Garden Rant

What I did for love

As a commenter astutely pointed out a couple weeks back, my relationship with tulips has nothing to do with low-maintenance or saving money. I’m not sure any of my gardening is centered around those priorities. Indeed, I hope it never will be. It’s not that I want to bankrupt myself through improvident gardening; it’s just that I didn’t get into this to save money, and the more time I spend on it the more fun I have.

However, there are times when even I take pause at the ridiculous demands of my plant addiction. Take today. Buffalo has been issued with a storm warning that calls for a possible 5–8 inches of snow—with the temps going right back to normal by Wednesday. Normally, I’d treat this with amused, incredulous disdain. Even though that’s more snow in a day than we’ve had this whole mild winter, it's going to last about 30 seconds. It could cause some tree damage, but I wouldn’t think my normal run of perennials and shrubs would suffer unduly.

Except. I have magazine peeps coming to take “beauty shots” of my successfully completed pots of tulips, and I’m speculating that big pots of tulips clobbered by 5–8 possible inches might not be so beautiful. Even if they weren’t coming, I might have done this. Months of waiting, and I’m going to let the pay-off be ruined by a freak storm? I don’t think so. So now I have six pots in the house and six more in the garage. Welcome inside, bulbs. Can I get you some coffee? Anything?

Ta da! Welcome to 6a

Now that the controversy of Scotts and the NWF has come to a more or less satisfactory close, let us turn to the newly released USDA zone map. It may not be as scorching a topic, but I think it has plenty of interest—especially since this map has been so long in the making.

I remember nurseryman Tony Avent talking about the new zone map when I interviewed him in 2007.  Back then, it seemed like it was almost ready to announce. First Avent talked about the botched zone redo of 2003: "That map was not accurate. It got rid of half the zones [the a's and b's]. It was easier to use, but it was wrong. Chicago would have been zone 6." After that first map (which Avent says was created by a consultant the USDA sent off to make a map so he'd "stop bugging them"), the UDSA called together a new committee (of which Avent is a member), and decided on a 30-year average of temps rather than a 20-year average, which would have created too dramatic a shift. An early plan to have a, b, and c zone gradations rather than just a and b was put off for a future revision.

And now, more than five years after we had that conversation, the map he was discussing is finally out. What took so long? The process was a comedy of errors in many ways, according to Avent—read the whole story on his website—but basically they had to go back to the drawing board a couple of times. They’re happy with the results, despite the delays, because the new map is much more functional than previous versions, as well as incorporating the subtle a and be gradations. Their map has all the pretty colors we’ve come to expect, but this time it’s clickable; you can zoom in on your area to get a better look at the color gradation to figure out exactly where you fall, you can check by zip code, and there's more data available however you check.

There’s also already criticism. I have heard comments that the 30-year average was chosen to minimize the effects of global warming, and the USDA seems to have anticipated this with the following statement included in the map’s accompanying narrative:

Climate changes are usually based on trends in overall average temperatures recorded over 50-100 years. Because the USDA PHZM represents 30-year averages of what are essentially extreme weather events (the coldest temperature of the year), changes in zones are not reliable evidence of whether there has been global warming.

Others think the USDA doth protest too much. In a WaPo AP story, a Boston professor remarks, "“People who grow plants are well aware of the fact that temperatures have gotten more mild throughout the year, particularly in the winter time," and one of the creators of the 1990 map states "the latest version clearly shows warmer zones migrating north." Whether the map is reliable evidence of climate change or not, even its own narrow standard indicates that the coldest days are not as cold as they were. Which NOAA will officially confirm in July. It seems like the rabbit's out of the hat on this one.

FWIW, my zone did change. I have gone from 5b to 6a, which I checked by comparing this with the one on the National Gardening Association site—still the 1990 one. The Arbor Day map has me between 5-6. After a decade-plus of gardening, however, I generally choose plants based on what I think will happen to them on my property, often not even looking at the zone on the card. (When I do, it can be surprising; some nurseries have been selling zone 6 plants here for years.)

The thing is, there are so many things besides technical hardiness that have an impact on plant survival. I trust a good nursery (of which we have many) to sell what should survive in my locality. But I fret about too-damp soil, too much shade, root competition, and—of course— my own ineptitude. I deal out death with abandon, regardless of zone hardiness. Zone maps are not for the likes of us, really. They provide guidelines for gardeners just starting out, innocents who cherish hopes that the illiterate plant world pays any attention to rules, zones, and fine print.

