Justicia Carnea

Grow pineapples in Scotland? I don’t know if they ever did but the possibility popped up when I read of Scottish horticulturalist Sir James Justice. He was a noted figure in Scottish gardening in the early eighteenth century. He authored successful books on the topic, and when explorers began returning with newly discovered plants, he had to have them. An obsessive gardener, he spent so much money on these new species, and on botanical experiments, that he almost went broke.

One of his experiments was rumoured to be a pineapple stove, a means of heating the soil to grow pineapples in a cold climate. His idea didn’t progress, but in the late nineteenth century pineapples were actually grown in cold frames on heated soil.

 Unfortunately, Sir James put his pastime and his profession before his family which contributed to the failure of his marriage. He was also expelled from the Fellowship of the Royal Society after sinking too much of their money into greenhouses and soil mixtures.

 And yet, though not a household name, he lives on in the world of botany. He was honoured when a complete genus of plants was named Justicia, and there are over seventy species in the Justicia genus, so well done, Jim.

 These plants are native to tropical and warm temperate zones around the world,including Brazil, where they grow in the Mata Atlântica, the Atlantic Forest ecoregion. Although termed an eco region, 90% of the original area has sadly been deforested.

 It’s where Justicia carnea, the plant now growing in the corner of my garden originated, except it came from a local garden centre. This plant is an evergreen shrub with large, dark green leaves and gorgeous plumed flowers. It’s unlikely to grow to its maximum height of five feet (1.5 metres) in my garden. It’s only a couple of feet high, and that’s because I’ve dug it out and stored it each fall. I guess I can say I’m endeavoring to save an endangered species. It is a perennial in Brazil, and must be a beautiful sight in the wild, or cultivated in someone’s front yard in Rio.

 This is the third summer in my garden and it’s near the top of my everchanging favourite plants list. The leaves drop when I store it in a dormant state, but it would retain them like other tropical plants if it were in a conservatory — Justicia carnea is sometimes sold as a decorative house plant.

 

It’s those distinctive blooms that make it a hit. They’re hand sized — okay, small hands. The petals are tubular and as the flower opens further, it shows why it has the common name Brazilian Plume, or flamingo flower. I’d call it rose pink, but then shades of pink can be subjective. I guess you don’t need me to point out that carnea, the species name is from Latin for flesh coloured.

There is a pure white variety named Alba, which I’ve also grown. It didn’t overwinter successfully, probably because it wasn’t quite mature enough. I have more success with shrubby plants when they’ve developed woody stems.

Regardless, my current Justicia is a beauty, and I’ve planted it in the perfect place because it’s grown so well this year. It’s in my Brazilian rainforest, that is, a corner of my shady side yard where the soil is rich with organic matter and moist like a damp sponge.

Although old Jim had this genus named after him, he never did travel to the rain forests of Brazil. I’m not sure he ever left Scotland, so perhaps he was honoured for his work on those mysterious pineapple stoves.

Tulip History

 It wouldn’t be spring without tulips. They pop up like targets in a shooting gallery, in perfectly coordinated clumps, and in great swaths of every colour of the rainbow. That’s largely thanks to The Netherlands where they’ve been growing and breeding more varieties for us to enjoy for the last four hundred years.

But that’s not the beginning of the tulip story. It began, oh, a thousand years ago when someone, wandering through a valley in the Mountains of Heaven, spotted a delightful little wildflower. It would have been familiar to local people but unknown to travelers from Europe. And so began a long journey west along the ancient silk road, the route traders had travelled for centuries carrying goods between East Asia with Southern Europe.

 The Mountains of Heaven, or the Tien Shan Mountains as they’re known, are in the border region between North west China and Kazakhstan. However, the tulips growing there would not have looked like the ones growing in the front garden. Though similar, these wild tulips would have been much smaller and wouldn’t have the unusual colours and forms we see today.

