We all believe (as Garden Geeks) that the minds we have at twenty-four will stay supple and fit, able to remember a thousand genera and ten thousand named species at a moment’s notice – not that we have much call to provide such information at a moment’s notice (at that age) unless we’re lucky enough to be interning at Chanticleer or Great Dixter.

It’s a bit of a shock to wake up years later and find you can’t remember what you had for dinner the night before.

We think we’ll remember, but as the plant palette grows, it’s easy to forget specific species & cultivars (Hostetler garden, The Plains, VA)

I exaggerate perhaps just a little, but in short, life gets complicated and the ten percent of our brains that we actually use are quickly filled with information we heartily wish we didn’t know.  1040As replace Form EZs.  Soon you know what ‘escrow’ means.  Once you’ve passed that electrifying milestone, you very quickly learn what caulk does, how to apply it, and how to make a vulgar joke whilst ostensibly discussing home improvement.

Details crowd out details.  Your children force you to recall aspects of your calculus education you were happy to forget the moment you passed the test, and your accountant forces you to recall aspects of your personal finance class you never knew in the first place.

You have an accountant.  You have to remember where her office is.

The next thing you know you’re standing with a friend in your garden discussing the ridiculous plot twists of The Walking Dead over eight interminable but not-to-be-missed years, and when she asks the name of the glorious tree under which you both stand, your mouth opens and nothing comes out.

A planting record is incredibly important, but does you little good outside when you’re wondering where plants finally ended up.

Never mind that you researched, sought and secured it just six years before.

Which brings me, just as interminably, to plant labeling. We say it’s for our visitors, but it’s really for us.

There are several schools of thought about labeling one’s plants – let’s discuss them.

THE BAD PLAN

Don’t label. Try to remember.  That’s it.  Try to remember a specific Japanese maple in a grove of other Japanese maples with Japanese names…in (hint) Japanese – particularly when you’re walking your guests around with a glass of wine and speaking garbled English at best.

THE NOT-SO-GREAT PLAN

Keep a detailed record of all purchases and plantings in a journal far away from the actual purchases and plantings.  You know, somewhere you won’t be able to see it when your friend asks you what tree that is and you’re forced to start discussing The Walking Dead again.

THE NO BETTER PLAN

Tear off a piece of seed packet, original paper plant label or potting shed paper towel and half bury it in the hole with the plant.  Use whatever comes to hand to mark it – pencil, stick, lipgloss, charcoal bricket etc.…  I’m sure you’ll remember what you were scribbling when you gaze at the pulpy mess in four weeks’ time.

THE BETTER PLAN

Keep a stash of labels in your pockets with a sharpie.  When you plant, plant a label too.  When your chickens and/or curious children pull up the entirety of all labels in the garden because they were white and interesting, have a nervous breakdown and spend the rest of the evening with the above garden journal and a flashlight.

THE BEST PLAN

Spend money.

Yes.  It has come to that.  I’m going to tell you to spend money.

However, speaking as one who would rather do without than not be able to make do, I feel I am exceptionally qualified to tell you that it’s worth it.  My progression:

Fifteen years ago I thought I’d just remember.

Ten years ago I got a journal.

Seven years ago I broke down and left paper hints that also broke down…in five days.

Two years ago, though it hurt, I spent real money and bought packets of white, never used, labels.  That was good, but the guinea hens were worse than the chickens and the children combined.

One year ago, I spent further real money and bought aluminum tags that could be pressure engraved with a pen and attached to a tree or woody shrub.

It was a start.

Added to the confusion is the ridiculous amount of names that any one plant, shrub or tree has these days. Between trademarks, plant series and the actual botanical name, you’re a genius if you remember it all without a prompt.

Today, I’m ordering a Brother P-touch D600, 50 12-inch stainless steel Kincaid labels and I’m not looking back.  Not everything needs a label, and no doubt I’ll act as Scrooge, parsimoniously doling them out based on plant life expectancy and status (blatant plantism), but at least I’ll be doling them out. As the garden matures, I may even think about introducing a bit of technology to my trees with cool, digitally interactive labels from PlantsMap.

Quite simply, I’ve been to too many first class gardens, looked at too many first class plants and almost wept when the plant for which I lusted was not only labeled, but clearly labelled. The most recent garden, that of Bill and Linda Pinkham (of former Smithfield Nurseries fame), is a perfect example of how labels don’t necessarily have to distract from the display.  Placed discretely and (most importantly) used regularly they provide a guide for your visitors and a fabulous aide memoire for you.

Cons? Money, obviously.  And I know that Chanticleer Gardens in Wayne, PA (which does not label plants) has a few thoughts upon the matter too. They have painted a canvas with flora, knocked you over the head with creative artistry, and they don’t want you to get caught up in the minutiae while you’re reeling.  However, by the time you come to, there are plant lists and bustling interns to help you find what you seek.

If I ever get an intern, she won’t have time to look at you, much less talk to you.  I’m going with a label maker.

