Gnomes United

Okay, hands up. Who owns a garden gnome? Confess, now. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’ll confess. I have one. I call him Darth Spader, not that his name reflects any ambition to take up a shovel and help out. He prefers instead to hang out unobtrusively behind a shrub.

Gnomes have seen their popularity rise in recent years thanks largely to the Hobbit movies, but I don’t believe this has had any effect on the status of garden gnomes. Polls show they are somewhat less popular than stray cats in a garden, even though they cause far fewer problems. 

Some find garden gnomes cute while others find them repulsive. Why, the Royal Horticultural Society considers coloured figures of all kinds, whether gnomes, fairies or similar creatures, unacceptable at any shows. And the little folk have always been persona non grata at the venerable old Chelsea Flower Show.

Garden gnomes have a strong Teutonic background. The origin of gnomes hasn’t been as thoroughly researched as that of humans, but it does appear that the first clay garden gnome (der Gartenzwerg) was made in Graeferoda, Thuringia, Germany in the 1800's. While a first recorded appearance of a garden gnome in England was around 1840 at the estate of Sir Charles Isham, the 10th Baronet of Lamport Hall.

Not only are gnomes part of the landscape in Germany, for a while they were all the rage in Paris and became something of a status symbol in French gardens. Back in 2000, the chic Parc de Bagatelle in Paris displayed 2000 of the little guys throughout the world famous gardens, the very same gardens that a decade earlier displayed sculptures by Henry Moore.

Parisians flocked to the park to see the gnomes, and all was well until The Garden Gnome Liberation Front struck. After stealing 20 of the gnomes during a nighttime raid, the group issued a statement claiming responsibility and threatening to strike again unless the exhibit was closed and the remaining gnomes released. 

The communiqué further stated that the garden gnomes should not be ridiculed and should be released into their natural habitat (funny, I’d have thought that since they were garden gnomes, they were already in their natural habitat).

Unfortunately, gnome thieves are not only active in France. There have been many other instances of them going missing from gardens around the world, sometimes kidnapped with demands made for considerable ransom money. Even here in Waterloo gnome abductions have occurred.

I don’t know the details of the case, or whether the perpetrators were apprehended. I only happened to learn of it when I stopped by the annual police auction at the Waterloo detachment one Saturday morning a year or two back. The usual racks of bicycles were up for sale, along with household articles that had been lost or recovered, but over in the doorway of the police station, I discovered a group of garden gnomes. They were huddled together out of the wind, some of them ceramic, others concrete or plastic. Most were brightly coloured while a couple looked as though they’d been living rough. I assumed they were recovered after being stolen as a prank. A prank maybe, but heartbreaking to the owner.

For a moment, I felt an overwhelming urge to stick around and purchase the lot and take them home to share the garden with Darth, but I resisted. I really didn’t have room for them, and I somehow felt that Darth might not appreciate such a large invasion, solitary character that he is, so I left them to their fate, hoping they’d be adopted by a kindhearted gardener.

Whether you’re a fan of garden gnomes or not (George Harrison welcomed them into his garden and also included them on an album cover), they’re certainly controversial characters, and if they bring the good luck that they’re reputed to, then I’d say every garden needs one.

I should add that these are not real garden gnomes I’m referring to here. Besides sneaking into prestigious garden shows, genuine ones particularly love to attend Oktoberfest, all dressed up in their nifty gnome lederhosen. If you happen to discover one sleeping it off under the shrubbery in your back yard this week, ignore him. He’ll probably wander off after he wakes up. But if you can persuade him to rake leaves first, go right ahead.

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.

Puttering Days

It’s understandable if readers assume that I must have a huge, sprawling property, the outer reaches only accessible after a day’s ride on the back of grumbling burro. In fact, it’s barely large enough to support a pair of weight conscious sheep. Since I don’t believe I’ve ever really described my garden as a whole, I should tell a little more about it. The front, like many suburban gardens, is dominated by a driveway with a narrow strip along each side. The few scattered evergreens there are surrounded by ground covers — Scottish moss, creeping thyme, and phlox. I don’t spend a lot of time on the front as it’s fairly low maintenance.

The path that leads to the back yard is bordered on the shady side by periwinkle and old evergreens and is about halfway down my someday list for rejuvenation.  The other side of the path is startlingly different, and it’s glorious — for about week each year. Just three ornamental grasses soaring from a long bed of lavender.