 Whoever that person was, they dug up a few bulbs thinking they’d be nice to take home to Constantinople – now Istanbul, Turkey. At least that’s where the tulip was first recorded as having been cultivated, as early as 1055.

 When the Ottoman Empire arose there in the fourteenth century, the fortunes of the tulip rose with it. As for the name, it’s possible it came from a Persian word for turban because it resembled the headwear, or it could be because the Ottomans wore the flower on their turbans like an elevated boutonnière. Regardless, the elite of society raved about the tulip and it became a symbol of the Empire, and a material possession that defined nobility. In Turkish culture where it became a symbol of paradise, it gained an almost divine status.

 The Ottomans weren’t the only ones to go crazy about this unusual flower with such deeply saturated petals. When Ogier de Busbecq, the ambassador of Ferdinand I, Holy Roman Emperor, dropped in on the Sultan of Turkey and spotted tulips, he had to have them. No doubt he stuffed a few bulbs in his diplomatic bag to take home to Vienna. This was in the sixteenth century and it wasn’t long before tulips appeared in Amsterdam around the beginning of the Dutch Golden Age. The country had become the leading maritime power of the day and the economy was booming. Of course, those who could afford it wanted the latest and greatest, and artists, like Instagram influencers of the day, were turning out countless paintings to grace the walls of the wealthy. As tulips were frequently depicted in art, this no doubt contributed to a demand for the real thing.

 Dutch breeders began producing ever more colours and forms. Then, in the early part of the seventeenth century what came to be known as the Rembrandt tulip appeared with its streaked, bicoloured flowers. Unlike earlier varieties with more simple hues, this tulip had been afflicted with a virus that had caused the tulip to mutate. It wasn’t called the Rembrandt tulip because the artist had painted them, although many still life paintings by other Dutch masters of the day featured these remarkable flowers in their work; it referred to the city of Leiden where Rembrandt was born, one of the earliest regions to begin serious tulip growing.

 As these unique tulips appeared, it set off a frenzy of trading and the price of rare bulbs rocketed faster than a speeding Bitcoin. The period became known as tulip mania, suggesting the whole country was involved in a huge economic bubble founded on these plants. Fortunes were certainly won and then lost when the market collapsed, however more recent studies have since revealed that it was hardly the market crash of 2008 and it was only a relatively small number of traders that were involved.

 Regardless, the Dutch began breeding and hybridising, producing an ever-wider range of colours and forms from almost black to one that resembles the top of a raspberry ice cream cone. The Rembrandts of today, meanwhile, are free of the virus and that colour shift is now fixed in a limited number of colours.

Other varieties have surpassed them the Rembrandt tulips, especially the fringed varieties with their finely incised petals and the even more flamboyant parrot tulips, with ruffled and ornate petals splashed with flame-like strips or feathery patterns. Why parrot? Possibly it was the feathery petals or the beak-like shape that some saw, although the name might have appeared after the famous seventeenth century French engraver Nicolas Robert referred to them as perroquet de trois couleurs.

 Regardless, this resulted in the Netherlands becoming the major tulip grower in the world, exporting three billion bulbs annually. Over 15,000 hectares of farmland there are now dedicated to producing these bulbs. In spring, when tulips are in full bloom, huge fields are striped blankets of colour, perhaps the inspiration for the paintings of American artist Gene Davis.

 During springtime in The Netherlands those painted fields are amazing, but not for long. Within days the colour vanishes. As though an edict from the Queen of hearts has been issued, it’s off with their heads, millions of them, left to fade away along the furrows. To the casual observer unaware of the process, it must be heartbreaking, and yet it’s an essential step in bulb production that takes place in late April.

 Like combine harvesters on a prairie wheat field, similar equipment criss-crosses the tulip fields, shearing off the flower heads. This stops the plant from producing seed, and instead, energy is directed into growing the bulb in the soil below. By July the foliage has died, and the real harvest begins. In much the same way as Prince Edward Island farmers harvest potatoes, specialized equipment traverses the fields, lifting the bulbs from the soil.

