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.

Lotsa leaves -- indoors and out.

Leaves are beginning to fall or soon will be, and not just outdoors. Chances are they’re clogging up the vacuum cleaner in the living room, too. When plants arrive indoors after returning from summer vacation on the deck, we shouldn’t be too surprised if they begin to shed a few leaves.

As days get shorter and light levels fall, it’s a signal to plants to slow down, even stop growing for the winter. Outdoors it happens slowly, but when a plant that spent the summer outdoors is suddenly dragged indoors where light levels are considerably lower, the plant is thinking winter, already? What happened to fall?

Between the shock and the panic it shuts down, stops growing and the leaves begin to fall. Leaves that weren’t healthy in the first place soon turn yellow and drop off. After a week or two the plant adjusts and rests awhile until late winter when it will begin to produce new growth.

Sometimes the plant owner panics as well, immediately reaching for the fertilizer in the mistaken belief the plant is starving to death, except force feeding a plant has the opposite effect. Instead of producing healthy leaves, guess what — they turn yellow. Fertilize only when there is active growth.

Yellowing leaves may be due to disease — bacterial, viral, fungal — and without a thorough examination by a Doctor House houseplant doctor, it can be hard to determine the cause. More than likely, if the plant was reasonably healthy outdoors, it’s less likely disease is the cause. More likely insect pests have hitched a ride indoors.

If left outdoors, most insects quickly succumb to frost, but when transported indoors they think they’re wintering in Florida, and since there’s usually a bit more action happening on a winter vacation, it only takes one pair of amorous bugs to begin producing offspring and soon enough they’re swarming over the plant, sucking the green life out of the leaves.

It’s not always obvious there are bugs on the plant as (a), they are frequently green, making them hard to see, or (b), they’re too small, making them hard to see, or (c) they’re green and small . . .

The usual suspects are aphids or spider mites — or both. The aphids tend to cluster around the stems and at the tips of new growth, if there is any. They are easy to see when clustered together, but by then they’ve already been reproducing like crazy, and worse still, aphids don’t need a mate to start a family.

The other pest, almost invisible to any one over fifty, is the spider mite. They love warm, dry homes, so conditions are perfect for them to start a new family. They can be found mainly on the underside of leaves and look like tiny reddish specks. Here’s where a magnifying glass helps considerably. Look closely and you’ll see that these tiny specks are moving about. They’re not true spiders; in fact, a real spider might keep them in check, but if one also happened to hitch a ride indoors, chances are it was flattened on sight by a half-crazed arachnophobe.

 When bringing plants in for the winter, it’s essential to check thoroughly for hitch-hikers. Even then, they can be missed, so if you're not inclined to wait and see, you have the option of giving the plants a good soaking with an insecticidal soap. Best place to do this is outside or in the sink for small plants, otherwise into the shower with them. Spray every part of the plant — over and under stems, leaves, branches and even the soil surface.

After about fifteen minutes, rinse off the soap. Repeat a week later to be sure you got all the beasts. Oh, and if you have other plants indoors, quarantine the newcomers or you’ll be needing the garden rake indoors.

Nosing around the fall garden

Those warm humid evenings of summer are dwindling away. I’m not sure I’ll miss the tantalizing aroma of a burnt hamburger on a smoky barbecue wafting through the neighbourhood but I will miss the enchanting fragrance of flowers. There are still a few plants around the garden using beguiling scents in the hope of attracting an insect partner. Not unlike closing time in a bar as last orders are called.

However, at this time in the season, the mating of flowers and pollinators is mostly complete and seeds are ready to fall, or they’re awaiting a breeze to spread them afar. That may be so, but there are a few flowers still releasing fragrance. My old roses may be half naked, their leaves having succumbed mainly to black spot and insects arriving for a final a feed, and yet they manage to push out blooms that are just as heavy with scent as they are on a June evening.

There’s no stooping to sniff my only red variety, name long forgotten; it's so tall I can’t reach to have a sniff. It’s not even a climber, yet it has sturdy stems a couple of metres tall, higher than the black spot has reached.

I have a much healthier rose named Canadian Shield, the first of Vineland’s 49^th Parallel collection developed by Vineland. Although it’s only lightly fragrant, it blooms all summer. I really should replace my old ones with this series, but I simply can’t abandon old friends.

