Genuine examples of passionate (mad) gardeners:

I have to stop at every garden centre in town including home improvements stores. I spend winters slobbering over seed catalogues and doodling garden designs on everything in sight, including the kid’s homework. I rip up every inch of the yard millions of times over till I am happy with the outcome.

All my trees have people names, so friends think I always have friends to talk to when I say "Yesterday, I was speaking to Paul about the dry weather" (Paul is a 70-year-old twisted hazelnut tree!).

Balancing on one crutch, digging holes to plant tomatoes in June.

I will go out to the garden in the morning in my PJs to see how everything is. I stop to pick a weed (or so I think), and I'm still there in my PJs at two in the afternoon, still in my PJs.

I bought four coleus plants eight months ago. I couldn't even spell propagation, and now I have 400 of the little devils!

I don't usually keep secrets from my husband, but I never show him my receipt when returning from the gardening center.

I think moving 300 or so plants from one house to another counts!

The dirt under my nails is layered in strata.  My favorite cologne is eau de earth.  I garden by flashlight.

I never met a plant I didn't want.

I talk to my plants and play classical music for them.

My husband is crying "No more flowers, no more flowery dishes, no more of flowery wallpaper, " but I can't hear because I’m in the winter garden preparing for more flowers!

I pull more weeds in other people's gardens than I do in my own.

I think moving 300 or so plants from one house to another makes me a mad gardener!

Growing . . . growing old, excited, cuttings, seeds, happy, fatter, dirtier, smarter. Gardening madness helps me to grow all these and many more!
Let's just say, my husband often brings out a shop light so that I can continue to see what I'm doing.

Obsessed! That’s what my family says I am.  I am determined to eradicate every blade of grass from our Florida lawn and replace it with plants for birds and butterflies.

I have childhood memories of being in the car with Mom on the way to nurseries, her knuckles whiter on the steering wheel, speedometer clicking ever higher, breath coming faster . . . I don’t really think of myself as mad, just that I'm a bit like my mother.

Getting up at 3 am to widen a border so the family didn't catch me removing yet more lawn. I'm banned from doing that.

There isn’t a bare spot in my house. I have plants on every surface — tables, chairs, floors, windowsills, husband’s bar, everywhere. There’s no lawn left. I’ve even moved onto my neighbor’s property.

I am obsessed . . . can't think about anything much other than my garden. Hard to pass the garden centres without stopping in to see if a plant says "take me home."

I spend more time thinking of and planning where I can use or obtain more plants than I spend on what to have for dinner.

Holly Days are Here

I must have gazed at one to many poinsettias, or eaten one too many mince pies, because I’ve been indulging in a little nostalgia. Every year at this time, when I was a little sprout, my dad would take us holly gathering. It was such an exciting event, gathering holly to brighten the house at Christmas. 

Of course, in those days we were blithely ignorant of the times ahead when Christmas decorating would be raised to a unique art form by the use of plastic penguins and flashing flamingos in a Vegas scale display.

Each December we’d make the trek to our secret place where the holly trees grew, hoping to discover a bounty of berries. We weren’t always lucky; some years there would be a good crop, with lush clumps clinging to each twig on the tree, while other years there’d be hardly a speck of red to be seen. My dad always blamed the berry vultures — I don’t know if he meant birds or the people who’d been there before us.

Even in the best of years, only half the trees would bear any berries at all. Having only a limited understanding of procreation, we didn’t realize that only the female holly bears berries while, as usual, the male hangs around taking up useful space. Now that I’m older and wiser, I realize the lack of berries was likely due to someone not in the mood.

Nonetheless, collecting was never easy. Holly has wicked prickles, and you could be sure the best sprigs were always at the top of the tree, at the outer limits, barely within reach. Since we had no concept of a limb lopper, someone had to climb the tree. “Go ahead, Dad,” I’d say, “show me one more time. Maybe next year I’ll be able to do it.” In this way the ancient tradition of holly gathering was slowly passed down through our family.

Yes, holly gathering was a challenge, but it was worth the struggle. At Christmas, friends and family would visit our home simply to admire our lovely holly sprig, burdened with two, maybe three berries. Meanwhile, Mum would serve mince pies and Dad would lie on the couch, groaning, with a mustard plaster taped to his back.