The post The Case for Plant Labeling appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

‘One must be cruel to be kind’ is a hackneyed phrase that must have originated in a garden setting.

Where else do men and women of good conscience perpetuate extreme acts of violence without a moment’s thought or consideration of that conscience?

Once the deed is done – be it dismemberment or execution – ‘tis done. We rest easy in the knowledge that were our actions to be scrutinized by our fellow gardeners, we would emerge triumphantly vindicated – perhaps even admired. The end almost always justifies the means.

Yet there exists a soft heart locked away in even the most hardened of horticulturists; and at this time of year, that lock is jiggled to the point of breaking by sweet determination, the promise of beauty, and, that Achilles heel of all gardeners, something for free.

In short, by volunteer seedlings.

In my Instagram feed a few weeks ago, the noted British food writer and Observer columnist, Nigel Slater, forgot about that night’s dinner to snap a shot of an ivy-leafed toadflax flowering gently in a crack in his stone doorstep. “How could anyone not love something so sweet, delicate and determined?” he penned (or rather, thumb-typed between courses).

How indeed? Though I loved the sentiment and might have shared it in this case, experience still prods me to offer the following three-step progression in answer:

Step One: The Early Years

The beginner gardener is usually so overwhelmed by the natural cycle playing out in his garden beds (instead of his garden books) that volunteer seedlings not only go untouched, but are coddled.  If they grow with any measure of vigor, they are adored.

It matters not that the purchased plant ten inches away will suffer – losing nutrients and moisture at best, foliage and flower at worst. The Universe has spoken! Life cannot be stopped!

Hmmm….Black Beauty grew near there last year….it could be…. But what about the succulents?

As the season progresses, he will have underestimated the size and determination of this volunteer (and no doubt its fellow invaders) to such an extent that the shape and flow of the garden will now be affected.  Where once stood a bed of healthy leeks, now there is larkspur.  Where once there grew rare beans, now exist thousands of common cherry tomatoes.

Once the beginner lifts the scales from his eyes after a bean-less dinner in mid-July, it is far too late. The garden bed is irrevocably committed to the invader and large voids will result from any type of defensive violence.  And yet, large voids are unavoidable, for these crafty volunteers are mostly annuals with one life ambition – to seed and to die.

Death will not be pretty, and after the carcass has been cleared, the remnants of the spring’s actual garden plan emerge, bent and broken and festering with resentment. The beginner resigns himself, makes an attempt to tidy that which cannot be tidied, and makes a mental note to be crueler next year.

He will repeat the exercise for several years at least. We are at our most vulnerable in the spring months and it takes a harder heart to progress to Step Two.

Verbascum thapsus is a gorgeous volunteer when it blooms. Before it blooms? It takes up a great deal of space, suffocates all nearby and almost always seeds itself in the front of the bed.

Step Two: Hope Over Experience

Having once lived the idealism of  previous decades (and bearing the sunspots to prove it), this gardener may be less enthusiastic, but he is not unmoved by a pretty face.  There are other options, he decides. He has the experience and skill to implement them, and does so.

He transplants a few – knowing little of eventual color, size and vigor.

He gives away a few – absolving himself of guilt and granting it unto others.

Thus does he add to his workload and burden his friends.  And yet he still suffers some measure of chaos.  He may have graduated to pulling out tomatoes when he sees them, but he still has weak moments which are craftily exploited.

Cleome blocks his path to the water barrels and snags his clothes, but he smiles at its tenacity, and endures its barbs. Wild violets push themselves deeper into fragile mortared joints, but he selects the unusual ones, feels justified, and hopes for the best.

Perhaps he has been trying for years to grow poppies, and when the stars align, he is so overwhelmed by the act of germination he cannot bring himself to thin even a leaf.  Skinny, undersized plants result – plants that may have thrived had but their competitors’ lives been ended by a thumb and forefinger.

Larkspur and poppies are hard to thin and the heart must be hardened. Without thinning, they will all be sparse and weedy.

He will continue to let his heart bleed for several more years, seldom applying fall wisdom to spring decisions.  Indeed, many of his fellow gardeners will remain here for the rest of their careers – gambling on those rare seasons that sweet Serendipity scatters only a few of her tastier crumbs.

Cultivating callousness, cynicism and ruthless conviction is the only way forward.

Step Three: Experience Over Hope

And so we come to the horny-handed sons and daughters of the soil.  The cruel.  The pitiless. The envied.

A rock wall is the perfect pairing for this volunteer brunnera – but only one.

This beady-eyed inquisitor approaches each volunteer as guilty until proven innocent.  Will it add to, not detract from, the overall plan? Will it play well with others?  Will it stay true to the bloodlines of its parents?  Will it be kind to all structural features? Will it refuse special treatment such as staking or feeding? And lastly – perhaps most importantly – will it die quietly and with dignity?

Very few can answer yes to all six questions.

Thus, the thumb and forefingers of experienced gardeners are callused and arthritic from a lifetime of laudable cruelty.

If those fingers are attached to a gardener blessed with creativity and vision, the resulting garden – whether formal or cottagey, is deceptively unconstrained and vibrant.

