt to kill weeds is often suggested, and they do work to some degree, but too much of the latter pair can be harmful in a garden. Another alternative is a flamethrower — not a military version, but a small blow torch. Keep in mind that this will contribute to your carbon footprint, so use sparingly. Another trick is to sprinkle corn gluten on the pathways. It has been shown to inhibit the germination of seeds, though how well isn’t certain. I’ve tried this in the past and it did show promise. If all else fails, it’s keep on weeding and hope for a drought — or maybe not.

Plant in Haste and Regret . . .

I make the odd mistake around my garden when trying to choose the right plant for the right location. Sometimes the plant turns out to be the wrong colour, although I can live with most any combination, or sometimes the foliage is all wrong. Floppy foliage is fine providing there's flop room, which isn't guaranteed; I hate to see nifty little plants smothered by a new neighbour. Or, I'll make the mistake of filling in bare spots with bedding plants, only to see them vanish beneath the giant leaves of something that decides that this is the year it's going to be all it can be, which is usually the exception, rather than the rule.

So I'm confessing here that once in a while, I'm quite capable of making design errors, or I don't always make the wisest plant selection. Okay, maybe I excel occasionally in the "Ridiculous Things To Do In A Garden Contest". Have you entered? It seems I enter every year, usually modestly by planting something just slightly inappropriate, perhaps a plant that turns out not only to be aggressive, but verging on invasive, like the Campanula punctata 'Rubriflora' (spotted bell flower) I stuck in three or four years ago. It has the loveliest of pale purple flowers, but it doesn't like to stay put.

It is manageable if you keep an eye on it, but turn your back and it's off and running. I finally managed to remove the last of the renegades that it produced this spring, some from the front yard where I don't recall planting it, but then just last week, someone gave me a another variety called Cherry Bells and I couldn't resist finding a spot for it. I've a feeling those cherry bells are soon going to be ringing loudly, just for me.

But it's the Rheum palmatum that's now the problem. If there was a tabloid garden magazine, I'd be on the front cover. I brought it home over a year ago, something I picked off the rack in one of my many "I'll take one of those, too, moments". I'll find room for it, I no doubt said to myself. How could I have known? — it came in a small pot, for goodness sake.

After I planted it, I forgot about it. I stuck it in the bed beside the patio between a pair of clematis that grow against the fence there. I really don't know why, except I probably thought the bed could use a little more foliage. After planting, it barely did more than sprout a couple of leaves before vanishing behind taller plants for the rest of summer. In fall, I had my doubts that it would survive the winter, but it did, with excessive enthusiasm.

Needless to say, I now have foliage exactly as described in my Reader's Digest A- Z Encyclopaedia of Garden Plants which, had I been thinking, I would have read first before planting the thing, or better still, before buying it: "Rheum palmatum (Chinese rhubarb): Rhizomatous perennial with a massive rootstock and thick leaf stalks that bear broadly ovate to rounded, three to nine-lobed, coarsely toothed, dark green leaves to 90cm (36ins)."

I have foliage all right, enough to hide two clematis, multiple daylilies, a tree peony, and assorted groundcovers. Unfortunately, I don't know what the variety of Rheum palmatum is that is currently intent on being all that it can be. If it's 'Bowles Crimson', I'm in big trouble.

In good conditions, most Rheum reach only a couple of meters, but Bowles tops out at almost five. Mine is already way over my head. It will have to be moved. I do have a spot down the yard that's far more appropriate, but after reading the bit about massive rootstock, I'm a little concerned as I'm well aware of what the roots on regular rhubarb are like. Oh, and by the way, Rheum is not edible; in fact, it's toxic, packed with countless chemical compounds; so suggestions for opening a pie stall at the local market are not acceptable. What was I thinking of? Beats me. 

Pots and Planters

Pots and planters, pots and planters. I have far too many. Don't know why. I just can't seem to stop. I think it's because the patio looks bare if it doesn't resemble a display at a garden centre. I begin by mixing up a huge pile of potting soil, and then I keep filling containers until it's all gone — no sense wasting it is there?

I never seem to run out of things to fill. I have a shed full of wooden boxes, terracotta pots, galvanized

pails, a few chic plastic things. In fact, I'll turn anything that will hold soil into a planter, but I draw the line at plumbing fixtures.

I know I'm not the only gardener who does this. I once held a contest on my website to see what other people came up with and it revealed that there are some strangely creative, or eccentric, people out there.

Old work boots, open umbrellas, pots and pans, hats, purses, baskets and bowls, even eaves troughs — they've all been tried. How about the agitator from a washing machine, or the top of an old hair dryer? My favourite was an old pair of jeans that were no longer needed because the owner had lost weight and intended to keep it off. She filled them with soil and claimed the twenty pounds she lost was now represented "sitting" somewhere else.

I'll agree these things all make interesting planters. The danger lies in overdoing it. Too many "unique" items can make the backyard look like the back room of a junk shop, especially if the plants aren't thriving.

Besides ensuring plants are healthy, the difficult part is getting all the colours, textures, shapes, sizes, and scale of the plant material nicely coordinated. After doing this for years, I've discovered the secret. It doesn't matter a whole lot which plants you stick in a planter. If you give plants what they need and remember to feed and water them, most groupings turn out looking just fine, even sublime.

I know, designers are paid big money to develop ideal plant permutations. I even have a book on the subject — The Encyclopaedia of Planting Combinations, by Tony Lord. I just don't have time to read it when I'm busy planting. I really should although I'm sure Tony has come up with some of the same combinations that I've discovered accidentally. For instance, it's no secret that blues and yellows in all their hues look really good together, as do pinks and blues, and for that matter, so do yellows and pinks. Colours can complement or contrast startlingly — yellow marigolds with purple salvia, for instance.

I'll occasionally pot up a planter with just a single colour, or shades of the same colour. Know what? They look great too. Of course, I'm not blindly sticking plants in pots like mad without a thought to the process. I do plan. I always go to the garden centre with a list (which I usually forget to look at). I buy lots of plants, especially ones I've never grown before — and these are getting harder to find every year, but the breeders know this and are trying their best to help out.

When I get home, I begin the process of coordination. There is no guarantee that a planted plant will stay planted. If something doesn't seem right, out it comes, sometimes as much as week later. It's a wonder some of them ever manage to get established. Ever seen a geranium with a "Here we go again" look?

Sure, I could purchase a finished planter with the plants fully grown and all in bloom, but this would be far too static for me. When I plant up a container, I've really no idea what it will look like come July. I may have a sparse looking arrangement for a few weeks, but I wouldn't miss the joy of watching the transformation that takes place.

Once in a while, I'll know immediately that I've got it right — the perfect plants in the perfect container. I did it last week when I hauled out an ordinary looking 45mm pot from the shed. It's glazed a faded purple, and in it I planted a bronze/purple cordyline I just happened to have picked up on impulse at my local nursery. Nothing special in that, you might be thinking. No, not until I covered the surface with some Scottish moss that I happen to have in abundance. The result — lance-like, purple leaves soaring up from a carpet of pale green moss — pure elegance. Sometimes, one planter is enough.