That includes my Polianthes tuberosa except it isn’t blooming as it should. It’s been renamed Agave amica, a much easier name to remember if you’re seeking one, but tuberose is still the common name. It’s a tender plant that grows from tuberous roots so it can be stored over winter the same as other summer flowering bulbs, and I did, replanting it in a container this spring. And yet, even while producing lots of strap-like leaves, it hasn’t flowered. I’d know if it did because the powerful scent it releases is almost too much, especially if you had to share an elevator with one. It’s so strong it’s used as the middle note in the production of perfume.

That’s much the same with the brugmansia that’s sitting in a large planter under the semi-shaded pergola.I grew it from a cutting given to me by a collector last year, and it’s now over a metre across and almost as wide and will grow too large to fit in an elevator. It’s covered now with beautiful trumpet-like flowers — angels trumpets.

Like many brugmansia it is heavily fragrant, especially at dawn and dusk when it fills the air, probably wafting through a neighbour’s bedroom window. This one is a cultivar called Angels Exotic, hybridized in 2004 in Germany by Anne Kirchner-Abel. The flowers are pink and double, even triple, with the centre beginning a creamy yellow before turning pink.

 On a fall evening, when conditions are right, summer doesn’t seem so far away, and as it turns cooler, I can almost appreciate the aroma of a barbecue.

Wedding Candles in the wind

I’m often asked what my favourite plant is. My answer is usually what I’ve discovered blooming that morning. In spring it will probably be a crocus and in June, a rose. But for the last few weeks I’ve had a new favourite that has persisted in delighting me. It’s a plant that was given to me by a friend last year, just three verbascum seedlings in a pot.

Without much thought, I stuck them in the flowerbed and they grew well. I’ve grown different varieties of these popular plants that send up spires of flowers a foot or so high. I learned the new plants in my garden were a variety called Verbascum chaixii ‘Wedding Candles’. Only supposed to reach a metre, they shot up this year, tall spires like candles in the wind (sorry Elton).

This new favourite is a beauty covered with masses of tiny white flowers that have purple centres and bright orange anthers full of pollen. It blooms and reblooms for weeks in mid summer and it buzzes. It buzzes because it attracts more bees and other insects than any other plant in my garden. I watched as bumble bees zoomed in and out, their pouches laden with pollen, which bodes well for these friendly pollinators. If I plant more, they might drown out the sound of traffic. 

Verbascum isn’t fussy about soil, even gravelly soil, and once established it’s drought tolerant and needs little water, like the wild species. These garden perennials are usually sold as verbascum but sometimes referred to as mullein, although that name is usually reserved for a wilder version, Verbascum thapsus.

There’s enough of the wild mullein about that it might be thought a native plant; however, it’s original home was Europe, North Africa, and Asia, but not here. It became naturalized across North America long ago after it was brought here by settlers who considered it useful as a folk medicine for pulmonary diseases.

It’s sometimes confused with goldenrod, simply because the name suits the plant, a rod-like spire that grows as high as three metres, and it is somewhat golden, covered in yellow flowers. Like the garden versions, it’s also a magnet to a menagerie of pollinators. It can be seen growing in full sun in fields, roadsides, waste land, or anywhere soil has been disturbed. A biennial plant, this mullein produces a rosette of velvety grey leaves the first year then in the second year it sends up the majestic spires, so majestic that like goldenrod it’s popular in Europe as a garden plant.

Depending on where it’s found growing, mullein has other common names, and many uses. Those soft velvety leaves found a use on the western plains by cowboys, probably after discovering the general store had run out of toilet paper — if it ever had any. It’s unlikely that would be a reason to grow the plant in our gardens unless you’re planning to live totally off the grid, so I’d stick to the more refined versions of verbascum.

Criminal behaviour in the garden?

 Do you want free plants? Then collect seeds or take cuttings to propagate new ones for next year. I save seeds, especially from rare plants, and I save seeds from my favourite tomatoes.

With a few exceptions, seeds can be collected when the flower heads have turned brown and are ready to fall from the plant, but there is no fixed date as some such as poppies were ready weeks ago. If you’re not going to be around when seeds are ready to fall, tie small bags around the flower heads to catch them. Choose organza bags, little gauze-like bags that you can find online or even at discount stores. Unlike paper, which will fall apart in wet conditions, or plastic that will trap moisture, organza will both let light in and dry out between rain showers. Store the seeds in a clean, dry envelope in a cool, dark place — not in airtight plastic bags.