There will be volunteers that squeak through – the doorstep toadflax, the convenient bit of parsley – but they do so with the experienced gardener’s eye fixed squarely upon them.  They will live out their usefulness and be relegated to the compost pile before issues are created.

Period.

How can anyone not love something so sweet, delicate and determined?

From the tiniest seeds spring some of our biggest struggles.  One must be cruel to be kind.

The post A Gardener’s Progression of Cruelty: Volunteer Seedlings appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

Last night my husband and I were awoken by yet another storm pounding on what currently passes for a roof around here.  After a few minutes of staring at the ceiling thinking about the gutters, the bridge, the foundation, the tarped roof, the barn, the trees and the newly sand-mortared patio amongst other night terrors, he mumbled “Do you remember when we used to love thunderstorms?”

Yes, indeed I do. And I’m pretty sure we were renting at the time.  In those days, the rasping of a tree scraping against the roof meant nothing more than a spooky sound. Gutters were ignored if you couldn’t reach them with a six foot ladder. A torrent of water rushing down the street didn’t make me run to the hardware store for sandbags, but to my desk to pen a few lines on the awe-inspiring power of Nature.

I think we even had an ill-advised party on the deck during a hurricane warning once.  It turned out quite well. We served iced Hurricanes in celebration of our adolescent stupidity.

Boy I miss those days.

Storms play a different role in my life now.  To be nestled deep in a cool stream valley might be fabulous in a humid climate 360 days of the year, but there are usually 3-5 that convince you you’re living in a remote section of the African bush, minus the elephants and civil uprisings.  And certainly I have had more than one moment when I helplessly watched water running from all directions toward the river and thought of Farah in Out of Africa telling Karen, “This water must go home to Mombasa.”

The Chesapeake Bay wants its water back just as badly.

And this is why Land Cruisers work just as well in Lovettsville as they do in Africa.

Here, preparations for storms this season have been inadequate, as they are almost always thought of during the storms, and not before, in the way that the word ‘preparations’ might suggest.  I may have a fully stocked liquor cabinet and a pantry that would make a Walking Dead survivor weep, but are my gutters cleaned of leaves and muck? The sound of water hitting the pavement six inches shy of the water barrel at three in the morning clearly answers that question in the negative.

But storms give us the opportunity to assess our property’s weaknesses, and in stronger moments, correct them.  And we have had a few stronger moments in our last five years here at Oldmeadow.

There may still be water standing in that meadow, but it is no longer standing in the chicken coop, thanks to a better grading system.  We’ve taken down eleven full-size house-shadowing trees to date. My husband has re-mortared the riverbank walls near the bridge and they are no longer falling into the river. The bridge will be next, for it must withstand the medieval battering ram of uprooted trees coming feet first down a raging river.

Yes that happened.

One of the first things we had to face was repairing the bank wall shearing off into the creek after several big storms.

And as it turns out my sharp four-inch bed edgings make surprisingly good aqueducts. At least for the first 120 feet, after which all becomes mush and mud and dreams of French drains (and a French exchange student to lay them).

No doubt after these weeks of water you are thinking similarly – unless of course you spent it having ill-advised deck parties with the Young, the Fresh and the Renting (also known as ‘The Envied’).  There were a terrible amount of gardens flattened, more than a few spring dream projects postponed indefinitely, and quite probably, a new ‘normal’ established on gravel roads throughout several counties.

But it is my sincere hope that you were able to take the opportunity to assess what you can change and pray for the serenity to accept that which you can’t.  Sometimes the fixes aren’t easy – or even possible.  Try as I might I just cannot move this lovely stream valley high on the top of a hill with city maintained streets.  But I can install a metal drain that will prevent two yards of roadbase from flowing down my driveway and covering my daylilies.

It will take time and I’ll try to have patience.

Slowly, slowly. Or as they say in Swahili, polepole.  Water will have its way.

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A version of this article first appeared in The Frederick News Post and is reprinted here with kind permission.

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The post Weeks of Water appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

There are very few plants that make you look like a great gardener as well as a healthy stand of ferns.  Ironically, this has little to do with the resident gardener and everything to do with proper placement, but if you don’t know that when you visit my garden, I won’t be the one to bring it up.

Certainly a similar case could be made for hosta – but as the genus is fairly common (no matter how uncommon the cultivar), and they can adapt to awkward garden situations better than most ferns, they don’t tend to spark as much interest with visitors.

Many is the time I have tried to draw the gaze of friends to gorgeous hostas such as ‘War Paint’ or ‘Praying Hands’ only to realize that they are too mesmerized by the ostrich fern backdrop to pay attention.  Deer have the same issue, only in reverse – ferns are rarely nibbled.

I spend a lot of time looking at my ferns in mid-June specifically to avoid looking at other parts of my garden.  The color flush of early woodland perennials and spring bulbs is over; the tropicals are re-installed but yet to shift into high gear; the vegetable garden seems to be producing cages and stakes, not vegetables; and my garden ornaments need a mature garden to soften and absorb them.

