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.

Triple mixed up about soil?

Enthusiasm for gardening is at its highest this month, for life-long gardeners and for those about to stick their trowels and shovels into soil for the very first time. But what soil? It used to be easy: call up someone and get a load of topsoil dumped in the driveway. Then the big yellow bags appeared offering a tidier delivery system for regular soil. Tidy yes, but getting the soil out of the bag with a shovel and into a wheelbarrow does make demands on rarely used body parts.

Most plain topsoil is what was stripped from farmland prior to the building of new homes. It might have started out as good soil, but after being stockpiled, sometimes for years, it becomes compacted. This results in the loss of much of the important microbial life. Adding compost will help restore life to the soil.

Also available in bulk is triple-mix. Recipes vary, but it’s typically a blend of soil, peat moss, and compost from leaf and yard waste, and it’s a good choice for most situations. The only drawback is it tends to settle as the organic matter decomposes and after one season it will need topping up, so maybe allow for this when ordering.

When the opportunity arrived to pick up small, easily transported bags of soil, it became so much easier to tentatively begin gardening by filling a planter or two with bags of soil brought home with the groceries. These small, colourful bags are currently stacked up at grocery or hardware stores like sandbags in anticipation of a flood.

The sight of all these bags must be confusing for the new gardener. I wouldn’t have a clue what to use in my garden or in planters if I was just starting out. Garden soil, three-way mix, black earth, potting soil, and what about the equally attractive bags of compost that buttress those bags of soil? There’s sheep compost, cattle compost, maybe horse or even chicken compost. Whenever I pass by I find myself humming Old MacDonald’s Farm.

Which one to choose? For small raised beds, the three-way mix, much the same as triple mix is fine. With the one labelled simply as garden soil I’d be inclined to add the compost of your choice. Plain garden soil is fine for a garden, but not recommended for planters if it's too clay-like — a soil-free mix can be better for that purpose.

A soil-free mix is composed mostly of peat moss and perlite, or maybe with wood fibre as an environmentally friendly alternative to peat moss. It may be labelled as potting soil. If unsure, simply check for the bag that’s soft and feels light compared to ones containing more soggy soil. The latter can be lightened by adding peat moss or coir. Major brands are now adding fertilizer or mycorrhizal fungi to the mix, though not essential.

Black earth can be a puzzle, and I don’t know why it’s called earth and not soil. It would be easy to assume that because it’s black it must be nutrient rich soil; however, that isn’t necessarily so as good soil comes in all colours, like the red soil of Prince Edward Island, for instance. Black soil (or earth) could have come from a swampy area or it could have been darkened by adding leaves. Unlike the composts that are produced and sold, there are no requirements for the analysis of plain soils unless the producer does it voluntarily.

Compost is regulated by the provincial government as well as federally through the Canadian Food Inspection Agency. Regulations are set out to ensure heavy metals and other toxic materials etc. are not present. For more information on compost, see The Compost Council of Canada website.

Do your best

It’s flying again, like an annoying bug, but not an insect. I’ve seen insects around but these bugs are online and they’re memes, those things that hurtle around social garden media, copied and posted repeatably. The current version, and there are many with the same repetitive message, tells gardeners not to clean up their garden until the temperature stays above 10 Celsius. This is to protect overwintering insects — good and bad.

Memes grab attention without conveying much information, and this one, although it's well meaning isn’t accurate. They also induce guilt in many gardeners who are itching to be out, puttering around, and given what winter here does to gardens, there’s lots to clean up.

The concept was originally introduced further to the south, in a different climate than ours, clearly as the meme typically gives the temperature in Fahrenheit — 50 degrees. That’s the only instruction, with no mention of whether it’s the high for the day, night, or both, for a few days or permanently. And there are other weather variations to consider.

Regardless, around here we might be thinking we should wait until late June before every insect is awake. Except it isn’t accurate. Depending on the species, different insects have different schedules, some awakening at different times throughout the season.  Some are out in late winter – a few are already on snow drops, crocus, and heather in my garden — and others in summer. This poses a problem for anyone who wishes to be guilt free about cleaning up; it isn’t that easy.I have a garden that is packed with plants and I have a lot of work to do in spring and not enough 

time, so I couldn't possibly wait until every single insect has kicked off the covers and dragged itself into the light of day. Many, including bees and butterflies, have spent the winter under leaf litter as eggs or cocoons, others tunnelled into soil or snug in hollow plant stems.I do my best as many do, by using the chop and drop method to protect insects that nest in stems. They are unlikely to care if the stems are vertical or horizontal (thin grassy stems aren’t favoured). Any clumps of dead stems that I need to remove, I set aside or lay loosely on the top of the compost heap.

 As for ground dwelling insects, I leave most leaf litter alone to decompose. Along with the chopped and dropped, it feeds the soil and it might look messy, but as new foliage emerges the detritus is soon hidden. This goes for flowerbeds, but veggie gardens will typically be disturbed each spring regardless unless it’s a no till garden. One thing I don't do is mulch until early June. That allows time for the soil to warm up, seedlings to emerge, and any ground dwelling insects to appear.