To aid the process in heavier soils the bulbs are planted between layers of net that are then simultaneously rolled up by the machine for reuse, just one stage in a highly automated mobile industrial operation. The netting isn’t needed in sandy areas as bulbs are more easily released from the soil.

 The bulbs are then conveyed along, any remaining foliage and leaf litter is removed, soil is shaken free, and the bulbs are washed before they’re loaded onto convoys of trucks. The next stage takes place in a processing facility where the bulbs are again washed and sorted, and smaller offshoots are separated from the main bulb.

 These small ones will be replanted to produce future crops. Further along the line, the flaking, papery layers similar to onion skin are removed. The bulbs continue along a conveyor belt where they’re scrutinized by teams of seasonal workers, the only part of the process that isn’t automated. This is where diseased or damaged bulbs are tossed aside, and any stray roots are removed by hand. After a final wash and dry the bulbs are sorted and stored until it’s time for export when they’ll arrive in stores here in September ready for fall planting.

 The sight of the tulip fields in the Netherlands is a magnificent, though short-lived sight, and there are several locations where they can be viewed. The most famous area is along the North Sea dunes, between the cities of Leiden and Den Helder, but there are other places in The Netherlands where tulips and other spring flowers can be seen in full bloom for weeks. The most famous of these is Keukenhof near the city of Lisse, an hour’s drive from Amsterdam.

 Keukenhof, formerly part of the nineteenth century estate of Baron and Baroness Van Pallandt, is a 32-hectare park that is only open for a couple of months each spring when it welcomes close to a million visitors who arrive to view the glorious displays. These are created each fall when four and a half million tulip bulbs in a hundred varieties, plus another three million or so other flowering bulbs are planted.

 And then there’s the fragrance. Fewer than 20 percent of tulip varieties are fragrant, mainly in shades of orange, but at Keukenhof there are plenty of other sweetly scented flowers. A half dozen hyacinths near the patio are always a delight, but when a breeze carries the output of a thousand, it’s incomparable.

 A trip to see and experience this is certainly worthwhile, however there is a comparable display much closer to home and that’s the Canadian Tulip Festival held annually in Ottawa. In 2021 it will run for ten days from May 14 to May 24.

The festival began when the Dutch royal family sent 100,000 tulip bulbs to Ottawa in 1945 after the second world war ended. This was in gratitude to Canada for providing refuge for the future Queen Juliana whilst The Netherlands was under Nazi occupation.

 The royal family continues to send 10,000 bulbs each year in addition to 10,000 more from the Dutch Bulb Growers Association. The Festival also commemorates the unforgettable role of Canadian troops in the liberation of the Netherlands. Although the Netherlands is the primary producer of tulip bulbs, Canada has a small share of the market.

Vanco Farms in Prince Edward Island is enhancing the red soil of the province by growing tulips instead of potatoes. Besides producing bulbs for gardeners, the farm also grows millions of tulips for the cut flower market. After harvesting, the best of the bulbs are stored in large coolers under winter temperatures. When introduced to a warm greenhouse and planted, the bulbs are tricked into believing spring has arrived early. By planting successive crops blooms are produced from January to May to fill bouquets for stores throughout the Maritimes and Quebec.

In the garden is the place to see them growing, bringing colour to our world as winter fades. That pretty wildflower from Asia, after a journey of a thousand years from the Mountains of Heaven, and enhanced through centuries of breeding, has found a home in Canada.  It just wouldn’t be spring without tulips.

A short walk into my garden

 

The secret super power of geraniums

The tiresome Japanese beetle has been busy doing its thing again, tormenting gardeners. The first time I encountered them in my garden I tried to look upon the Boston ivy as a greenish lace curtain draped over the fence. It didn’t work. There was no avoiding the realization that the leaves had been shredded by Japanese beetles.