Yet most ferns are fully unfurled and sporting fresh, youthful foliage.  This is their moment – before the true heat, before the drought we will no doubt endure; before, in short, the summer. They are lush, add texture, block out weeds, and impart a gentle coolness and primeval atmosphere to the shadier parts of the garden.

Along the 50 foot bank that borders my driveway, I have slowly been selectively weeding all things not fern and hosta. The result is a mix of sensitive, wood and Christmas fern, and a bank that is well protected from erosion.

Are ferns just for shade?  To answer that question you must consider your definition of ‘shade,’ for there are many levels and it’s fairly probable that you have one of them even if you consider your garden sunny.  If you’ve got four walls to your house, you’ve got a north wall and a place to site a few ferns.

It’s true that you don’t want to plant a fern in twelve hours of scorching sun, but there are many such as autumn fern (Dryopteris erythrosora)  that will live in full morning sun and some afternoon heat as long as moisture is adequate and soil is rich. Experiment.

Are ferns just for moist areas?  Not necessarily.  Some, such as Japanese beech fern  (Cyrtomium falcatum) can cope with average to drier soils just as long as our Mid-Atlantic precipitation does what it’s supposed to do each summer.

Do they all need rich soil?  Ferns do their best in fat, humusy soil that is rich in organic matter, but sometimes you don’t want them to do their best. It has been several years since I took a few thuggish ostrich ferns out of a friend’s garden to start my own.  To this day he will look at my [now] 6,528 plants and yet ask me wistfully if I’d like to come back to his garden and pull more. A leaner soil can be a life saver.

Looking for crazy contrast? Plunge pots of your favorite sanseveria, philodendron or dracaena houseplants in the middle of a stand of Japanese painted fern. In the winter, the houseplants come back into the house.

I grow many species of ferns and have killed many more, but for those who don’t feel the need to push any boundaries or who don’t yet have a fern addiction, let’s focus on just a few easy and readily available ones to add a new texture to your garden this year.

Ostrich fern (Matteuccia struthiopteris)

A beautiful native thug that epitomizes the jurassic experience at 36-48” tall.  Dies to the ground with a hard freeze but leaves brown fertile fronds to remind you where to start digging them up next spring. Spring fiddleheads are very edible sauteed like asparagus and you needn’t have any guilt about eating your landscape – when happy they grow thickly.  When really happy they grow everywhere.

One of my favorite ways of using ostrich ferns is by letting them hide the legs or structure of other things in the garden – such as my well head, or this [very ugly] pot filled with iron flowers. And yes, I’ve been asked what the flowers are. More than once.

Autumn fern (Dryopteris erythrosora)

A stunning evergreen fern whose new spring fronds are a little later to emerge, but do so in two foot tones of burnt orange.  Later in the season they’ll morph to green and stay beautifully intact through Thanksgiving, Christmas and beyond.

Autumn fern unfurls in bright orange, and keeps that color for several weeks.

Sensitive fern (Onoclea sensibilis)

One of my favorite native ferns due to the unusual structure of the fronds.  Sensitive fern will never grow as quickly as ostrich fern, but don’t get lackadaisical and take your eyes off them.  Very sensitive to frost but they’ll leave you with sterile beaded fronds for December craft projects.

I love sensitive fern and am lucky to have it growing wild at Oldmeadow.

Cinnamon fern (Osmunda cinnamomeum)

Unlike many ferns, cinnamon ferns send up gorgeous cinnamon-colored fertile fronds before the sterile green fronds completely emerge.  This tall, regal fern native to Missouri is so photo worthy there are probably Instagram groups dedicated to it. If not, there should be.

Cinnamon fern flouts tradition and unfurls its fertile brown fronds before the sterile green ones. The result is contrast, contrast, glorious contrast.

Japanese painted fern (Athyrium nipponicum ‘Pictum’)

I’m including this one because so many people I know love it.  I don’t happen to be one of them, but I do grow it – and ironically, very well.  Low growing purple and silver fronds seem outerworldly, which is particularly difficult if you’re trying to successfully pair them with something on this planet.   I prefer the wispier, taller hybrid ‘Ghost.’

The fronds of Japanese painted fern are almost reptilian. A huge favorite with many.

Try to gain a bit of familiarity with the botanical names of the ferns you love.  This is one group of plants where a common name often refers to more than one plant, depending on region.  When you’ve grown the above and started to feel confident – here are a few more of my favorites: Arachnoides standishii, Arachnoides simplicior ‘Variegata,’ Athyrium felix-femina ‘Lady in Red’ and ‘Victoriae,’ Polystichum polyblepharum and the not-a-fern-but-sure-looks-like-one Selanginella braunii.

If you’re a fern lover already, I’m going to bet I’ve left out your favorite – but no doubt you’ll let me know.

The post June – A Month for Ferns appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

I spent a quiet afternoon two weeks ago working in a small garden outside my guest room windows.  The room is built into a sloping bank and partially surrounded by a deck, and therefore the garden is not only visible on an intimate level from below, but from a larger, birds-eye view above – a challenging prospect.