Through the gate at the top of the steps is where my real garden begins, the backyard. There’s a brick courtyard first, a shady corner covered by a pergola. A climbing rose on the trellis at the end further cuts down on the light, making it perfect for the tuberous begonias I grow there in galvanised pails. They swing gently from the pergola, sometimes not so gently if I’m not looking where I’m going. Watch out. They’re just a few of the far too many containers that are everywhere around the garden.

Beyond the pergola is a brick patio, a mixed perennial bed on the left with a pair of clematis on the fence. It’s old barn board and surrounds the rear garden, except it’s completely covered at the bottom end by Virginia creeper and by Boston ivy down the right side. The rear garden is about ten metres wide and thirty meters deep, and I’d hardly call it formally landscaped as I tend to scatter plants at whim, but it seems to work out. Getting from one end to the other isn’t straightforward. The most obvious pathway diverts onto the mini lawn. A right turn right instead crosses the patio and around the trellis which hides the huge rose garden (ahem) and my pond — no diving from the deck.

Find your way back onto the original path and it will take you down between flowerbeds to a cedar rail archway into the veggie garden, which also contains a couple of compost heaps, and a rabbit sanctuary. At least they think it’s a rabbit sanctuary.

I don’t seem to be growing as many vegetables as I used to, so I’m thinking — just thinking, of completely redesigning the whole area here. Retrace your steps and take the shortcut onto the dog lounging lawn and there’s a bench to sit on. This spring I took out and old shrub behind the bench. It was one of the originals and had become overgrown. It blossomed in spring but didn’t contribute much through the rest of the year. Its removal opened up a completely new area where I’ve stuck a few things in to fill the space. I didn’t so formulate a plan, but rather, I’ve given the plants an opportunity to perform and then I’ll manipulate the results. There’s definitely a lot of replanting that goes on in my garden.

Overall, I think it’s a gardener’s garden and I try to keep it interesting for as much of the year as possible, but there’s always one day when I look at it and think, yes, this is it; this is the day. Maybe it will be tomorrow — maybe not.

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.

Spring Rush

I plant far too much stuff in my garden. I can’t help it. I drop in at a garden centre for a couple of plants and I come home with a couple of flats. It’s less expensive if you fill the whole flat, they tell me at the cash register. So back I go to fill the thing, even though I only have two plants in it. It’s not that I don’t possess a degree of logic and the ability to make calculations in my head that would show it’s costing me more.

That’s not the reason. The reason is the season. In spring I have to plant and plant and plant. I admire people that can enter a garden centre with a list and leave the place with no more items purchased than were on their list. At any other store I can do this, but not where plants are concerned. It must have something to do with survival — the instinct to ensure there’ll be a good crop by fall. Except it’s mostly flowering plants I’m buying. As far as vegetables, it’s a much simpler process. I plant most from seed — beans, peas, lettuce, zucchini. I don’t have to worry about how the veggie garden looks, whether the colours are coordinated, or where to plant — in the veggie garden.

I’ve come to the conclusion that planting my garden is like doing a jigsaw puzzle without a picture to go by and, if you’ve ever completed a jigsaw puzzle, you’ll know that the pieces with flowers or foliage are the hardest ones to place. On top of that, I’m always missing pieces or I having to force in extra ones.

I spent the long weekend on an extended walking tour of my property doing just that — during the rain showers — trying to find the perfect spot for whatever plant was in my hand. Prefers shade says the tag, but the best shady corner is full. There’s space in another shady spot, but the plant in my hand is too large for that location. There’s only one more option, but the colour is all wrong. It will clash terribly — too bad, I’ll relocate the one that’s beside it. If I can’t find a space for it, I’ll start another container. There’s still room on the deck for a couple more. Then I start trying to find homes for another trunk load.

Despite the turmoil and frenzy of planting that I go through each May long weekend, it’s the best of times and it only gets better as the garden grows lush and more colourful throughout the season. I did discover one plant in particular that I hope to see flourish, it’s my find of the week, a tender perennial with the memorable name of Melongolly Blue. It has fine foliage and is Melon-scented with powder blue flowers. It caught my attention in an article I was reading some time back. I wrote down the name at the time then forgot all about it, but spotted it again while cruising the aisles last weekend. I was so pleased, I let it choose its own place in the garden.