So, don't get caught up on advice from a recycled meme. Do consider the many forms of life in your garden and the many ways you can be a good steward for the environment.

First Weekly Column

 IN THE GARDEN with David Hobson, Waterloo Region Record, April 7 2001

Gardening and laughter are two of the finest ways to promote good health and a sense of well-being. As a writer of garden humour, I have to agree although I will admit to choking up and feeling quite sick when my beloved wisteria died. But that’s a gardener for you. Like life itself, we smile and carry on, visions of glory fuelling our consuming passion.

Gardening is certainly a passion of mine and has always been a large part of my life. I began early, helping my dad create a new garden. I didn’t get to help much, other than the weeding, which was something I learned from the bottom up, and I mean bottom up. By the time I was thirteen, when I began my first summer job as a gardener’s boy, I was 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. Even today, I still manage to grow a few for old time’s sake, and I’m still wishing I had a nickel for each one I have pulled. I figure I could at least afford to own the Royal Botanical Gardens.

These days there really isn’t much room in my yard for weeds because I keep it crammed full of flowers and shrubs and vegetables. Fact is, I’m a self-confessed plant addict who will drag anything home if it is green or has roots (they should never have painted the hockey stick). Each spring the yard soon reaches its limit, and I’ll be the first to confess that I’ve planted new material on top of late sprouters. I have containers of plants stacked everywhere, plus I keep a few extras potted up in case I discover a bare spot somewhere in late summer. I just love growing. 

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. Yet, my garden is much more than plants; it is a place of fantasy and a world of surprises. It would be lacking if it were without the wildlife and weather that so often frustrates as I strive for perfection. Even Darth, the neighbourhood cat, has a place in my yard, except when he visits the front flowerbed with his favourite magazine. More than anything, my garden provides me with an unlimited opportunity to be creative. Seeing a new climber bloom for the first time over a newly constructed trellis gives me a double sense of satisfaction.

I’ve been working on my current garden for the past fifteen years. It’s my third, and I suspect it may not be my last. I doubt it will ever be complete, and neither should it be. I don’t believe a garden is ever finished until the gardener is. As I often tell my children, you’ll know I’ve been gardening too long when what is being planted is me.
In the weeks ahead, I will be sharing my triumphs and my failures (my Brugmansia is amazing, but my Himalayan blue poppies are a flop) as I attempt to evoke the spirit of gardening. I hope to be informative and entertaining for both the experienced and the novice gardener, providing local answers to local problems. If you need the solution to a particular problem, and think I can help, write or email and I will share it here.

Meanwhile, if anyone is looking for me, I’ll be in the garden.

Spring is for Daffodils

Winter truly ends with the appearance of the first bright, yellow daffodil. Daffodils evoke joy in spring, and maybe a tinge of regret that someone forgot to plant bulbs the previous fall. Oh sure, there were snow drops as early as January, followed by crocuses, even an eager tulip, but for me, it takes a daffodil; they’re much cheerier, nodding and waving a greeting. As Wordsworth described them in his classic poem, “tossing their heads in a sprightly dance, fluttering and dancing in the breeze”.

Wordsworth claimed he saw ten thousand at a glance. This may be so, but I doubt it rivals the numbers planted at the East Texas ranch of the late Mrs. Helen Lee. She used her Texas oil fortune to plant daffodils by the boxcar, millions of them, scattered over approximately 20 acres.

A few years ago a local man decided to become a guerrilla gardener and began planting daffodils on grassy banks along the Conestoga Parkway in KW. Since it was technically illegal to trespass, he did this under cover of darkness, and his name was never revealed — he called himself the Unknown Gardener. To further brighten the day of commuters, he planted the bulbs in the form of happy faces that may still be seen today.

Happy face or random clump, daffodils will always prompt a smile. In England as a child, I rode a bus to school that stopped each day beside a cottage with a hillside garden that merged at its upper end into woodland. Daffodils grew there in profusion. Each day I looked forward to seeing the springtime progression as they sprouted, flowered, and then vanished, overtaken by taller grass. Now, when the clump of yellow daffodils in my garden appears, I can’t help recalling an image that’s stayed in my head for half a lifetime.

Yet after a recent springtime visit, that image has been eased aside slightly by one that is suggesting maybe there can be too much of a good thing. At some point over the years (many years), someone decided it would be a good idea to plant daffodils along roadsides throughout the country. Some say it began in the dark days of postwar Britain to brighten up the place in the 1950s; however, I don’t recall any particular abundance in my youth. Regardless of when and where it began, the idea spread.

It became a pastime for many. Town councils large and small joined in, some with planting schemes of their own, others donating thousands of bulbs to charitable organisations. The daffodils grew and spread like dandelions, snaking mile upon mile across the country. The sight was amazing — at first. I soon began to picture them as yellow snowbanks, and I confess that after a couple of weeks driving the highways and byways of Northern England, even I was ready for a change of scene, or at least a change of colour.