For the most part, I have filled it with sensitive and ostrich ferns, dicentra, Iris tectorum, bronze and standard petisites and several Hydrangea serratas.  A fatsia also battles the winters there and more often than not, comes out with most of its dignity intact.

But the aim is not to block these windows; and these plants – many of them thugs – are seasonally wrestled with in order to provide a gateway to the woods and field beyond. An introduction of sorts.

From the deck it is abundance.  The ferns blend, the petisites looms, the dicentra prays it won’t be asphyxiated. There’s a landscape light or two  (in trendier speak, the area has been ‘nightscaped’) and I threw in a bird bath last summer for good measure.

From the other side of the guest room-glass however, the scene is very different. One’s perspective contracts, and becomes almost that of a small creature at ground level.  It is not the vast, smothering heads of petisities that he sees, but a forest of reddish-green stalks topped with umbrella-esque hats.  The jumbled lush that is a stand of ostrich fern from above becomes a study of their shuttlecock form and an awareness of new crowns, unfurling with both delicacy and vigor.  Ants make nests against the stone foundation and each evening spiders spin tiny webs between the branches of the hydrangea.

All this is visible below, and invisible above.

And thus we come to the meat of it – what I was really working on outside that window last week, and what I sadly feel I must defend in my position as gardener who regularly uses Latin, propagates her own shrubs and knows what do with coir.

I was building Toad Hall.

It began as a broken pot in my last garden many years ago.  An expensive broken pot I might add, but broken clean in half and therefore even harder to discard.  I did not.  Instead I tucked both halves under the feet of a climbing hydrangea on the north side of the house, and for the benefit of my children who were both young and still listening to stories at bedtime, wrote ‘Toad Hall’ in large capitals with a sharpie on one of the sections.  One half would have been a house, I said.  But two?  That’s a stately home.

They would check occasionally for Mr. Toad and any friends he had, but alas, toads did not visit Toad Hall, most probably due to Mr. Dog who frequented that area and had no fear of sticking his nose into dark places where it did not belong.  At this point I could still hold my head high in the face of garden visitors who assumed that broken pots provided habitat and terracotta was chic.

That’s a hand cut moss roof you know. That’s got to count for something.

Thus we went along for a year – me feeling ecologically sensitive and the children perpetually disappointed – until I was wandering one Mother’s Day at a nursery.

I saw the little statue early in my walk: a cement rendition of two toads playing chess, one intent on the game at hand, one languidly sitting back, arms and legs crossed.

It instinctively made me smile as I thought of it sitting in front of Toad Hall, and I just as instinctively stopped myself.  It crossed a line that I wasn’t prepared to cross and one that I certainly wasn’t prepared to let others see that I crossed if I indeed chose to cross it.

I continued to wander, half-heartedly picked up a salvia and a new succulent, but could not take my mind of that ridiculous little statue.  I had, up to this point, considered myself young and still fairly vibrant.  Fairly vibrant people do not buy kitsch I said to myself.  Formerly vibrant people do. You shall not have that statue.

Friends, I bought the statue and began my transition into middle age.

Several years and nine pairs of [where are my] reading glasses later, I had a choice to make sparked by our move. Leave the moss covered pots and their cement inhabitants for the incoming young couple and their offspring, or take them with us and set a very bad precedent for my new garden.

He was a film producer and she was an English professor – I had no doubt that they sipped macchiatos each morning as they read The New Yorker.  I took my kitsch with me and it sat in the potting shed waiting for another moment of weakness in the life of the resident gardener.

That moment occurred one afternoon as I was making the bed in the guest room and watched a toad hop by directly outside the window.  On my run to the potting shed with the wheelbarrow, I pleaded with the serious gardener who had just created a pergola walk to showcase allium and was taking great pains to incorporate rare ephemerals in a sunken woodland.

“Uh…not in your world.”

“The children will love it.”

“They’re at work.”

“It’s providing habitat.”

“Good, then you won’t be needing the statue.”

“You won’t be able to see it from above.”

“But you’ll damn sure see it from the guest room. You put plant people in there – are you insane?”

Ashamed and proud at the same time.

The fact that I am writing this article – as a direct challenge by a friend and colleague from the American Horticultural Society – should give you a shrewd idea of how that conversation ended.

Not only did I install Mr. Toad and his chess opponent outside that window, I cut a moss roof for Toad Hall and gave them a ceramic mushroom umbrella.  It was at this time that I realized they weren’t playing chess at all – they were playing checkers.

Oh the shame of it.

Since that day, there have been bottle trees and copper mushrooms.  I have lost all credibility in the eyes of my colleagues and even an in-depth article on the finer points of propagating hardwood cuttings could not save my reputation at this point. It is a slippery slope surely, but I will point out that there have never been fairies.

That, at least, should count for something.

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The post In Defense of Bad Taste: The Story of Toad Hall appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

Muttering to oneself in the garden must have been at an all-time high this week.