Many plants are hybrids, and although seeds can be collected, they may not be viable. Sometimes they’re sterile, or they produce a plant that reverts to one of the parents in the breeding program. Any resulting plants can be a surprise. To produce a copy of the original, take cuttings instead, but do be aware that might get you in trouble.

Cultivars — cultivated varieties — are protected by plant breeders' rights (PBR), a form of protection like the way inventions are protected by a patent. It allows breeders to safeguard new varieties they’ve spent time and money on to develop them. The protection lasts for up to 25 years for trees or vines, and 20 years for other plants.

 Patents or similar are usually noted on plant labels where it sometimes states propagation prohibited. Terms do vary from country to country. A lot of our plants originate in the US, and you’ll often see PPAF on a label (plant patent applied for). It’s like “patent pending” and until the patent is granted, it serves to advise others in the industry to watch out, because when it is, we’ll come after you for compensation if you’ve copied our plant.

I’m not a patent lawyer, but I don’t know of any home gardener that’s been arrested for propagating plants. It’s more a concern for the patent or PPF certificate holder when their plants are produced by others for commercial purposes. It’s not likely you’ll be surprised by the RCMP in your backyard because you took cuttings from a geranium, but I’ve now done my due diligence by informing you.

Now that you’re all set to take cuttings, here’s what to do. First check the plant to be sure it’s free of bugs or disease and that there are no molds or mildew on it. Use clean snips or scissors and clip three to six inches off the tip of a healthy plant. Make your cut just below a leaf node, or just above if it is a woody stemmed plant. 

Remove any flower buds at this point, and leaves on the bottom third of the stem. Planting medium can be peatmoss, potting mix, perlite, or sand. I like to use perlite as it’s clean and close to sterile. Poke the cutting into the medium an inch or two and water well, then place a translucent plastic cover over the container.

 Cake covers or vegetable trays from the grocery store work well or put the whole the pot and cutting inside a plastic bag. It is important that nothing touches the leaves. Place your pot in a bright, but not too sunny location, or under grow lights and in in three or four weeks you should have new plants ready to be potted up and grown on for spring. Just don’t start selling them on eBay.

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.

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.  

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.

Twenty-five years already

 It was late March in 2001 when I received a phone call asking if I’d like to be the weekly garden columnist for the Record. I was already writing and had been gardening since childhood, helping my dad in his garden. Then as a teenager I had my first summer job as a “gardener’s boy” at the big house in the village where I became a highly trained weed puller. You can imagine my joy when I bought my first home and was finally able to pull my very own weeds.

Of course, I said yes to the columnist offer and then must have spent two weeks writing my first submission. In that first column I told how I would be sharing my triumphs and my failures while attempting to be informative and entertaining for both the experienced and the novice gardener. I did note how gardening and laughter are two of the finest ways to promote good health and a sense of well-being, and that’s the reason for the questionable quips and pathetic puns that sometimes find their way into my column. As for the good health benefits, medical establishments are now coming around to the idea of prescribing a connection with nature as a useful therapy for both physical and mental health.

So, armed with my trust Royal Horticultural Society Encyclopedia and numerous gardening books, I offered the information to support my weekly missives. I received letters occasionally but email soon began to take over and I was able to quickly answer questions from readers. Today I receive few as the countless sources online are available at a couple of clicks, and smart phones can quickly identify plants and deliver information — although not always accurately.

Now, AI is providing answers on anything it is asked, but so far it hasn’t helped to plant a tree. Social media also has a role in providing advice, swamping us with memes, how to videos, and masses of misinformation — selling seeds for amazing plants that don’t exist.

Meanwhile, over the years, gardens have changed. Summertime back then still meant the hissing of summer lawns (thanks Joni) without a thought of water conservation. Although many grew vegetables in the back yard, front yards offered limited appeal. Sure, the old style was neat and tidy, and lawns did do a fine job of keeping the dust down, but it was hardly an incentive to stroll the neighbourhood.