I have to be honest. This confirmation that Buffalo is slightly balmier than was previously thought might lead to a few changes. I won't be planting palm trees, but maybe I won’t baby the macrophylla hydrangeas as much.

Have you played with this map yet? Has your garden moved, compliments of the USDA?

Greetings from the land of No Bulb Left Behind

Almost finished here. About 600 in the ground or—mostly—in pots and 300 to go. Many of the unplanted are tazettas that need little or no chilling period or hyacinths for the root cellar but I still have a bunch of muscari and species tulips to get into the ground before November is out.

This year I am most excited about:

•Madonna lilies, which I am trying again after one time ten years ago
•The double Hollyhock, Mulberry Rose, and Madame Sophie hyacinths from Old House Gardens (shown above)
•Parrot tulips, which forced really well last year. The fallen petals were as much of a display as the intact flowers; both longer-lasting than most tulips

Some sources say handling hyacinths can cause skin irritation; I plant a lot of them in pots, but always wear gloves and so have never noticed it. I did see that at many of the retail outlets special bags for pink hyacinths and tulips were being offered as part of the breast cancer awareness campaign.

Throughout October, pink was the preferred shade for a lot of things: pens, post-its, tee shirts, perfume, and pizza boxes. Questions have been raised about the percentage from the sale of such items that is actually used for cancer research. And many are sick of the pink everywhere, particularly if it doesn’t translate into green (as in money for research or as in nontoxic ingredients).

Given the link between environmental factors and cancers, I’d be more impressed if bulb companies reduced the pesticides used in producing their crops in order to promote general health. I was glad that none of the companies I ordered from did the pink bulb promotions. Though I do love my pink hyacinths—Hollyhock and Mulberry Rose (which arrived at my house with 2 inches of green showing).

The 12-step method

Step #1

(I was asked for this, so figured I’d share it here, too.)

1.    Identify bulbs that will be most suitable for pot culture and purchase. Also purchase bulbs that are not at all suitable for forcing just for fun. Accumulate huge pile of bulbs in inconvenient spot.

2.    Identify pots. Try to choose more lightweight pots, where possible. Buy pots on sale. Shake head over number of ugly pots you have accumulated over the years.

3.    Evaluate soil situation. Is soil leftover from summer annuals in pots still Ok to use? If not, or if there is not enough, purchase large bags of potting mix. Avoid expensive mixes that contain fertilizer or are labeled “organic”; find cheap, lightweight mixes.

4.    Option: place empty plastic pots upside down in containers to take up space and make them lighter. Some recommend packing peanuts at bottom of pot.

5.    Fill empty pots a bit more than halfway; remove excess from pots that already have enough leftover soil. Find and discard old bulbs from last year and root masses from annuals.

6.    Place bulbs—about 20-25 per container in circular patterns. Layer daffodils on top of tulips, if you want a mix. Try to alternate contrasting tulip colors; lose track and give up.

7.    Cover top 1/3-1/2 of pot with soil.

8.    Extra step—place a round tomato/peony support at top of pot as a deterrent to squirrels. Disguise with soil. Water pots. (Oops—should have watered after moving them to the garage.)

9.    Drag pots into the garage. (Water them now—much better.)

10. Ignore for 5 months, occasionally wondering—when getting in and out of car—if they are completely frozen. They look frozen. They feel frozen.

11. Water them again in late March to wake them up.

12. Drag out the pots in early April. Water. Wait for bloom. Discover that the contrasting colors you chose really don’t complement each other as much as you thought. Realize that whatever you do, one type of tulip always blooms before the other type. Think about tulips you should have planted instead of these. But hey—they came up!

Recommitting to bulbs in pots

Over the past few years, I have gone from throwing a few bulbs in pots—mainly the leftovers from in-ground and forcing—to filling at least 8 big pots with tulip pairings, to use in front of the house (the biggest and therefore least portable ones) and in the courtyard (size and weight not quite as important). I use the term “bulbs in pots” rather than bulb-forcing, because the pots stay in a cold garage and come out at the normal time for hybrid tulips to bloom (that’s May, here). They come up like clockwork, regardless of how cold it gets in the garage.  I have tried hyacinths, but these turn to mush for some reason; this year, I may give daffodils a try.