Last year it was the hazel and by the time I noticed it was too late and the poor tree suffered the same
treatment. There were just too many to deal with, and besides, they were out of reach. Other times these shiny brown and green beetles with locust-like appetites have appeared on my roses where at least they’re easy to spot and it’s easy to shake them off into a pail of soapy water. That’s about the most effective way to dispatch them. Sadly, for some gardeners, so many show up to feast they’d need to set up a dishwasher in the back yard and herd them in. So far this year I’ve only seen two and used the quick and simple squishing technique — ugh.

Maybe the winter was hard on the grubs, or enough lovely starlings fed well when on lawn patrol. That’s where the beetles begin their life cycle. After they’ve done eating, they mate, then the female lays eggs in a handy lawn, especially one where the where soil is moist. The following spring, eggs develop into grubs that feed on grass roots, pupate, then emerge as hungry adults in July and take off to the nearest food source, but only when conditions are right. They prefer to take flight when the air is clear, calm, humidity is high, and the temperature between 29 C and 35 C.

It’s at the grub stage in lawns where some control can be achieved by an application of nematodes, but to be effective, correct time of application, weather, and specific soil temperature must all coincide. Even then, it’s of little help if yours is the only lawn in the area to be treated.

You might be wondering why these voracious pests haven’t defoliated their homeland by now. In Japan they’re seen only as a minor pest, simply because of a difference in gardening culture. The country isn’t blanketed with lawns the way North America is, and that means far fewer places accommodate the lifecycle of the grubs.

There are traps available to limit damage, and they work extremely well, or sort of. They attract the beetles with two types of baits or pheromones, a sex one to attract the males and a flowery one to tempt both male and female. The drawback is they can attract thousands of beetles and as they pass over your garden on their incoming flight path, enough of them will stop off for a quick feed and anything else they might have in mind. No harm in trying with traps. Better still, convince all your neighbours to install a few.

The most effective solution, though not the easiest, is to gradually replace any plants and trees that the beetles are attracted to, and there are over 300 species. There are even more that they’ll never bother, and if that’s the route you choose to take, a quick search online will provide lists of both.

One more possible way to limit the damage the beetles do, is to plant geraniums, lots of them. Research by a couple of scientists confirmed anecdotal reports that geraniums (pelargoniums) are toxic to these pests. After feeding on the flowers, the study showed the beetles became paralysed for up to 16 hours, however, it didn’t finish them off. When they recovered, they went back for more. Made them easier to pick off, I suppose, but it might take a lawn full of geraniums to provide any relief. Other anecdotal reports suggested the same effect occurred when beetles fed on flowers of bottlebrush buckeye (Aesculus parviflora), but when tested, no adverse effects were observed.

Nature does have a way of challenging us, so for now it looks like I’ll continue picking and squishing, at least until balance is restored.  

Patty, the Lucky Petunia

The garden centre that sucked me in to their clearance sale the other day had a sign out yesterday saying LAST CHANCE SALE. Last chance? Who are they fooling? These places will do anything to coax and con nutty gardeners into buying one more plant. Can’t fool me, I said to myself, but I stopped in anyway. Hey, I enjoy the atmosphere, even if it isn’t a real nursery — only a tent they stick up in the parking lot at the local plaza.

Of course, I did buy something; it doesn't seem right to hang around and not do so. And you can't beat the prices. I picked up perennials at four for a buck — amazing! They were seven dollars each a month ago.

There are no tags on them, so I'm not sure what they are, and I can't identify them by their foliage, either, because it's kinda shriveled, but there are some green bits sticking up which means there’s life still in them.

Hah! The price slashers at this particular garden centre don't seem to realize that in the hands of a mad gardener these tiny scraps of green will become huge luxurious plants by next season. What a challenge! And if they don't survive, I'll have lost nothing because I'll still own the pots (not that I need more pots when the shed is knee deep in them, but I can always use the premium potting soil).

