Seeing The Garden From A New Perspective


Very early last Thursday morning, at about 2:00 a.m., I saw my garden from a whole new perspective.  I was wheeled out, backwards, on a gurney.  Joe decided to call the ambulance when I told him that I felt pressure on my chest and had difficulty breathing. As a heart patient with 13 stents, that is definitely a scary feeling.

The good news in all this is that I am feeling better, although I am still in the hospital.  My heart is strong, but the doctors do not understand how my healthy liver produced enough enzymes to prevent my blood from coagulating.  So I am closely monitored and feeling antsy.  Joe brought up the laptop, and here I sit.  Writing.

It’s been kind of strange the past few days, to be in this hospital room and not be able to walk around the garden, upload photos, update this blog, and visit the sites of so many people I have met through this exercise.  How have I passed the time, you ask?

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Saving Elephant Ears & Canna — Part 2


For the sake of saving time, I thought I would combine the final packing practice for Canna and Elephant Ears.  Besides, I don’t think I can actually type the words Canna and Elephant Ears one more time.

The process is pretty much the same for both plants.  You will need peat moss, some kind of storage container (like brown paper bags), a shovel, and a room that stays relatively dry and evenly cool so that the plants can be lulled into a deep sleep without freezing.  If the final storage location is too damp or warm, the plants never get a chance to rest and they are at risk of rotting away — and after so much work getting to this point, that would be a shame.

Step 1: Where Canna are concerned, I double up two brown paper bags and label the outside.  I then put a shovel or two of peat moss in the bottom of the bag so the corms have a nesting area.

Step 2: I then place the corms (stem and all) into the bag.

Step 3: I tend to really pack the bags.  I’m not sure if this is correct, but it’s likely that I do this for the sake of space, since I have so many corms to pack away.  Once the bag is full, I then add more peat moss to the bag, shaking the bag so that the peat moss settles and covers the corms.

Step 4: Finally, I have something that looks like this.

Now for the Elephant Ears.  Last year, I stored the Elephant Ear bulbs in a plastic crate lined with a plastic bag.  I’m not sure if this had to do with my loss of energy and wanting to finish the task, needing to save space, or just running out of bags.  Either way, it worked.   By the way, don’t be surprised if your Elephant Ears have continued to grow since you dug them up.

Step 1: Once the crate is lined with a plastic bag, add a few shovels of peat moss into it to give the bulbs a place to rest.

Step 2: Load the Elephant Ear bulbs (stem and all) into the peat moss-filled crate.  Again, I tend to pack a lot in there.  Then add peat moss to cover the bulbs.

Step 3: Ultimately, this is what I am left with.  All that’s left to do now is carry everything into its Safe Room.

The Final Step: Here is the Safe Room — a cement bunker/bomb shelter hidden behind Joe’s  closet in the bedroom.  Now, anyone who knows me or who has read previous posts understands that I have an active imagination.  As my summer plants continue to live, enclosed behind the closet, my mind races back and forth between Edgar Allen Poe’s Fall of the House of Usher and the classic sci-fi film Invasion of the Body Snatchers.  So far, the Safe Room is protecting Joe and me.  So far. . .

Not-So-Wordless Wednesday: My Roots Are Showing


This is the end result of a day spent digging and removing Elephant Ears and Canna from the garden, and preparing them for their long winter’s nap.

It’s probably my least favorite day in the garden, and each year, I dread its arrival.  The chill in the air is my signal that, “It’s time.”  Armed with a pitchfork, clippers, and nerves of steel, I apologetically approach each plant.  I want to say, “Believe me, this is going to hurt me a lot more than it hurts you.”  I want the plants to understand that my actions are for their own good, so that they may live to see another summer.  But in the end, I fear that they’ll see me as a Viking, pillaging and ransacking their cozy beds.

Gardeners, I think, must have a bit of masochism in their blood.  Who else would try to trick Mother Nature by planting wrong-zone plants, nurturing them into blooms, and then hacking them down, ripping them from the ground, and storing them over the winter — only to start the process all over again in the spring?  Oh, to be content with zone-appropriate material!

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Are You There, Martha? It’s Me, Kevin


Martha Stewart’s new television season has begun on the Hallmark Channel — and I survived the day without tuning in — and that’s a very good thing.  I offer up this confession because Martha and I, well, we used to have a thing.  Or at the very least, I did. 