Right now there are 100 Prinses Irene; 100 Passionale; and 50 each of Black Hero, Orange Princess, and the embarrassingly-named Sensual Touch, ready to be packed into 8 (or so) pots. Whatever are left I can force, and those will be in smaller containers in the root cellar, to be used for house blooms in March.

Tulips in pots work because:
-the lack of reliable return does not matter
-my lack of good, sunny in-ground space does not matter
-it’s easy and fun to do
-they are protected from digging predators, and I’m thinking they’d be easier to protect from deer
-many other reasons I’m not thinking of right now

Does anyone else do this?

More on Dig.Drop.Dumb.

Toronto Star garden columnist Sondra Day took a swipe at this promotional campaign in her October 20 column, calling it “thoroughly insulting to women” and observing that it “misses the mark completely.”

She got a letter from the Woodbine that used the usual key phrases like “first-time gardeners” and “young consumers,” assuring her that the campaign would be “… a massive, three-year, fully integrated effort that includes print and online advertising, PR, social and events.” I have not seen any evidence of the print part, but that’s not surprising since I don’t read any of the magazines that would be running it—the Woodbine blog mentions Real Simple, Parenting, and Shape as intended markets, and I have also heard it is in Better Homes and Gardens.

I’m glad that there is pushback on this silliness, which is expensive and, if continued, would surely have the effect of pushing up bulb prices if nothing else. I'm still not sure if it would convince anyone to buy more, or start buying them.

Shopping Center Gardens of Seattle

Not since Chicago have I seen a city that used horticulture so effectively in the service of commerce.  Chicago's horticultural offerings span the whole downtown and Seattle's efforts are perhaps less concentrated, but gardenbloggers visiting in August happened to congregate just blocks from the University Village shopping center, and were feted by the garden center there.

I wrote to the managers of University Village to praise their gardeners and ask for inspiring details about how much these gardens have helped business, but never got a response.

Below, the gorgeous Ravenna Gardens.

As summer begins, 5 randoms:

1. Clouds of mosquitoes rise across the Northeast and all the other regions that got soaked this spring. Time to pull out all my organic, all-natural repellants—sent by various companies last summer—and see if they work.

2. Luxuriant green growth is one of the benefits of all this rain, but I am concerned that it may be accompanied by moisture-related problems. Will my husband’s tomatoes survive and thrive? Stay tuned.

3. A National Gardening Association spokesperson calls upon the Lord in this statement from a recent AP article: "A lot of folks, I think they kind of look at the evening news or read the paper or read something online, saying 'Jesus, this world is out of control and I can't have any influence on what happens out there but, by God, I can control what happens in my backyard.'"

I am not totally sure that the recession has provided that great a benefit for local gardening centers. Fewer people building or buying houses must mean fewer starting gardens.

4. On the bright side:  judging by the roses of June (other than these, most of my blooming action happens mid-summer), it will be a colorful summer. All of the martagons are about to pop and it looks like a big crop of later-season lilies will follow. Lily beetle, stay away!

5. After a tentative start last summer, Buffalo is instituting what must be one of the few traditional UK-style Open Garden programs, complete this year with a guidebook. Unlike the Garden Conservatory’s Open Days program, there is no charge and the gardens are open every Thursday or Friday (at stated times) for 5 weeks.

There are 66 gardens open, and people are traveling here to see them—I got an enquiry from a couple who is staying a week just for the Open Gardens (not for Garden Walk) the other day. It will be interesting. Again, stay tuned.

Catastrophe! Or, how you really can over-prune a wisteria

The vine in question had been overstepping its bounds for the past couple years and I hadn’t done much more than hack at it around the edges. For a really severe trim, we needed a higher ladder and maybe a professional who would be more comfortable in the heights. We thought.

Or maybe not. Who knows how it happened—a miscalculation, a mishap, or just over-zealous clipping—but the whole vine left its moorings on our garage and came crashing forward. The debris was easily as much as you'd see from a smallish tree coming down. Now I have about 6 feet of trunk and a big gap where its leafy frame used to enclose the pond area. The trellis it used to rest on is completely bare and the part of the garage that had been invisible before had to be quickly painted to match the rest. Oh, and a hydrangea got crushed. (I think it will recover.)