Despite the popularity, so many were planted it’s feared they’re now becoming a problem for the country’s native species of daffodils, the ones that inspired Wordsworth's poem and the same ones that even Shakespeare mentioned in The Winter’s Tale — “When daffodils begin to peer”. They’re under threat now due to cross-pollination between the non-native species and the many hybrids, especially the larger, brightly coloured ones. The original, more delicate British species are becoming a rare sight in the wild. To counter this, heritage groups are undertaking mass planting campaigns using native species in historic gardens where they can be protected (the roadside battle is lost).

This over abundance isn’t likely to be an issue in Canada as we have no native daffodils. I feel I should point out that the daffodil is not native to Britain, either. Known since antiquity, it’s believed to have originated in North Africa and southwest Europe on the Iberian Peninsula. Somewhat isolated in Britain, the original introduction, perhaps brought by an early traveler or Roman invader, was able to naturalise undisturbed for centuries. At some point it became the national flower and a symbol of Wales where it’s worn on St David's Day each March 1st, potentially supplanting the leek, which has long been the national symbol of Wales. This may be due to some innocent confusion because in the Welsh language, the name, Cenhinen, is almost the same for both plants.

In English, we call them daffodils, but are they? Is it daffodil or is it narcissus, the other oft used term, or are they different plants? The simple answer is no; all daffodils are narcissus. Daffodil, or at one time daffadowndilly, has simply become the common, accepted name. The scientific name for the familiar, trumpet-like daffodil is Narcissus pseudonarcissus. Smaller daffodils, known as jonquils, are Narcissus jonquilla. Rather than a single bloom, jonquils tend to have clusters of fragrant flowers and dark green, tube-shaped leaves, like chives, unlike the seamed, sometimes triangular stems of daffodils.

The name, of course, is from the Greek myth of Narcissus who was turned into the flower of that name, and consequently, it’s perceived as a symbol of vanity. In the East however, it’s seen as a symbol of wealth and good fortune.

Another flower sometimes called a daffodil is the paperwhite, Narcissus papyraceus. It’s typically grown in wintertime as a houseplant — if you can stand the intense fragrance. Unlike regular daffodils, it can’t survive the winter outdoors.

Now that that’s sorted, I’ll continue to refer to the springtime garden plants as daffodils. Mention the name and predictably, most people will think of the familiar, bright yellow flower; however, daffodils are available in all shapes, sizes, and hues. They can be white or whitish, greenish, yellow of course, pink, and orange. Colours are then mixed and matched between the two parts of the flower head, the perianth (petals) and the corona (cup).

This is mainly thanks to the Netherlands, where daffodils have been cultivated as far back as the
sixteenth century. Today, along with tulips and other bulbs, they’ve become the country’s chief export. In addition, growers and hobbyists everywhere have been breeding new strains. Depending on who is counting, there are as many as 200 different daffodil species and subspecies and a further 25,000 registered cultivars (cultivated variety), including the more flamboyant strains that are causing the problem in Britain.

The best known and most popular variety is the King Alfred. He’s the one said to have burnt the cakes, but there’s no mention of him growing daffodils. The name was chosen by Englishman John Kendall, clearly a long time monarchist. It was first introduced in 1899 when it was immediately awarded a First-Class Certificate by The Royal Horticultural Society, which likely had a bias towards regal names (Kendall was no fool). Regardless, the society was impressed by the rich golden hue of its much larger blooms.

Sadly, Kendall died in 1890 and never saw the astonishing result of his humble breeding program. Successfully promoted and marketed by his sons, for the next fifty years King Alfred the daffodil ruled until production declined in the 1950s when newer, improved varieties were introduced.

Millions of King Alfreds are still being planted and remain available today. You may be watching them bloom in your garden right now, yet it’s unlikely they’re the original. I’m afraid the king is dead — though the name lives on.

So popular was the King Alfred, the name became synonymous with large yellow daffodils, much like Kleenex is commonly used as the name for any tissue. Growers retained the name, and although limited numbers of the original are still produced, it’s been gradually supplanted with superior varieties like Golden Harvest or Dutch Master. These and others are now sold as King Alfred “types”, what you might call floral Elvis impersonators.

They’re big and showy with a golden yellow trumpet — and thanks to Wordsworth and his host of golden daffodils, this is what most people will think of when they picture a daffodil. It represents a country, has Kingly connections, boosts the Dutch economy, was a poet’s muse, and in recent years has become a symbol of hope for all affected by cancer. April is Daffodil Month when the Canadian Cancer Society will be launching their annual fundraising campaign, another reason to appreciate daffodils.

Despite my misgivings after being overwhelmed by the abundance growing along British roadsides, I still love daffodils, even prefer them to tulips, their spring rivals. There’s something about the wild nature of them that’s appealing. Some varieties of tulips will naturalize, but daffs are masters at establishing communities that last for years, as seen by those yellow snow banks in I saw in England. 

And if there’s one major advantage over tulips, squirrels won’t dig up the bulbs and eat them, and nor should you. Despite having been used in traditional medicines since antiquity, and the bulbs do contain potentially useful compounds, they are poisonous if eaten, so don’t confuse them with onions, but do plant them.

Now is the time to admire the beauties that will be appearing this spring. And it’s the time to mark the calendar or set an alert as a reminder to plant lots come fall, hosts of them, but go easy on the snowbanks.