That changed thanks in part to the successful Communities in Bloom program that encouraged front yard competitions. This meant more flowering plants and shrubs going in. And finding them wasn’t that difficult when we already had a small number of reliable, well-established nurseries in the area. Then the available options increased yearly as grocery stores jumped into the market, followed by big box stores. In many cases, plants have become just another prepackaged, retail item, while lacking the inviting ambience of a traditional greenhouse with knowledgeable staff.

The range of plants has increased with ever more varieties each year, always touted as new and improved, and some are. But missing for too long was little mention of native or invasive plants, something that gardeners today are becoming more aware of when making choices about what they plant in their gardens to support the wildlife and the environment.

One of the biggest, positive changes took place in 2009 when The Province of Ontario enacted the cosmetic pesticide act. The days of tanker trucks roaming neighbourhoods spraying everything in sight to control insects or kill weeds ended. It didn’t affect me as I’d always avoided using any pesticides in my garden. Now we’re encouraging pollinating insects in our gardens and we’ve become more accepting of dandelions in lawns.

One thing that hasn’t changed is my approach to gardening. I wrote back in 2001 that I grow plants for a variety of reasons: to feed the body and to nourish the soul, for novelty and nostalgia, to challenge the elements and often my patience, but mostly it’s for the joy in seeing them flourish. That hasn’t changed. Always present, away from a rapidly changing world, is that joy that comes from tending plants in our gardens, a place of fantasy filled with a world of surprises. 

I’m still in the garden, recording it weekly, and as I often tell my children, you’ll know I’ve been gardening too long when what’s being planted is me.

It’s a jungle out there with scary creatures if you’re a plant

Echoing through the online world are these words: “What’s eating my plant?” And with the question is usually an image of a leaf riddled with holes, a close-up of a seedling felled like a giant redwood, or tiny stems brutally severed.

There’s no shortage of culprits. Rabbits especially are a menace and the only thing that truly works is a fence around the yard or wire mesh around the plants. It needs to be a couple of feet high and turned outwards at the base in an L shape or buried a few inches. It won’t stop squirrels or chipmunks unless it covers the whole bed. There are countless other suggestions online, but none are guaranteed. Most popular recommendations are blood-meal, soaps, or other pungent things. Animals don’t like strange odours, but they adapt, and what may appear to work for a while doesn’t always last.

The blood-meal can be effective and some swear by it, however, like other deterrents it must be repeated after rain, and too much spread around will upset the nutrient balance in the soil and encourage leafy growth at the expense of flowers or fruit. There are a couple of commercial products, Bobbex and Plantskydd, used for winter protection of shrubs and trees from deer, are a deterrent elsewhere in the garden, although they shouldn’t be sprayed on vegetables. One suggestion to deter critters is to spread human hair about. I can tell, you, I’ve been losing hair in the garden for years without any effect.

Other than damage by chomping animals, most damage goes on at the level where Rick Moranis shrunk the kids. Sometimes evidence of the culprit is obvious, slimy trails left by slugs, or clusters of aphids clinging to new growth — blast aphids off with a hose daily until they’re gone.

From flea beetles to lily beetles and cut worms to earwigs, identifying the specific insect that’s causing damage is key. Holes in leaves will only tell you one that a pest has visited. Like no one in the office will admit to taking the last donut, by the time you spot the damage the pest may well have dined and dashed.

Much damage occurs overnight and that’s the time to observe. You may need to patrol the garden after dark with a flashlight, but let your neighbours know if they’re the suspicious type or you might find yourself in the back of a police cruiser and ranting about bugs won’t get you out.

Once you have identified the pest, you can determine the best means to deal with it, either with a barrier of some form or an insecticidal soap spray. These sprays must contact the insect pest. Please note, they don’t work by blanket spraying the garden. There are far more good bugs than bad ones. When predator insects are wiped out, the bug you’re trying to eliminate thrives. And you’ll be harming valuable pollinators, including bees and butterflies.

Certainly, there are instances where insects will ravage a crop, and that is disappointing, but often the damage is limited or short term, like with the four-lined plant bug. Right now, leaf miners have been busy on my Swiss chard, a problem that can’t be resolved with any spray as they’re within the leaf. It’s visually unattractive, but the chard will soon outgrow the damage and I’ll remove the affected leaves. Growing plants that attract predatory insects on or near the vegetable garden will be helpful, and it’s just as important to know the beneficial insects as well as the baddies.

Are we out of batteries for the flashlight again?