It’s a wisteria, so I’m thinking it will grow back and maybe I can keep it within the bounds of ruliness this time.  Meanwhile, the trellis is temporarily hidden behind a truly gigantic palm, there’s a new hydrangea, and some other tropicals are helping to enclose the pond. It’s just not the same though; I miss the big green cap (which did bloom).

Aggressive vines have always been my friends in this narrow patio space surrounded as it is by tall, narrow structures. Verticality works here, and I’m willing to maintain the more rampant of the many climbers I have. In fact, it looks now that a climbing hydrangea is well on its way to replacing part of the coverage formerly afforded by the wisteria (though not with the same height).

There are way worse things that can happen in gardening, and in life—but it was still traumatic. Maybe some tales of your worse setback will provide comfort!

Gardening: the kinder, gentler addiction? Maybe.

Waiting for the real green

Russell Brand is the latest celeb to turn to gardening as part of his new, dull life. No more sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle. “Now I'm a bloody good gardener,” the Forgetting Sarah Marshall star says. According to the same Brit music rag, Amy Winehouse, as well, finds that pruning hedges—for hours—is soothing and theraputic. And a rock band whose name I know, but whose music I can no longer recall—the Stone Temple Pilots—claim to have conquered drugs through gardening and crocheting.

They all used to be mad, bad, and dangerous to know, but no longer—thanks to gardening. It’s nothing new. Gardening therapy has existed for centuries, maybe even for millennia. It has been used for melancholia, shellshock, fibromyalgia, memory loss, and—as in these cases—addiction. The American Horticultural  Therapy Association attributes the beneficial aspects of gardening to the activity itself—the simple, nurturing qualities of it—or merely the peaceful surroundings of a garden. And I suppose many would say it’s because dirt itself makes you feel better, citing studies like this one (as we’ve noted in the past).

But there’s a dark side to all this. Benign as it might be, gardening therapy has been withdrawn from most of us for the last 4 months. And unlike rock stars, we can’t simply fly to a place where gardening is still possible. Sublimations abound—to the usual ones like catalog browsing, house plants, attending gardening shows, and reading gardening books, I’ve added obsessive bulb forcing—but it’s growing thin. Maybe Brand, Winehouse and the STPs can send over some of their leftover drugs. Just enough to last me until mid-April, when I can start pruning the rose bushes and starting my summer bulbs.

Opening a can of worms and the digital divide

Over the last few years, I have acquired some sort of vague prominence in WNY as a gardening go-to person—not really a horticultural expert, but someone who can answer questions reliably. (This has not led to revenue of any substantial nature.) Somewhat more interestingly, my blogging activities are becoming more widely known. At the end of this month, I will teach the second of two blogging workshops, this time to an adult horticultural class, which meets as part of the horticultural training program based at a local high school.

The guy who teaches it is a longtime member of the state nursery and landscaping association, a CNLP, and a regular at our yearly gardening show. But like many of his colleagues, the world of garden blogging, tweeting, or anything else online is at best a peripheral part of his professional life. He wants to know more, and he thinks that many of the adults in his class would benefit. I agree. I’ve learned a lot more about being a better gardener since I started blogging, but, more important, I’ve become part of a bigger gardening community—larger than I could ever have imagined. When I go to this class, I fully expect that many of my students could teach me plenty about gardening, and I’m looking forward to it, hoping that the information I’m sharing is worth the exchange.

Then there’s Kevin, who’s sort of an apprentice urban gardener. I’ve been working with him for a while, advising on how to attack the delightful but neglected garden areas that came with the house he’s just purchased. He has a lovely secluded patio and several shade beds around the house that were probably very elegant once. He also has a lot of maple roots—to this I can relate. The other day, Kevin came by to pick up a dual batch composter. I had been sent and was passing along to him—I am starting to use him as an equipment guinea pig. “I need worms for this, right?” he remarked, kind of matter-of-factly. “No!” I replied, with emphasis, and then gave him a list of some common compostables, and how to deploy them.

Kevin has written a guide to using the Droid, and is a regular guest on call-in shows about technical gadgets. I have nothing to teach him about being online. But he does need me to stop him from jumping into vermicomposting before he’s planted as much as one perennial. I know his household, and worms will not be a happy introduction there; he needs to stick to coffee grounds, scraps, clippings, and leaves. For now.