As I was paying for my purchases, I asked the person at the cash register what they did with the leftovers when they finally do close for the season. She told me they toss them all in the garbage. Being a curious type, I naturally asked where. She just smiled and took my money.

I returned to the plaza the following day — I had to. I was determined to see what they would do with the leftover plants when they closed up and took the tent down. I couldn't believe they'd throw them in the garbage, but if they did I was going to be there to rescue them. It didn't look as though it was going to happen, though, because when I arrived the following day, they’d changed the sign again. It now read LAST CHANCE SALE EXTENDED!

I hung around anyway, just in case, browsing until they began to give me the subtle looks that told me it was time to leave, even though I'd bought a limp lupine from the bargain table. Too bad it's in rough shape, but if I can nurse it back to health, I'll keep it potted up and use it to intimidate some of the poor performers I planted a month ago.

After that, I spent an hour or two casually wandering around the parking lot, keeping one eye on the tent and the other on the mall security guard. Earlier, he'd asked me what I was doing and I'd told him I was an agent from the S.P.C.P. (Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Plants). I don't think he believed me, so I said I was only joking and was actually trying to find my car, which meant I had to keep moving to maintain the pretence of looking for it.

The parking lot is huge, and I walked an awful long way. At first it was fun trying to lose the security guard, but at four o'clock his shift ended and a fresh guy took over — he could run too. By then the garden place was closing for the day and it didn't look as though the tent would be coming down, so I figured I'd better get out of there before I was arrested. I went back to the garden centre this morning, but instead of being chased around the parking lot again, I sat in the car to watch — all day. Was it ever hot in there! I learned that I never want to be a greenhouse worker.

But my patience paid off; I had a perfect view of the garden tent. At four o'clock, they took all the benches and equipment out, including the trays of annuals that were still not sold. They set them off to one side where I was able to keep an eye on them. No way were they going into the dumpster if I could help it. Shortly afterwards a truck arrived with a bunch of guys who began to dismantle the tent. I felt awfully melancholy. It was like watching the circus leave town.

They crammed everything onto the truck except for the plants. My hopes shot up. I was ready. As soon as those plants went into the dumpster, I'd swoop to the rescue. But then, at the last moment, one of the guys picked up the trays and, instead of taking them to the dumpster, he shoved them into the back of the truck. Then they drove away. I was wild; a whole afternoon wasted getting a free sauna that I didn't need. I took off after that truck. If they were planning to dump the plants someplace else, I was going to be there.

I tailed that truck all the way across town. I never let them get more than half a block ahead of me. It wasn't easy; they were in a real hurry and I had to run red lights to keep up. I could barely stay with them.

It was crazy. We were tearing along the expressway when it happened. Disaster! It was terrible. As the truck swung onto the exit ramp, the rear door flew open and a tray of petunias flew out. I hit the brakes, but it was too late. I'll never forget the horrible sound and sickening crunch as I ran over that plastic tray.

I stopped the car, leapt out, and raced back to find soil and plants scattered across two lanes of heavy traffic. Botanical road kill! It was hopeless, every bit of vegetation crushed beyond recognition. I felt so sad, especially since I felt partially responsible. If I hadn't been chasing the truck, it might not have happened. But when I remembered the plants were probably headed for the garbage dump, I felt much better.

Regardless, I had tears in my eyes as I returned to my car thinking what an awful waste. That was when I spotted it — almost buried in the flotsam of the hard shoulder — one little petunia. My heart leapt! A miracle. Except for a little shredding around the edges it had survived the crash unharmed. I carefully picked it up and placed it in a discarded coffee cup and for once, I actually blessed someone for littering. I took the cup and reverently set it in the cup holder, then drove home slowly and safely — a little too slowly; I got a ticket for obstructing traffic, but it was worth it. I saved a life.

I have Patty here now (that's her name — Patty), beside me as I write. Today I'm going to find the perfect place in the garden where she'll grow and thrive. Patty the luckiest petunia in the city.