I remember it like it was yesterday — the day I met Martha Stewart.  I never actually met her, physically, but it was my first introduction to Martha style.  It was nearly 20 years ago, and I was sitting in my friend’s salon, leafing through magazines.  That’s when I came across an issue of Martha Stewart Living

I took one hit, and I was hooked.  I liked the writing.  I loved the style.  The fonts.  The photos.  The locales.  The recipes.  The gardens and flowers — there was so much in that magazine, and with each turn of the page, I felt my world opening up.  I saw things I never thought I would see.  Articles about terracotta pottery.  Photos of bulbs.  Handmade wreaths!

Then the fiending started.  I found her show (the early version).  In my area, it aired on Sunday mornings, and I incorporated it into my Sunday routine.  Breakfast.  Newspaper.  Martha.  Crossword puzzle.  There was nothing that she couldn’t do.  And it was all perfect.  She could pot an entire container garden and barely get a smudge on her garden gloves.  I, on the other hand, would look like I had been run over by a mulching lawn mower. Continue reading

These Squirrels Are Making Me Nuts


8:00 am: Swept clean.

It’s 8:00 am, and I have swept the walk to my door for the buh-zillionth time, thanks to the squirrels who are ransacking my oak tree for acorns.

They’re also not the neatest nor efficient of eaters. As I sweep, I notice there’s a lot of waste. Mixed in with shards of shells are whole acorns — perfect for tucking away into the nether regions of your cheeks. So I wonder, just what are the squirrels getting so squirrely about?

First, there is the coming winter.  There is a belief that you can predict what sort of winter you will have by observing the nuttiness of the squirrel population.  It’s as if they are our very own Farmers’ Almanac.  If that’s the case, then we are in for an Arctic blast of snow, ice, and below-freezing temperatures — and judging by the acorn debris that is littering my walkway, we may never thaw out.  Either that, or my yard will be buried

24 hours later: Not so much.

in an avalanche of acorn shells — Long Island’s very own Pompeii.

Second, I’m concerned about the frenzy.  This particular squirrel colony is in hyperactive mode, running and racing up and down trunks, onto branches, nibbling here, nibbling there.  The squirrels are not just eating acorns; they are stockpiling them like a cult of the-world-is-ending believers.  If they are like this now, what will they be like in December 2012, the notorious date when the Aztecs predicted the world would really end.  There may not be enough nuts to satisfy their craving.

Third, and I am completely serious here, I think the squirrels have declared war on us.  This nut stuff is just the opening volley.  At this time of year, I cannot even stand and have a conversation with my neighbor on the walkway.  If I do, I will be

Debris field.

pelted by not only debris, but whole acorns, as well.  In fact, I think they are intentionally hurling these whole acorns at me. 

You think I’m kidding.  Just listen to the sound of a whole acorn falling from the tree and hitting the roof of your car parked on the driveway.  It’s like the acorn shot heard ’round the world — and I find it difficult to believe that the velocity is the result of gravity alone.  There has to be some squirrel strength behind that acorn.  Perhaps the squirrel soldiers have fashioned a sling shot in the upper branches of the tree.  Then, “Ready.  Aim.  Fire.”  And each time they hit me or the car, I swear I can hear them giggling.

What to do with my furry frenemies?  Trap them and release them to another location?  Nah.  That only encourages replacements to take up their positions.  Cut down the oak tree?  Absolutely not.  I

Come on, Squirrels. How about a day off?

love the tree more than I dislike the squirrels.  For, now I will have to be contented with a broom and a hard hat — and if  the neighbors think I’m the nut case . . . Well, we’ll just see who’ll be laughing when the squirrels chase us up into the trees.

 In the meantime, a friend found an abandoned baby squirrel and is now rehabilitating it.  In addition to sweeping the walkway, I offered to  gather acorns to feed this foster squirrel.  I must be nuts.

 

Name That Garden


“Hello, and welcome to Name That Garden.  The rules are simple.  I will post a photo or two or three of a garden, and you have to guess where that garden is located.  Margo, tell us what the people are playing for?”

“Well, Nitty Gritty, they’re certainly not playing for a car.  But they will be playing for the fun and surprise of it!”