I should really get him and the people in the horticulture class together. Maybe they could help him more than I can, and vice versa. It would be fun to watch. My mine takeaway from all this is that if I hadn’t started blogging about gardening, none of this would be happening. And that would be a shame.

Dear Santa,

I would like these 

and these to come up and look like they're supposed to look.

Please don’t worry about leaving any Felcos under our tree. You can also distribute all the cool garden hats, clogs, special gloves, and rainbarrels to other deserving gardeners. I am not even going to ask for any of the awesome English gardening tools Amy demonstrated during our cocktail hour.

This is what I would like—you’re going to need some help from Mother Nature and maybe some other special friends for a lot of this:

-All of my 700-plus bulbs to bloom, including all the species tulips in front, the bright red eremurus I planted in the Welcome to Allentown garden, the hybrid tulips I planted in big groups, and especially the forced hyacinths I will be giving as holiday gifts this year. It is particularly embarrassing when these don’t bloom, as the recipients will invariably ask me what they did wrong, which just makes me feel worse.

-I would like one—just one—of the Norway maples in front of my house to either be taken down by the city or maybe just falter enough so it loses many of its branches and stops growing roots. I don’t it’s is possible but maybe you have a trick for this.

-Speaking of the community gardens, I would like the neighbors who are supposed to water the big concrete planters to actually do so.

-I would like the compromise plan currently being discussed by the Erie County Legislature to work, so that the Botanical Gardens, as well as the arts organizations and libraries, will receive the tiny pittance that nonetheless they will transform into enough fiscal salvation to provide service to the many citizens who rely on them.

-It would be great also if Buffalo urban farmers received more encouragement and less obstruction when they continue growing the vacant lots on the East Side.

-If my husband does go ahead with the vegetable garden, please let there be a decent crop. I can deal with gardening failure; he can't.

-Finally, I would like all businesses associated with gardening to flourish in the coming year. As for the gardening press, I would like it to survive. As a magazine editor, I still feel (unsurprisingly) that print is important.

Does Anybody Handle November Well?

For most of October, I was a whirlwind of activity: harvesting, cooking, canning, raking leaves, planting bulbs.

But we're on the dark side now of Daylight Savings Time, and it's cold and grey, and there isn't much to do in the vegetable garden, and what I mostly want to do is to eat stew, find a nice cave, and hibernate until May.  Never mind that I still have 200 tulips to plant in the backyard before the ground freezes.  Never mind that there are still odds and ends that need doing, like a few final pots emptied and muscled into the garage, and the hose put away, and some dahlias and cannas lifted and put into tubs in the basement.   I'd rather be inside reading, thanks.

Of course, I'm too grown up to give in completely to my lazy impulses.  Even though there are 5 months of snow ahead of me, I am well aware that life is too short to spend 5 months of every year hating the calendar just because gardening season has ended.  Last year, my family and I took a trip to Quebec in January, and it was a revelation, seeing the way those Canadians deal with winter.  They get out into it.  They ski or sled or ice skate, eighty year-olds and eight year-olds alike.  They embrace it.

So, I embraced winter, too.  I got out almost every day at noon and ran when there was no snow on the ground, and snow-shoed when there was. I felt really, really good. Slush, chill, and darkness seemed like a mere trifle.

I'm sure I'll get there this winter, too.  But right now, what I mainly want is for somebody to pass the bonbons.

10 reasons why I love bulb-forcing

 

1. If you can’t grow tulips in the ground because of critter problems—which seem  to increase for everyone every year these days—this is your answer. Not the same but it’s all you might get.

2. Here is a form of indoor gardening where your inhospitable household conditions aren’t going to make a difference. Bulbs have the strength to make it for the short haul, even with dry central heating.

3. Bulbs that look kind of dorky in the ground—like hyacinths—look great forced in pots inside.

4. For many Southern  gardeners, forcing is a way to grow bulbs that otherwise cannot be grown in their zones.

5. Some flowers are just meant to be forced and enjoyed inside. That is where they come into their own. I am thinking of the Erlicheer and Golden Rain tazettas. Or hippeastrum.

6.  In these parts, it’s often simply too cold to really hang around and enjoy hyacinths or early tulips in their normal blooming period. Inside, no gusts of wind can blow them over or shrivel them up.

7. Madame Pompadour knew bulb forcing was cool; she had 200 hyacinths on glass at one point. In fact, it was quite commonplace right through the nineteenth century throughout Europe and Great Britain. What happened? Some customs are well worth reviving.