Pinch that sucker -- or not

They say there’s a sucker born every minute and it sure seems that way on tomato plants, except they’re not suckers, they’re branches. They're the new growth that sprouts at the intersection of a branch and the main stem of a tomato plant, and the long-standing advice has been to remove them by pruning or pinching them out.

To not do so is at your peril because it’s believed suckers steal energy from the plant. At least that’s the belief, except it’s not so. It’s one of those things that’s been done by gardeners forever because someone, somewhere, thought it was a good idea and no one thought to question it.

What is a sucker? On a tree, it refers to those fresh shoots that appear at the base of a tree. On a tomato plant, there are none. What are referred to as suckers are simply secondary branches, and with their leaves they contribute energy to the plant rather than steal it. These secondary branches will also develop flowers and fruit

So why have gardeners been removing them? First, we have to understand the two main types of tomato plants, determinates and indeterminates. Determinates were initially bred for commercial growers. This type grows only to a limited size and the fruit ripens more or less at the same time, making it much easier for mechanical harvesting. When grown as a large-scale commercial crop, determinate plants are not staked or supported, and you can be sure no one roams thousands of acres of fields, pinching off anything in sight that looks like a so-called sucker.

These smaller, bushier plants are suitable for the home gardener with limited space as they can be easily supported if need be with tomato cages, in ground or in a planter, so why bother with pinching off suckers if the commercial growers don’t bother — I’m getting to it . . .

Prior to the development of determinate varieties, most of the plants gardeners were growing in backyards in the old days were indeterminate plants. We still grow them, and many are heirloom varieties. They’re called indeterminates because they don’t stop growing. Tomato plants are vines and will grow that way when allowed, and for as long as conditions are suitable.

Indeterminates are also the type most often grown as hot house tomatoes in commercial greenhouses. There, they are allowed to grow and produce fruit throughout the season, ensuring a continuous supply for the market. In greenhouse production, the lower leaves are sometimes removed, mainly for hygiene purposes as disease can strike where the humidity is highest. Otherwise the vines are allowed to grow naturally and become a jungle of hanging fruit.

In the backyard, however, where the season is shorter, indeterminates won’t reach the size of the greenhouse plants, but they do need serious staking, with a large cage or strong stakes. And this is where the reason for pinching out the “suckers” probably began. With secondary branches shooting off in all directions, there’d be a need for even more support. By restricting the plant to a main stem, it made sense and was much easier to train the plant. Consequently, the habit of sucker pinching took off and it continues today.

If you need to keep your indeterminate plants under control, go ahead and remove any secondary branches that aren’t required, but don’t feel it’s essential to remove them all. Some like to remove lower branches to improve airflow or keep leaves off the soil. Otherwise, the question is, does it really make any difference?

The answer is yes — sort of. If you leave the secondary stems on the plant, you’ll likely harvest far more tomatoes than you would if you removed them, except they might be a tad smaller than the ones from a plant that had the suckers removed.

So there you have it, to pinch or not to pinch the suckers? The choice is yours. You’ll still get tomatoes.

Not so 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.  

The Ruthless Gardener

I confess, I have a dark side. I’m ruthless when I have to be. I don’t like admitting this even if it is a character trait that’s admired in some quarters — sport, business, shopping, but in the garden? Sadly, yes. To be a successful gardener, it’s essential to be ruthless. Plants will test your patience. They can be fickle, stubborn, uncooperative, and downright frustrating.

Give some an inch and they’ll take over your garden; give others their own premium location and they sulk. It’s too bad plants aren’t sentient enough to realize that if they don’t grow as expected in my garden, there are severe penalties — and I’m a tough love judge, a three strikes and you’re out judge, a hanging judge. In fact, I make Judge Judy look like Mother Theresa on valium.