Ah, yes, the good old days. I often wonder what Dad would have thought of plastic penguins.

Zap Those Plant Pests

My neighbour, Olaf, has a large collection of houseplants. They keep him busy through the winter -- help keep his mind off TV. Like me, he watches too much, especially late movies. Still, he's always complaining. His plants are either turning brown or the flowers are dropping off. If it isn't white fly, it's scale.

There seems to be no end to the pests Olaf has to put up with. His latest problem is fungus gnats -- those things that look like fruit flies -- speaking of which -- I’ve never seen one in a grocery store. Racks and racks of fruit displays screaming eat me, eat me, and not a fruit fly in sight. This worries me. I leave one grape on the kitchen counter and the fruit flies are rolling it out the door!

Anyway, back to Olaf. The Fungus Gnats were driving him nuts. He’d tried everything to get rid of them, but they kept returning. I told him, "You have to destroy the source. They're laying their eggs in the soil, you know. The eggs hatch into tiny larvae and then turn into the gnats that are bugging you”

"Oh, really," he said.

Next day, Olaf went down to the local petro-chemical by-product outlet and purchased a variety of toxic waste to drench the plants and soil with -- so much that I'm surprised he didn't get a visit from a U.N. weapons inspection team. Even so, the stuff had little effect. The gnats vanished all right, but a week later they returned -- bigger and meaner. Olaf was wild.

Since then he’s tried everything: soaking his plants in the shower, wrapping them in plastic, and even heating them in the microwave (moderately successful as far as wiping out the gnat larvae, but it made the leaves a bit crisp). Things got really serious when he put all his plants in the garage and ran the car to try to asphyxiate them. It might have been successful, but he had to call off the experiment when the Peace Lily passed out.

Olaf asked me over for a beer the other weekend -- told me that at last he had a sure-fire way to zap the critters in the soil. "Follow me," he said, and led me into the garage. The car was in there, and so were all his houseplants -- lined up like they were on death row.

The hood was up on the car and he had a pair of cables attached to the battery. The other ends of the cables were hooked to two large meat probes.

"These are my bug-zapping light sabres," he said. “Watch this.” He then yelled, "Clear," just like on E.R. -- or St. Elswhere if you're still watching re-runs -- and plunged the two meat probes into a pot containing a huge schefflera.

Sure-fire was right. Blue sparks flashed and the battery began to smoke as steam rose from the soil. Both Olaf and the schefflera shuddered. "There," he groaned, "that should fry em." I wasn't convinced; I've seen too many Frankenstein movies. I got out of the garage fast with visions of a crazy professor and mutant larvae flashing to mind.

It's been a month now and Olaf still hasn't solved his fungus gnat problem. Last time I talked with him he was thinking of taking them down to the grocery store and standing them beside the fruit racks for a day or two. Meanwhile, I've stopped watching late movies and, just as a precaution, I got the screen on the window fixed.

WARNING! This is fiction. Do not attempt this at home, or anywhere else for that matter -- you may wind up on Grey's Anatomy. But if you see Olaf's sure-fire bug killer on a late- night infomercial, remember, you saw it here first.

TIP: The above might work, but the best is yellow sticky strips and a layer of grit or perlite on the surface of the soil.

Rockway Gardens, Kitchener, Ontario.

This is a short piece I wrote for Canadian Gardening magazine some time ago.

In 1928, a strip of wasteland alongside the eastern approach to the city of Kitchener, Ontario, sprouted nothing but scrub and billboards.

Today, it’s Rockway Gardens, a three hectare floral ribbon, created and maintained by the Kitchener Horticultural Society. The gardens are now within a vastly expanded city, a source of civic pride that sees numerous bridal parties waiting in line each weekend in summer for wedding photographs beside vintage fountains or before a low limestone escarpment.

It appears natural, but this impressive rockery, spilling with flowers, was constructed during the depression years with almost 2,000 tonnes of limestone. Designed by prominent English landscape architect, W. J. Jarman, the project provided relief work for the unemployed during difficult times; allowing many to hold onto their homes by contributing labour in lieu of paying property taxes. Work continues at the gardens. Each year, volunteers from the Horticultural Society, whose motto is “community beauty is a civic duty”, contribute to their heritage by planting thousands of bulbs and annuals at Rockway to welcome visitors to the city of Kitchener.