Quite apart from the fact that it is July and there is mandatory muttering to be done after the expensive party that is spring, having to endure day after day of high heat and cloudless skies is enough to coax ripe words out of even the most puritan amongst us.

The water barrels are dry and so are the margins of banana leaves, but self-seeding drought tolerants like this Verbascum thapsus draw attention away from crispier views. Note to self: grow more.

I am no Puritan. The early morning air has turned cobalt blue with my swearing.

Top of the list of things to swear about – my last rain barrel has been drained, and this in the youngest part of the garden that does not have running water yet boasts its sunniest exposure.

As I watched the last drops hit the bottom of the can this morning, I contemplated tomorrow.  Until we can expect a sizeable volume of the wet stuff, I will be schlepping water from the creek à la Little House on The Prairie, and the muttering will no doubt be amplified.

There are other options of course, had I the stomach for them. I have a pump.  I have a tank.  I have a creek. What I do not have is the time or energy to battle heat stroke as I level an elevated area behind the barn and built cement footers for said tank.  Such things are saved for 70 degree days with low humidity and chance of tool-wielding friends.

So I will schlep.  And swear. And, according to my personalized morning’s farm report on Agrible.com, the sky (and the air) will be blue for some time.

No doubt this confession will have the most righteous amongst you clicking your tongues.

Shouldn’t I have drought tolerant darlings in places such as these?  Shouldn’t I be taking heed from authors such as Beth Chatto and Piet Oudouf and planting only those which will thrive in fast-draining, alluvial soils?  Shouldn’t I be constantly amending with organic material to act as sponge for all available moisture?

The answer to all three is that I am.  But my garden is young, and shrubs and trees (and perennials for that matter) need time in which to establish their root systems – particularly in poorer soils. Annual vegetables are dependent on annually-made roots and extended periods of heat and drought after a new spring normal of soaking, every-day rain, are tough to shake off.

Plus, I am weak, and I cannot resist a bit of tropical madness every now and then.  Protected by thick, fleshy rhizomes, the cannas will roll with the punches a fair bit – but the bananas are starting to phone it in. And, as they cannot help but be flamboyant in whatever they do – be it thrive or dive – they’re starting to bring down the mood out there.

I have no doubt you are feeling similarly (perhaps minus the creek and the barrels and the tropical nonsense). It’s tough to get motivated when temperatures are high and only the air retains moisture. But nevertheless I must plead with you to put your head down and tend to your plants – or at least pay attention to what is happening out there in order to learn from it.

And, as no one wants advice shouted down from an ivory tower à la Vita Sackville-West (though I believe hers was taupe), it is best to temper the bad news with one’s own struggles.

If we have taken the time to plant them, we should take the time to tend to them until such time as we actively choose to be done with them.  So, be wise and get out there early, when the dew gives you hope that moisture still lives in our universe.

What do I mean by actively choosing to be done?  It is the difference between ignoring your garden and letting plants die and watching your garden and letting plants die.

As I said, my garden is young, and I have more than one shrub handing me a Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free Card right now. But I am observing them. Carefully. As they mature, and I give them less and less, I am interested in how they will behave in conditions such as this, sitting as they are on the edge of the Grand Perhaps.  Is it dormancy or death that beckons?  If after two years of tending, they do not have the resources to cope with baseline conditions, I will let them die or give them away.

If you have established shrubs and perennials that cannot take the rough with the smooth, year after year…if you are forced to help them limp through, never thriving…it is time to re-think your planting schemes and find replacements that will happily (or at least, begrudgingly) accept those conditions.

But that’s the point – you need to be active in your decision making process, not passive.

With no additional water, the monarda/miscanthus/cannas of this bed are doing beautifully.

That’s a lot of italicization.  But I have a point to make. Welcome the tough times out there.  Mutter by all means, but remember that these temperature extremes will help us to build better gardens. It’s time to carefully observe what your plants are doing in response to stress, take a few notes, and make some decisions.

The post Are You Observing? Or Are You Ignoring? appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

“Plant for foliage!” is a term you have probably heard a great deal over the last few years.  But then you’ve probably also heard “Plant for pollinators!” and more than likely you’ve heard both slogans here (though I do try and stay away from the excessive use of exclamation marks in my proselytizing). But if you’ve got a small to average-sized garden, you’re probably trying to figure out how you can do both things at once, or even if you should.

Let me answer the second part of that question first.

I feel very strongly that you should do whatever you want to do in your own garden (after all, that’s the premise of my book).

It’s your garden. Not mine, not your mother’s and not Martha Stewart’s.  If you were to put me in charge of your garden, I’d throw out all your gnomes, remove the scabby leylands and dig up anything magenta. If you put Martha in charge, she’d throw you out and hire a designer.

But I ask you – is that a way to live?  Under the thumb of someone else? Even somebody with taste as good as mine? My husband would tell you that this is not an enviable place to be.  No, better you garden your piece of paradise in the ways that bring you joy – even if those ways involve using the GN-word.