Oh yes, my garden may look peaceful and serene, a botanical sanctuary, but it didn’t get that way by me being a sentimental wuss. Insensitivity goes a long way in garden care. Don’t get me wrong, there’s plenty of opportunity for rehabilitation, and the three strikes and you’re out policy is relaxed if it isn’t three consecutive strikes, which a few plants appear to have figured out. They play dead for a couple of years then give a gold medal performance. I praise them, I reward them with an extra layer of compost, and then the following year they look like they fell off the final sale rack outside the grocery store. Then I have to start over and give them another chance.

I have to accept it’s not always the fault of the plant. It might have had a lousy childhood in a greenhouse, or it could be in the wrong type of soil or in the wrong location. The soil in this area is generally alkaline, but up in cottage country or in boggy areas it can be more acidic. Stick a Rhododendron or azalea in soil that’s too alkaline and it will refuse to grow well. If a plant likes sandy soil, it won’t appreciate clay for its roots. Some like moist soil, others like it dry.

It might be too hot, too dry, too wet, too windy, too sunny, or too shady for a particular plant’s liking. There are variations between species. For instance, blue or green hosta prefer more shade while the gold or yellow types like more sun. This is why, even though I may be ruthless, I take all these factors into consideration before sentencing. 

I often move plants around, sometimes two or three times until I find a spot the plant is happy with, but then what happens? It grows like it’s on a mission to replace the lawn and I have to dig three quarters of the plant out before there’s no room for anything else in the garden. For instance, I have clumps of daylilies that I seem to recall adoring, but they’ve begun to annoy me and will have to be dug and divided, or even disposed of. 

If, after I’ve done everything possible to provide perfect conditions for a plant and it still doesn’t bloom or show any sign of enthusiasm, I’ll stick it in a corner out of the way and ignore it for a while. Finally, I’ll offer it to someone else to see if they can grow it, otherwise it’s onto the compost heap. Then what happens? It lies there gasping in the sun for half a day and suddenly pops out a single, amazing flower, as though to mock me. And what do I do? I hastily stick it in a pot and try to coax it back to life. Yes, I’m ruthless when it comes to gardening. 

Bluebells

The bells are ringing, and you won’t hear a sound, but the fragrance will be there to enjoy, and the colour, well the colour. Blue of course, bluebells. I’m waxing nostalgic here thinking of the ancient woodlands of England where I grew up. In spring they’re awash with the much-loved, nodding heads of the bluebell that rise above the floppy, strap-like foliage. They’re an incredible wildflower spectacle, millions of them carpeting the woods with a violet glow. As children we’d always visit the woods to pick a few to display and enjoy the fragrance at home. The fragrance is redolent of hyacinths but not as strong.

I should really call it the British bluebell rather than English as they grow elsewhere in the British Isles, including Scotland where there’s another plant called bluebell, but that one doesn’t flower until summer. Known as the harebell in England, Campanula rotundifolia is called the bluebell of Scotland. It’s also a pretty plant with bell-shaped flowers that are a paler violet-blue.

The botanical name of the English bluebell is Hyacinthoides non-scripta,
which sounds like something you’d pick up at the pharmacy. Hyacinthoides is from Prince Hyacinthus of Greek myth. Non-scripta means unlettered to distinguish the bluebell from the similar-looking hyacinth. It’s often been called wild hyacinth as it does have the same strap-like foliage and it also grows from a bulb. Each one produces a single stem that droops with the nodding, bell-shaped fragrant flowers.

It is native to western Europe but grows especially well in the UK where cooler conditions are most suitable. It’s a protected species there, and yet it is under threat, not from the usual suspect — loss of habitat, which it is, but from a family member, the Spanish bluebell (Hyacinthoides hispanica). The Spanish bluebell is similar in appearance except the stems are more upright with flowers all around the stem, rather than drooping from one side like the English bluebell, and unlike the English, the flowers of the Spanish bluebell have no fragrance.