At 270 Simcoe Street North in the city of Oshawa lies another garden developed during the same period. Parkwood, now a national historic site, was the home of Sam McLaughlin, founder of General Motors of Canada. His impressive and imposing mansion is set amid five hectares of gardens designed by a series of prominent landscape architects of the early twentieth century, including W.E. Harries and A.V. Hall, and the Dunington-Grubbs, husband and wife team who were founding members of the Canadian Society of Landscape Architects.

These talented people created delightful garden rooms adorned with beautiful statuary, including the Italian Garden, the Sunken Garden, the Sundial Garden, all linked by paths and hidden nooks to greenhouses where orchids and palms share space with the Japanese Garden and the Greenhouse Tea Room.

The last major development took place in the thirties, when architect John Lyle was commissioned to design a formal garden in the art moderne style, a branch of art deco. Viewed from the terrace, a bridal party posing amid the elegant simplicity of the garden with its string of fountains evokes a beautiful representation of the period.

No Spring in Your step?

At the first opportunity in spring, I'm out there poking away at the compost heap to see if it moves. If it does it means the frost is out of it, so I run to the shed and fetch a fork to give it an enthusiastic turning. Then I spend the rest of the week walking funny and cursing the compost heap, when it's really my own fault for letting myself get out of shape.

I've been finding that as each year goes by it's getting harder to stay in shape, so I came up with a great idea. This winter I cleaned up the garage and turned it into my very own garden gym. It was easy. I tied a couple of bricks to a shovel, and I hooked up a rake to the wall with a bungee cord. Now I can stand there for hours pretending I'm digging the veggie garden over or cleaning up the lawn.

That's not all. I developed a whole range of exercises to simulate yard work. One of the harder jobs in the yard is pushing a wheelbarrow. I wanted to bring Wally (my faithful wheelbarrow) in to wheel around the garage but there isn't enough room. I solved that by substituting a couple of pails for Wally and I carry them back and forth instead. When I get the hang of it I'll put something in the pails instead of pretending Wally's empty.

I discovered another exercise quite by chance. I was in the gym doing some bungee raking and hadn't quite got the hang of it. I had the rake pulled to the limit when it slipped out of my hand and boinged around the garage. Dangerous? I'll say. It slapped me in the head a couple of times before raking everything off the shelf where I store all my odds and ends. Two hours of simulated weeding as I cleaned them up was easily as effective, and exciting, as the real thing.

Yes, the garden gym works great; however, being cooped up in the garage without the distractions of nature I've discovered a whole new perspective on what I'm actually doing to myself out there in the yard every spring. After a few weeks of working out I've come to realize how much stress I actually put my poor body through. No wonder it's always grumbling.

I now believe that gardening is just as grueling as any sport. Why, maybe gardening should be in the Olympics. That would be so thrilling. Can you imagine the spine-tingling tension of a topiary competition, or the excitement of competitive weeding? And let's not forget the sheer titillation of questionable garden clothing. But then I suppose there'd be the usual scandal over the use of illegal growth hormones (that will be a biggie, I'm sure), and we'd have to watch those hokey interviews with the medalists: "I owe it all to my pony, Jenny, for providing me with what it takes to grow healthy plants." Meanwhile the medalists will all be standing there holding shovels and wearing shrink-wrapped spandex with the logos of huge fertilizer companies plastered over them.

Maybe not. Maybe I'll skip today's workout and give the compost heap a poke instead -- ooh,ooh.

Soiled Again

Convoys of dump trucks are hurtling through the streets with increasing frequency. It's topsoil time. It happens each spring when gardeners peek into their neighbour's yard and see stuff growing twice as fast as in their own yard -- or at least it appears that way. 

That's right, your very own soil, the very soil that was stripped off a lovely, flower filled meadow and sold to a soil cartel before your house was even built. 

This is actually an optical illusion caused by breathing the fumes of a gas lawnmower mixed with freshly applied lawn chemicals (optical illusions are one of the less serious effects). “It's has to be my meagre topsoil," they say, "I have to have more topsoil."