So this brings us to the first part of the question:  Can you have a pollinator-friendly garden that wows with foliage at the same time?  Going a bit further, must you only plant natives these days, or can you enjoy the pleasures of exotic plants?  Can you tell anyone about it if you do?

No flowers in the early spring, but the Black Swallowtails love the ligularia flowers in the summer. (Ligularia dentata ‘Othello’ with autumn fern (Dryopteris erythrosora))

The answer(s)?  In my opinion, absolutely.

There are plenty of strong foliage plants that sport beautiful flowers – rodgersia, ligularia, hosta, canna, begonia, cyclamen, weigela, and hydrangea (to name just a few) and a host of foliage plants – such as grasses – that provide habitat for pollinators and other forms of wildlife.

And as for mixing exotics and natives?  Well, my canna and monarda were doing things together in the barn garden this year that made my heart skip (not to mention the hearts of neighboring hummingbirds).

But there are those who might not feel similarly, and thus I will amend my answer.

Absolutely. As long as you aren’t too zealously committed to whatever you’re supposed to be zealously committed to at the moment; and if you have the inner strength to be peaceful with your own choices even in the face of dissenting opinion.

Zealots are rarely happy people. If your mantra is ‘pollinators or perish,’ you’re going to feel guilty adding plants that add a lot of panache to the garden, but nothing in the pollen or nectar department, such as the hardy banana, Musa basjoo.

Thus you must avert your gaze from the obviously eye-catching specimen in the garden of a friend (and refuse her offer of a pup) in order to keep the inner-flame alive. That can’t feel good. After all, it seriously would have set off the Rudbeckia maxima you just planted.

Conversely, if you have fully rid yourself of the time-heavy constraints of flower gardening, or feel yourself ‘above all that flower nonsense’ as you magically pair ‘Silver Lining’ Pyracantha with a plum colored ninebark, you may not wish for a single bloom to spoil your dramatic foliage-first garden.

Therefore, wandering a friend’s meadow and contemplating the addition of a bit of bee-laded veronicastrum to go with all that fine foliage of yours is right out.

That’s gotta chafe a little bit too.  Think what it would have done against that ninebark.

We are rarely happy when we think of a garden in terms of absolutes.

Years ago a fellow tour-goer and I stood in front of a stunning display of ‘Andrea Atkinson’ Japanese anemones in a September garden and contemplated the remarkable amount of insects coming and going amongst the hundreds of pure white blooms.  At a time when the fall colors of surrounding trees and shrubs had begun to materialize yet many other perennials were in decline, the scene was memorable.

Equally memorable were my companion’s words.

“How very beautiful.” she said quietly, and I agreed, just as softly.    But less than five seconds later, her tone sharpened. “What a pity they aren’t native.” she said and turned on her heel – no doubt to fawn over the mildewed monarda foliage laying flattened on the other end of the garden.

I stood amazed.  But this type of thinking is not unusual.  Only a few weeks ago I was wandering through a public garden with a group, and was troubled to hear one of them look out on a meadow and woodland teeming with life and abundance in its many forms, yet express how angry it made her feel to spy invasive plants in the mix.

This is the second time I have heard this sentiment in the same type of setting.  I am certainly not overjoyed to see honeysuckle and multiflora rose taking over areas that I have previously cleared of them, but to feel anger is beyond me.

When I take a walk through the woods there is only one thing I feel angry about – the person before me who has littered the way with trash.  Spying a stand of Hemerocallis fulva in full bloom doesn’t quite provoke the same reaction.

Can’t quite access the fury on this one. 

I am more often than not humbled by the resiliency of plant life on this planet – particularly when I am in a highly urbanized environment and observe something like Johnson grass re-greening an abused, compacted and abandoned lot.  Invasive plants are, for all their faults, living organisms with the same agenda as the plants we cosset and curate – they just happen to be better at it.

Sometimes we’re not necessarily this ideologically committed, but loud voices around us make us feel we should be. We think we have to plant certain things because that’s what everyone else is doing or what we are currently being told to do.  We don’t want to stand against the current, nor do we want to be called names, and it’s easier to go with the flow.

Be brave.  Take time to do your research; but be brave. And be yourself in your own garden regardless of the latest trends. The late New York Times columnist Allen Lacy made no bones about the fact that he had no desire to plant for winter interest, despite the shaming words of great gardeners before him – or indeed, great gardeners of his day.

“As for winter itself” he said early on in his epistolary book with Nancy Goodwin, “I dislike it, and the longer it goes on, the more I dislike it.” For those of you who have read A Year in Our Gardens, or know a little bit about the splendor that is Nancy Goodwin’s garden at Montrose from late October throughout the wicked windy months of winter, you can appreciate how bold a statement this was.

But Goodwin was not harsh with him, nor dismissive.  In her own effusive way, she instead described acres of snowdrops and cyclamen, and told him of the joy she felt in doing a Christmas day walk around Montrose every year to tally the many species blooming.  Her aim was to persuade, not chastise.  There was no zealotry there. It had its effect on Lacy, who touted the splendors of winters at Montrose in his writing throughout his later years.