“That’s swell, Margo.  Now, are you ready to play, everyone?  Here is our first photo.”

 

“If you guessed C, then you are correct.  This display is part of a local gas station that is located on a heavy-traffic intersection.  Not only is it great to see a business doing its best to make the neighborhood look nicer, the waterfall is a welcome distraction as you sit in your car waiting for the light to change.”

“If you’d like to continue playing, click the ‘Continue Reading’ link below.”

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Hydrangea Hating Madonna Crosses The Line


Photo courtesy of popdust.com.

What’s with Madonna?  I never really asked myself that question because I’ve always been a bit of fan, enjoying her music, relishing the controversy, and admiring her skill at always reinventing herself.  She was my generation’s Lady Gaga.

But now?  Now, she has gone entirely too far – much further than writhing on the floor in a wedding gown at one of the earliest MTV Video Music Awards, much further than the “Sex” book fiasco, much further than her

The presentation is made and . . .

mediocre acting career.  Wait, that last one probably wasn’t much of a stretch.

In case you haven’t seen the video, here is a brief summary.  Madonna was holding court at the Venice Film Festival, sitting behind a table and a live microphone.  A man approached the table and presented her with a giant purple Hydrangea bloom and said, “You are my princess.”  She politely accepted the flower.  As the

. . . the eyes roll.

man walked away, however, she turned to her left (at a person off-camera), and made big, exasperated eyes.  Then she turned right and said, “I absolutely loathe Hydrangeas.”

Really?  Loathe?  I mean who can loathe a plant?  You can certainly loathe, I don’t know, a serial killer, a dictator, maybe even Brussells Sprouts if you had to choose a plant (although, personally, I love them).  I might be tempted to say that I loathe weeds and weeding.  The truth is I enjoy weeding.  And as for the weeds, they can be annoying and tiresome – but I would never say that I loathe them.  In fact, I actually like some of them – but that’s a whole other post.

Beware of empty apologies.

To add insult to injury, she then released a video, “Madonna’s Love Letter to Hydrangeas,” in which she appears to be apologizing to a Hydrangea bouquet.  “You have no idea how many nights I have lost thinking how I hurt you. Words cannot express how sorry I am. To think I may have caused you pain.”  But faster than a ray of light, she throws the bouquet onto the ground, and says, “I’m left with the fact that I still hate Hydrangeas! And I will always hate them!”  Then there is an expletive and a statement that she likes roses.

Huh? 

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10 Reasons I Love Elephant Ears


Have you ever sat under an Elephant Ear leaf?  I’m not sure what made me even think to do this, other than my curiosity to see one of my favorite plants from a whole other perspective, but as I looked at the leaf’s underbelly, I reflected on all of the reasons that make me love Elephant Ears.

1. Well, there’s the simple fact that I can lay on the ground and look up at the leaf.  It’s a great place to take an afternoon nap, enjoy the shade, and look at the play of sunlight hitting the leaf’s upper surface.  From below, it glows, much like stained glass does when its illuminated.

2. The color.  Look carefully at an Elephant Ear leaf, top or bottom, and see the swirls of shades of green.  It looks as if it’s painted, and the greens always look refreshing.

3. They’re waterproof.  Each morning it’s a treat to see pearls of dew gathered in the folds of the leaves, or perhaps what’s left from an overnight rain.  When the morning light hits the beads, they look like drops of mercury or silver.  I often think that if I find myself on “Survivor,” I would roof my shelter with Elephant Ear leaves, or at least use one as an umbrella.

4. Size matters.  As the season progresses, leaves unfold larger and larger.  One leaf can measure 3 feet.  I have found that when I keep the plants in a pot, they remain stunted.  Plant them in the ground, and they let their presence be known.  Similarly, one large leaf placed in a vase can be just as dramatic in the house.

 

5. Taste of the tropics.  As a Zone 6 or 7 gardener, depending on the specifics of the Cold Hardiness map, I like to create a tropical feel in the yard.  Elephant Ears are more than able to create the illusion that my Long Island garden is in South Florida.