8.  This is a part of gardening where you can feel free to experiment, break all the rules, and try things just for the heck of it, while you have the quiet time of the off season. Will iris force? Will scilla? If cut flower companies do it, maybe you can too. 

9. Bulb forcing comes with cool accoutrements, like pretty hyacinth vases. 

10. In January and February, you are watching flowers that you have planted come out of the dirt.

 

No bulb left behind

From 2009: 50 Menton and Queen of the Night in a hole.

Some of us have spent our adult lives studying and perfecting the skills of master gardening, or have even practiced horticulture at an academic level. Some of us, on the other hand, only started gardening a decade or so ago and have to fit gardening in around a busy work/social/volunteering schedule. I belong to the latter group.

As part of that group, as much as I’d like to do things the right way, the way that ensures the best results in the long run, and will be of most benefit to plants and soil, I seldom do. If there was a slow gardening movement—like slow food—I wouldn’t belong to it. I have evolved cheap and sleazy shortcuts for almost everything I do in the garden, and it is at this time of year that my ingenuity is taxed to its limit.

So here they are: the fast and dirty (always dirty) bits of bulb wisdom that a person who plants 621 has to know.

The tools they sell for bulb planting suck. Don’t even bother with the silly long or short-handled bulb planters. A big or small shovel is fine, and even better in difficult situations is the Cobrahead tool. This is perfect for planting small species tulips bulbs in root-filled areas. It’s almost as precise as I imagine a drill would be.  I don’t use drills by the way, because I never plant just 1 bulb in a hole. Too slow. In fact, most bulb tools assume you are just planting 1 in each hole, which makes no sense to me. I don’t have the space or the time.

Why plant just a few bulbs when you can dig a big hole or a big trench and throw 50 in? Or a medium size hole that can take 5-10. Bulbs look better in groupings, always. Big hybrid or small ephemeral, a measly sprinkling of bulbs is just that—measly.

I don’t insist that all my bulbs be there for the ages. It’s fine with me if they last just a season or two, and I use many hybrid tulips as annuals in containers. Species tulips can perennialize, but when it comes to big hybrids, I would get bored looking at the same colors ever year, so it’s just as well that they often don’t come back.

Where I do not economize is in the area of bulb quality. You get more interesting varieties and bigger bulbs from places like Old House Gardens, Brent and Beckys, and The Lily Garden—and with bulbs, size really does matter.

To prevent creature damage, in areas where the fresh dirt is a giveaway, I place reusable plastic mesh over the soil, held down by U-shaped hooks. As for fertilizer, I never bother. It's truly a waste of time and money.

Finally, though it should be obvious by now, I don’t think design or color planning is really the important thing when it comes to bulbs. Plant a lot. It will look good.

Can these plants be saved?

Indoor plant area, last winter.

Not all of them, that’s for sure. It happens every October. Even as I write this, I am thinking wearily about the one big one that’s still out there.

I should really pause Mad Men and bring it in right now.

The good part of the whole indoor/outdoor thing is that at the beginning of the season things look lusher than they otherwise might. I have a large jasmine that bursts into bloom just before I bring it out in May, as well as a bunch of other flowering and foliage tropicals. They’re like an instant garden. But now is the time I dread. Now they have to be dragged in and kept alive somehow.  Now is the time I look long and hard at a plant and decide.  Is it time for a change? How much would it cost to just buy another one?

Plants I overwinter fall into a few categories.  First there are the large jasmine and gardenia that have moved into larger and larger pots over the years.  These look nice and glossy during the winter, though they seldom like the conditions enough to flower indoors. 

Then we have our gigantic tropicals: colocasia and alocasia. The dilemma here is to let them go dormant or keep them growing.  There can be as many as 8 of these, depending. They stay in pots inside and get planted around the pond in May. Dormant is the most convenient, but you can’t always depend on it—one or 2 might not survive their basement incarceration.

There are also a growing family of amaryllis/hippeastrum. I can’t treat these as annuals, even though I know my life would be much easier if I did. I do like their strappy leaves as accents during the summer, and then there's the February flowers—usually.

But the biggest group is a changing crew of impulse purchases, depending on what I take it into my head to save.  The indestructible scented geraniums, the amarcrinum that didn’t bloom in time, the spectacular plectranthus that’s still covered with flowers …

The good news is that there are more grow lights available for regular fixtures now. The plants seem to like being crammed together—and the more crowded they are the fewer problems I notice.