A more vigorous plant, it was introduced into the UK by the Victorians as a garden plant, only to escape into the wild and crossbreed with the native species, resulting in a hybrid, potentially out-competing the native.

Lovely as they are, both the Spanish and British bluebells species can become, if not invasive, aggressive in areas where they’ve been introduced. Because of a similar climate on the west coast, they spread easily in Vancouver gardens, and even here in Ontario it has been noted as potentially invasive.

They grow well enough in Ontario gardens hardy to zone five, and I have had a well-behaved clump in my garden that hasn’t budged from where I planted it. Still, it is important to keep an eye on non-native plants.

However, we have no need of those other bluebells because we have our own unrelated native one, Mertensia virginica. The common name is Virginia bluebells, a member of the borage family. It grows in rich, moist woodland from Georgia in the southern US and north to Quebec, here in Ontario, and in my garden.

It is listed as an edible plant, including the flowers, and it has many uses in traditional medicine of Indigenous peoples, including tuberculosis treatment, as a remedy for whooping cough, and even as an antidote for treating poison. If under the weather, it would have been given as a tonic made from this plant.

They might have their own bluebells in the UK, but they also like our Virginia bluebells enough that they’re a popular garden plant there. The Royal Horticultural Society has even given Mertensia virginica the Award of Garden Merit.

Blue, blue my world is blue . . .

Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb

Back before fruit and vegetables were available year-round at the grocery store, when everyone grew their own food, people were desperate after a long winter for something fresh, but it would be months before anything could be harvested from the garden, except for rhubarb — yes, humble rhubarb, which can be harvested as early as May, even earlier if forced, and earlier still if forced indoors. It’s easy to grow and even easier to eat, especially in a pie.

As kids we used to eat fresh stalks dipped in sugar, and I can tell you it took a lot of sugar to overcome the tart taste of fresh rhubarb, probably enough to counteract any healthy benefits derived from eating the rhubarb.

It has a long history as a medicinal plant in Asia, where it originated, but it wasn’t until the introduction of cheap sugar to Europe that it became a popular food dish. Prior to that, it probably saved many hungry peasants from starving while learning how to purse their lips.

Then back in the 1870s someone made the discovery that if rhubarb is forced, it produces longer, sweeter stalks — some say champagne flavoured — a bit of a stretch, methinks. This is done by growing the plant in darkness where instead of producing foliage the stalks stretch upwards, seeking light. There’s an area in northern England that came to be known as the Rhubarb Triangle because in its heyday it produced 90% of the world’s winter rhubarb. This was due to a local source of cheap coal that provided the heat required for the dark growing sheds.

Forcing rhubarb in the garden is as simple as placing a pail or even a garbage can over the clump. If inclined, you could purchase a beautiful replica of a Victorian terracotta rhubarb cloche, but since we’re entering the era of frugal gardening, I’d stick with the garbage can.

But before you can begin forcing rhubarb, you have to grow the stuff. Fall or early spring is the best time to plant. Rather than planting from seed, it’s best to buy a plant, or scoop one from a neighbour who’s dividing a clump. Common varieties are Macdonald, Valentine, Ruby, and Canada Red. When planting the rhizomes, crowns only need an inch or two of soil over them. Rhubarb likes to be well fed, so prepare the soil deeply, adding lots of compost or well rotted manure. Choose a sunny location, allowing as much as a square meter per plant, and water until established.

The plants are fairly drought tolerant, but do need water when actively growing. Adding compost around the plant will keep it healthy. Stalks should not be harvested the first year and only lightly in the second. It’s generally best to harvest only two thirds of the stalks, allowing the plant to grow on through summer, nourishing the rhizome. Even though the leaves contain oxalic acid and are toxic, it’s quite safe to add them to the compost pile. Remove all dead ones from the plant in spring.

For an early winter treat, dig a few crowns in fall, allow them to be frozen, which stimulates breaking of dormancy, then pot them up and place in a dark cold room.  As soon as the stalks are long enough, it’s pie time.