There's a commonly held belief that more topsoil will solve all garden problems. Fact is, if you live in a newer home it might be true. I've seen yards that had no topsoil, other than the little bit stuck to the back of the turf. There are two ways to remedy this: Make some or buy some.

Since making topsoil is time consuming (at least half an aeon per inch), the alternative is to buy soil, and the place to buy it is from the grocery store in little plastic bags -- or by the truck load.

Buying by the bag is very expensive if you need any kind of quantity, especially when you factor in the price of the new shocks the car will need after hauling multiple loads. And the trouble with bags is, the soil vanishes as soon as it's dumped onto the flowerbed -- "I just emptied a whole bagful there. Where'd it go?"

This is not an optical illusion. It really happens. What’s more, it may not be soil. What better way to dispose of industrial waste than to have it dispersed in small quantities across the country?

It’s much better to order by the yard from a local dealer, preferably a whole dump truck full. It never goes to waste, and you might even get your own soil back.

At least you'll know where it came from. Of course, it will have passed through a few hands before ending up in the back of the dump truck that's hurtling down your street this very moment -- and you'll still have to pay for it -- the street value, not the field value.

Start em Early

If you wait until young people are teenagers and then introduce them to gardening by telling them to go mow the lawn, it will hardly endear them to the pastime. But, when you plant seeds with a child, you’ll be planting a seed in their head. When the seed in the soil sprouts and begins to grow, the magic of this amazing process will never be forgotten.

This is important, this understanding of how the natural world works. We’ve heard how too many city children can make no connection between milk and a cow, and I dare say there as many who haven’t a clue where the lettuce on a Big Mac comes from — it grows in dirt? — Oh yuck.

Okay, it may have been grown hydroponically, but my point is, we now have a generation that has had little contact with the natural world. There’s practically nothing that can’t now be done online in a virtual world, including gardening. Sure, there are no dirty hands, but a computer program will never replicate the joy in the face of a child seeing their very own seeds sprout — or maybe it will. Maybe it doesn’t matter; maybe it’s too late, but it will be a loss, so start seeds with a child today and give them a gift they’ll never forget, something they may need someday.

It’s easy enough; young plant growers need seeds, a container, and soil. Other essentials are warmth, light, food and water, and a few minutes of attention each day.

Small children (and plenty of adults) need instant gratification; therefore fast germinating seeds are essential for the first time grower. Fast germinating flower seeds include Centaurea (bachelor buttons) 5 to 7 days, Cosmos 7 to 10 days, and Zinnia 5 to 7 days. A favourite of mine is Four-o’clocks (Mirabilis). It’s ideal for small children because the seeds are large and easy to handle. Soak them overnight and they’ll sprout surprisingly quickly.

For a container, almost anything that will hold soil will do providing there’s a hole in the bottom for drainage. Mini greenhouses for starting seeds are available, including whole kits, but using stuff from around the house is fun. The container should be deep enough to hold 50 – 75mm of soil. Too shallow and the soil will dry out quickly. Clear plastic food containers are great because you’ll be able to see the roots growing as well as the plant. Use a second one as a cover and your mini greenhouse is complete.

Fill with a light, good quality potting soil, not garden soil as it may contain weed seeds and unwelcome bugs. Moisten the soil before planting, and then after you’ve planted the seeds, cover them lightly with more potting soil, but not too deep. Too much and the seed won’t have enough stored food to make it to the surface.

Some seeds need light to germinate, while others prefer darkness. This information is usually on the seed packet, but regardless; don’t plunk the container down on a window sill in full sun right away. It will get far to hot and broil everything. The soil has to stay moist but not wet.

When the seeds have sprouted, remove the cover and move to a sunny location beside a window, but avoid a window that faces full south as it may be to hot for the seedlings. If they grow leggy and lean towards the window, it means they need more light (growing under lights avoids these problems). 

It’s essential to check at least once a day to ensure the soil hasn’t dried out, but don’t over water. It’s best to water from the bottom if possible as a permanently moist soil surface can result in fungal problems.

Remember, like seedlings, kids need care and attention, but as they grow they become tougher, tough enough to rake and hoe, to plant and harvest, to pull weeds — and mow lawns. Start them early for future success.