One useful tool for overwintering: the pot lifter. It was sent to me last year, and it really helps get the big ones up and down the stairs.

All the same. Tonight’s the night I might just forget there’s a frost on and leave that last one out in the cold.

 

621

 

If you didn’t guess immediately what that number signified, then you probably have been ignoring my yearly bulb obsessing. That I freely express here. For your amusement.

(You know, it is really a good thing that my husband never reads this blog.)

Of the 621, 280 are hybrid tulips, 100 hyacinths (all for forcing), 110 are narcissus, 50 are species tulips, and the rest are lilies and various small bulbs.  A lot of the hybrids will go in big containers or all together in a big hole for spring drama. I think about half of the narcissus are tazettas for forcing. I also think I’ll likely be buying more lilies and maybe some more tazettas and hyacinths. 100 forced hyacinths do not take up as much space as you might suppose, and we have a big root cellar.

Unlike Michele, I will not really be saving money by planting all this, unless you count the forced bulbs given as gifts—they are somewhat impressive as gifts unless they fail (and I buy some risky varieties). But I did figure out that I will get at least 6 months of enjoyment from these. I am spending something like 600. So that’s more than we spend on car insurance, gas, and a lot of other necessary expenses from which I derive very little enjoyment.

Interestingly, only a portion of the enjoyment is from actually watching the bulbs flower—though that is exciting (especially the exotic ones). It is the planning the buying, the planting in pots, the timed removals from the root cellar, the pleasure of using vintage hyacinth vases, and the indoor watching as the forced ones develop—and then the outdoor watching as the others come up.

Well worth it.

Bulb contest winners

Yes, winners. There were so many wonderful comments, I couldn't just draw one.

Congratulations, Diana/Gardening on the Edge, and Maria!

An invitation to share in my madness

 

There are several categories of bulb buying, I’m guessing. First, there are those who just don’t bother. Maybe they have a persistent clump of daffodils somewhere or maybe they don’t. Otherwise, they’ve given up on the bulbs that deer and other bulb predators like to eat or mutilate, or they prefer other types of plants.

Then, there are the ones who buy a couple bags in Costco or Lowes and plant them in a perennial bed where their declining foliage or possible failure to return will not be noticed.

We also have the connoisseurs, who buy only interesting varieties of colchicum, galanthus, or species tulips, or perhaps those who focus on North American bulbs like camassia, calochortus, or erythronium.

I’d guess too that certain gardeners just think of bulbs as elements in a particular design and choose whichever color, shape and size will work best. And, of course, all of us have to restrain ourselves a bit according to whichever types our particular zone and conditions will support.

Then, there’s me. I buy over 500 bulbs every year. Some of them go outside in the ground: mainly species tulips, ephemerals, and tight groupings of hybrid tulips that will be pulled after bloom. Many go into big pots in the garage and are brought out in the spring. Many more are forced indoors, and are brought out from the root cellar in December through February. The one thing I’ve learned from years of bulb planting is that you really need a lot to make an impact—even the small ones should be widely scattered to have that early spring wildflower effect.

What sort of bulb gardener are you? I’ve collaborated with Old House Gardens to put together a bulb giveaway: a beautiful selection of hyacinths and tazettas that will be sent to someone who comments.

The winner will be announced tomorrow by 5 p.m. (BTW, I chose hyacinths and tazettas thinking that I could encourage more people to try indoor forcing, but of course both can be grown outside.) 

IDs on what you see here: These are mostly hyacinths I have ordered from Old House (Mulberry Rose, Double Madame Sophie, Menelik, King of the Blues, Double Hollyhock). The middle one in the bottom row is Woodstock, which I have ordered from John Scheepers.

The Top 5 Lies People Like Telling About Gardening with Less

If you didn’t get a chance to guest rant, remember that we continue to offer guest rants on Thursday. Here’s one by Lisa Ueda. Lisa offers home gardening tips at The Frugal Garden. 

 

The bubble really has burst. The economy isn’t recovering any faster, and Obama continues to be blamed for what he has or hasn’t done. While we’re learning to live without, gardeners are looking for different ways to garden on a budget. To save everyone years of misery, I’m compelled to uncover the top five lies people like telling about gardening with less. (4 of them are lies anyway.)

