It seems that quite suddenly, summer has brought the entire world into bloom — and that means hosting a whole bunch of guests to a bloomin’ banquet. There’s plenty to eat and drink — so, bring a chair, sit back, and relax.
First up: butterflies. I’m not sure what type of butterfly this is, but the garden is full of them. They really don’t socialize with the other guests, and can often be found in pairs, fluttering about in mid-air and playing among the lavender.
It’s Father’s Day weekend here in the States, and I have daddy issues. You see, I do not have children of my own, so fatherhood and this holiday are like an exclusive country club from which I have been barred. This doesn’t go to say that I don’t know what it’s like to care for and nurture something, because I do. It’s just that my children aren’t – well, they’re not human.
It seems like only yesterday that I planted these Geraniums, the first of this year’s seeds to be started early — and here they are, all grown up and ready to be moved into individual pots. The truth is I am always caught off guard each year. I know this day has to come – and then all at once, all of the sprouts have their first set of true leaves, an indication that I’ve got a lot of transplanting to do.
Step 1: I moisten a batch of seed starting mix, which is a little lighter and airier than potting soil and so roots do not have to work as hard to develop and grow. Keeping the mixture moist not only creates a damp environment for the transplant, but it also keeps down the dust factor for your lungs. I then fill the cell packs with the mixture. Using a pencil or the tongue depressor plant label, I make some room for the transplant, deep enough so the roots can grow downward.
Step 2: I then ease the seedling from it’s starting pot. This can be a little tricky. I use the plant label as a shovel to help bring out the seedling. In a starting pot that is more densely packed, I usually unpot the whole thing, resting the potless soil and seedlings on the potting bench. I am then able to pry out each individual seedling, working from the perimeter to the middle, without disurbing the roots of the neighboring plants.
Step 3: At this stage, be very careful in how you handle the seedling. I do not hold the plant by its stem or by the first set of true leaves. Everything is still a little delicate — kind of like the soft spot on a baby’s head — and I wouldn’t want to crush any of the developing plant cells. Instead, the only thing I handle are the cotyledon leaves, the “baby leaves,” since these will eventually die as the plant continues to grow.
Step 4: With my plant label “tool,” I place the seedling into it’s new pot. My goal is to help the roots into the hole’s depth, rather than bunching up near the surface. I think this helps the overall health of the plant, especially as it continues to mature and is ultimately planted in the garden. Deeper root development helps to prevent the plant from drying out in arid conditions.
Step 5: Finally, I place the pot in a tray of water for bottom watering. At this stage, I do not want to compact the soil mixture too much with watering from above, since that would hinder healthy root development.
Now that the Geraniums are transplanted, all I have left are Amaranth, Impatiens, Salvia, Candytuft . . . Hmmmm . . . Do you suppose this is why Joe scratches his head in disbelief each year?
Willy Wonka — actually Gene Wilder in the better of the two Chocolate Factory movies — sang, “There is no life I know to compare with pure imagination.” But is it possible to have too much imagination?
That thought occurred to me just the other day when I found myself with my head very close to a pail of moist seed starting mix – inhaling. I’m not sure what came over me. One minute, I was mixing the dry powdery combo with water – and the next, I was breathing. Deeply. Completely absorbed by the clean, fresh, earthy smell.
I admit, when I’m working outside and I’m by myself, I do get lost in my own thoughts and imaginings – and it’s more than daydreaming of what to plant and where to plant it. No, that would be too easy. My imagination, I feel, needs a diagnosis.
The thing about a vacation is that you have to come home. One day, I was enjoying the warmth of south Florida sun, and the next I was bundled up against the wind chill on Long Island — and there’s no better day to start seeds. Like many of you, my hands were itching to get dirty and to begin the new growing season. Since the potting shed was built, this has been my tradition — a step-by-step homecoming.
.
Now that we’ve made the first round of seed introductions, it’s now time to continue down the receiving line. As mentioned in the previous post, I chose many red flowers — but I also included some experiments, seeds that could prove challenging.
First up, an experiment. I always try to include Coleus in the garden. The variety of colors and leaf textures are amazing — and they’re super easy to root if you’d like to save your favorites as houseplants. Simply snip off a stem, place in water, and roots appear. (By the way, that’s also an economical way to keep a favorite Coleus around for the winter months. As the weather warms, take some clippings from that house plant and have roots ready for the outdoor growing season.)
This plaque, a gift from my friend Maria, hangs in the potting shed.
Simply put, I’m a sucker for seeds. I can’t really say if it’s magical or spiritual, but I am amazed at what is locked inside each oddly shaped, variously sized seed. Just provide the right environment, and it’s as if the Big Bang is put into motion. Roots, stems, leaves, blooms, seed — it’s an ongoing cycle that is so simple (and yet so complicated) that it helps keep me grounded in this hectic world. It’s one thing to stop and smell the roses, but it’s another thing to stop and plant a seed and wait and then smell.
My Park Seed and Select Seeds order has arrived, and very soon, I will begin my own cycle of planting and watering and thinning. I admit, I went a little heavy on red — but I do love red in the garden. It’s hot and vibrant and passionate — and it comes in so many shades, from bright to brick to bold.
And now, without any further delay, I would like to roll out my red carpet.
It’s game day — at last. If you live in the New York Metro area — as I do — or in New England or Indianapolis, for that matter, Super Bowl madness has reached the saturation point. Every second of local news coverage is devoted to the teams, the fans, the food — even my local supermarket broke a record for the number of heroes that were ordered for Super Bowl parties.
Don’t get me wrong — I am pulling for the home team. And I am excited to see the half-time show with Madonna. Yes, I know she made that remark about loathing hydrangeas, but I’m curious to see what the old material girl (yes, I went there) has in her bag of tricks.
It’s just that gardeners need their Super day, their media coverage, their competition for the most clever gardening commercials. I doubt any of that will be happening soon, so I have decided to take matters into my own hands.
I am a seedaholic – and this time of year is especially rough for me and others like me. The seed catalogs have arrived, with all of their colorful glossy photos designed to tempt the gardener with promises of summer bouquets and homegrown vegetables – all of the scents and textures of life itself.
Each time I visit the mailbox and find a new arrival, I wonder what the neighbors think. A wave of thrills and excitement passes through me. I clutch the catalog to my chest as if it was the latest issue of Tiger Beat and I’m a giddy 11-year-old school girl. And, I swear, I feel like skipping.
A few posts ago, I wrote about gardening as a natural surprise party and my belief that my plants actually get together and come up with creative ways to entertain me and, well, surprise me — popping up in places where they had not been planted, blooming in different colors than were purchased or planned. But if I had to pick one plant as the organizer of all this guerilla gardening, it would have to be Moss Rose, or as I love to say, Portulaca.
It’s actually a fun name to say, like Dahlia or Liriope. Pour-tchew-lack-uh. Sometimes I think it could be the name of a Native American guide leading early explorers westward or a wife of Caesar. Maybe it’s a resort, kind of like, “We’re taking a ride up to Lake Portulaca for the weekend.” Or maybe it’s the closest I come to referring to any of my plants by its proper Latin name.
No matter what it’s called, though, Portulaca has been very, very good to me.
Nitty Gritty Dirt Man 