6. Easy care.  As much as I dislike fall clean-up, it’s necessary when it comes to Elephant Ears.  Right around the first frost, I’ll cut back the leaves, dig up the bulbs, and let them cure for a few days.  I’ll try to shake out much of the excess dirt.  The dug bulbs are then placed in paper bags and covered with peat moss.  Lately, I’ve also tried plastic bags, and this also seems to work, as long as I keep the bag open.  Either way, I place the bag in a cool, dry place, such as the cement bunker that is behind a bedroom closet and under the front steps.  In the spring, I’ll bring out the bulbs, pull off the dead roots and tops, plant them in pots with the tip just below the soil (maybe even peaking out slightly), place them in a sunny location, and give them lots of water.  Once they sprout, in the ground they go.  Elephant Ears are slow to start, but with water and heat and humidity, they take off. 

7. They bleed.  I learned this the hard way during my first fall clean-up of Elephant Ears.  After cutting the stalks, I noticed that my clothes became stained with a rusty red color.  I then noticed the ends of the stalks with the same color.  The stains are permanent, which means that I now have work clothes specifically for Elephant Ear cutting, and they are stained with memories of previous prunings.

8. They multiply.  I started with a single bulb, and now I have enough to fill one bed, and more to intersperse with hydrangeas that have not reached full height.  In fact, I was so overwhelmed with babies, that I brought the extras to work and shared some Elephant Ear love.

9. They’re fun.  The leaves almost bounce in the wind.  I will often walk by them and tap each leaf like a drum to make them bounce.  Besides, visitors will always smile when they see them, especially the larger leaves.

10. Have you ever seen a new leaf?  They emerge from the stalk of an older leaf, like a tightly wound sword.  And then they open, like a sail unfurling.  The larger the leaf, the greater the opening.

 That’s it for now.  Happy Gardening!

A Boy & His Bug: It’s Like A Little Prayer


Now, don't start changing my station.

I admit.  I’ve been a little out of sorts lately, and it’s more than it being August and all.  It’s just — well — summer is almost over and I have yet to see my Praying Mantis.  Until today!

This morning, Joe and I packed up the truck with tools and a ladder to help my niece and her fiance repair their wood deck.  When we arrived at their house, and unloaded the truck, I opened up the ladder — and there he/she was.  My Praying Mantis, in all of his jointed glory.

My niece’s fiance was impressed; he hadn’t seen a Praying Mantis in a long time.  What’s a Mantis maniac to do?  Hand over my Praying Mantis as a house-warming gift?  Or, take my big-eyed beauty back home?  Hmmmm, I pondered.  Perhaps I needed to make like a Mantis and pray.  What would Jesus do?  What would a gardener do?  What would Jesus do if He hadn’t seen His Praying Mantis in His garden for a long time?

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Angst In August


“What’s wrong?” 

That was the first question Joe, my partner, asked me the other day.  At first, I didn’t think anything was wrong, other than I felt a little sluggish and unmotivated to do anything.  Then I looked at the calendar.  August. 

I’m quite conflicted when it comes to the 8th month of the year.  I know it’s still summer, which I’m thrilled about, but inside I feel dread and sadness, as if the clock has begun ticking on the garden around me.   And once that thought takes hold, all other melancholic ideas start to sprout.  To put it simply, I’m summer saturated.

For starters, everything in the yard looks overgrown.  The Sunflowers can’t stretch any higher, and they are so crowded and top heavy that they are all falling over at odd slants.  The leaves on the trees are dull green.  Most of the annuals look tired.  The grass is burnt.   The Hydrangea flower heads have started to fade away.  Everything looks sloppy.  My impulse is to go out there and rip everything out of the ground and start all over again with new seedlings.  But that would be ridiculous.  As it is, the days of these plants are already numbered.

Then there is the change in shadow.  As the Earth and Sun have done their celestial dance on the way to the autumnal equinox, I have noticed that where there once was sun, there is now shade.  Just ask the Gazanias.  A week ago, they basked in hours and hours of summer sun.  Now, the shadow of the house lingers a little longer over their bed.

And let’s not forget about the quiet changes in weather.  While the days are still warm, nighttime temperatures have begun their subtle decline.  On some mornings, I can smell the faintest whisp of fall in the air. 

That is, perhaps, where most of my hostility toward August stems from: I know what’s coming.  Leaves will start to change, tropicals will have to be dug and stored for the winter, terracotta pots will need to be cleaned and packed away,  nights will become longer.  I can practically feel Light Deprivation Disorder bubbling up.

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