1. You shouldn’t spend money on plants.
If you fall prey to this lie, you’re dooming yourself to an endless procession of ditch lilies, irises, and cast offs prevalent in most plant swaps, or the ratty half dead things on discount at Wal-Mart. You might score big time, but you also might just get stuck with the exact same stuff you’d love to get rid of. You can judge me for the Japanese maple I dropped $50 on that didn’t make it thru its first winter. Only the top graft died off. Where it suckers at the base, I think it’s cute and looks more charming than a bunch of boring freebies.

2. You should compost everything, and you’re not a dedicated gardener if you don’t.
Compost is good; compost with dog poo is bad. If you’re a militant composter and this is your M.O., that’s great, fine, you’re right, they’re wrong. Just don’t include it on your list of facebook likes.

3. You should only garden with native or “heirloom” plants.
They can be cheaper, but why the heck should you be stuck with someone else’s garden vision? Hybrids can be more disease resistant, or may tout a unique fragrance or leaf form. Just do your homework first. See if you can find it in a friend’s garden to get an idea of how it will do in your own. Hybrid does not equal evil so say goodbye to your grandma’s flowers if they really don’t work for you.

4. Never, ever, EVER garden with invasives.
Well, OK, you may regret the day you plunked that “slightly aggressive” plant your friend palmed off on you into your own garden. Just say no, or make sure your barricade method can withstand its insinuating ways. I plan on digging out my Gooseneck Loosestrife until the day I die, or sell my house.

5. If it isn’t broke don’t fix it.
So what if the boring bed you inherited with your house does so well—if it’s boring why settle? Dig it up, lug that stuff to your nearest swap, see if you can score any great finds and start over. Pretend you’re purging your closet. If you just really hate it, get rid of it; it won’t look any better next year.

Stay tuned today for one more from Ginny Stibolt.

 

I am the Girl Who Could Not Grow a Zucchini.

Here is a guest rant from Rebecca/The Potato Queen

I am a sloppy amateur gardener. 

My vegetable garden is a mad tangle of poorly supported pole beans battling for supremacy against cucumbers in the same condition and tomatoes that long ago overgrew their cages.  A visitor viewing my vegetable garden sees not tidy rows of orderly produce, but a jungle of poorly thinned, weed-infested vines and stems, apparently trying to strangle each other.

My flower beds are currently overrun with weeds.  When I DO remember to weed, I leave behind me piles of little green corpses I forget to pick up later.  I may be losing two new little shrubs I planted this spring due to ignorant placement and lax watering during this oppressive summer.  There’s a giant branch in the middle of the backyard from last week’s storms: it will probably still be lying there this weekend.

But.

Where others see this:

 I see this:

When I first began to garden in my little townhouse, I envied the professionally landscaped yards of some of my neighbors. Everything was just so, the right plants for the environment, perfectly balanced arrangements, like something from a magazine.

A year into my first efforts, that envy disappeared. Since then my favorite landscape has always been my own. I’ve had many failures with flowers and edibles, but after that first year, the successes began to outnumber the failures. And because I planted it, every bloom and leaf is special to me. The most special: the ones given to me by friends and especially by my dad.

Six years later when I left that little townhouse for a little blue house with my now-husband, I left behind a proud legacy of flowers where once there was nothing but English ivy and honeysuckle.  The new owners knew nothing of that transformation, and tore out most of my lovingly tended shrubs and flowers.  But some remain, including my dad’s beautiful white peonies.  (In evil moments, I consider digging them up under cover of darkness and bringing them home.)

The new house offered a much bigger canvas: a quarter acre of weedy, patchy yard, some random plantings apparently made to dress up the yard for sale, and a oddball planting of ten miniature arborvitae-like trees spanning the front yard along the curb. Six years earlier, I would have probably left all as-is.  Instead, I saw a big playground in which I could continue to dig and grow (and yes, kill--sigh) on an even larger scale.

The secret?  It’s not that I’ve become a master gardener.  While my successes do outnumber my failures these days, I still have a lot of failures (zucchini, anyone?).  I still am lazy and often don’t follow the rules, resulting in mess and death in the garden. 

The secret is I have ceased to fear failure. No matter how many failures I continue to have, I believe that anything is possible.  I’m looking at you, zucchini.