I feel similarly persuaded when I tour the garden of a friend in Braddock Heights who has put together a rich assortment of some of our best native plants and presents it with a gentle smile and a desire to educate (as well as a few seedlings!).  Her example is inspiring.  I’m not saying I’ll give up my cannas, but I’m definitely putting in a scarlet buckeye next year.

If you’re a thoughtful gardener with a steward’s heart, you are more likely than not doing some wonderful things out there and people are watching you. Persuasion, not coercion is the key.  Fanatically mouthing catchphrases will not make us better gardeners or stewards of this beautiful Earth. But gentle example in our own gardens and for other gardeners will.

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Reprinted with kind permission from the Frederick News Post

The post Let’s Lose The Zealotry & Plant for Joy appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

There are no adventures quite as adventurous as reclaiming the garden after a long absence abroad – and during the height of the growing season no less. From bewilderment to bloodshed to tears, it has been an interesting week.  Moreover, there are still miles to go before I sleep, and the winter is not drawing in fast enough to negate the need for effort.

Boosted by the rainy season and hot temperatures, ensete and canna prop up large sections of the garden.

Let’s begin squarely with the bewilderment, for it is a mighty blow and not all of us get up and keep walking. Certainly jet lag and a bottle of red wine to oneself at 11am (I do not apologize – it  was five o’clock in Rouen at the time) made the experience more bearable, but it was nonetheless a bit of a gut punch and it came in three rounds.

First there was the growth – the relentless, vigorous growth.  Even those plants that I actually encourage to grow shocked me with their new improved sizes.  The crab grass covered the groundcovers. The stilt grass covered the shrubs. To keep anyone from feeling left out, the bind weed covered everything else – and all presented thus in their final ripening, where a single touch from the gardener can throw seeds far and wide.

The allium walk underneath the pergola became a native tree nursery in my absence.

Further sections of the garden masqueraded as respectable tree nurseries for robust seedlings that could have sold for ready cash if the resident gardener had stopped her swearing and potted them up.

She didn’t.

Second there was the ravaging.  The raping and pillaging of flora by fauna.  Caterpillars left a six foot rosemary-leafed willow naked and trembling.  The tomatoes were picked bare.  Ever left a succulent ninebark un-sprayed and un-netted in deer country? Best not to, as it turns out.  Fingers crossed that coppicing is a thing with that genus.

Third there was the remembering. Perhaps the cruelest punch of all.

Walking as I have been through the gardens of others far, far away from my own, the tendency is to remember home and hearth, green and grass in a fond, rosy light.  Ideas flow from the right brain in a child-like rush and obstacles are diminished.  The green genius of others – the sheer force of will evident in their gardens – imparts an exaggerated idea of one’s own abilities, and one falls a-bed at night with these lovely mad thoughts swimming through an inspired mind. A flooded stepping stone pathway…a false wooden door in a green bank…a quiet pond filled with bilingual Toulouse geese. All is possible.

Anything is possible.

Or not.

I had forgotten so many things.  How heavy rocks are, for one.  How wood rots against green, wet banks for another.  How geese attack small children irrespective of the language they speak.  The coming back down to earth – to one’s own reality – is all part of the remembering.

A flooded pathway at Jardin Agapanthe in Normandy sparked a few ideas…

And if one was clever enough to travel abroad without a decent cell phone service (guilty as charged), the [re]learning curve is even steeper. When the connection to one’s own weather and environmental constraints is severed, reality simply becomes what you imagine it to be.  Biblical floods may have bathed my home and property for the five weeks of my absence, but I was too busy wallowing in unseasonably dry conditions in a warm Great Britain and France to give it much thought beyond “Hope the bridge holds.”

The wet, sodden mess I came home to took ‘bewilderment’ to an entirely different level.

Of course I had to meet this chaos with a stout heart and I did – and I am – but not without the bloodshed and tears I mentioned earlier. Tears because, hey, I was jetlagged, and it really was a lot of wine.  Bloodshed because, once established, a living, growing thing will not give up its life force without a fight. By God there will be blood.

Visualize for a moment: Spent cleome stems puncturing callus-free hands.  Pyracantha covered in bindweed. The razor-sharp edges of miscanthus. Optunia paddles against white ankles. Carpet roses carpeted in stiltweed. A rooster that needed worming.

In hindsight that last one should have waited for next week and a calmer disposition, but I was determined.

Somehow though, the more bloodletting, the more ruthless I got; and this, coupled with a fresh perspective has opened up new space in established beds. I have removed a couple of roses that I never liked (they will remain nameless in case you do) and taken out strawberry patches that never did well.  Perhaps more importantly, I have removed several ‘guilt plants’ – the plants that gardeners keep because we think we should, not because we love them.

Pergola garden restored.

I note with pleasure that the beds filled with shrubs, trees, cardboard and four inches of hardwood mulch are much as I left them and the rain and heat has breathed superhuman strength into my tropical accents – Musa basjoo, numerous canna and colocasia species, and my once rag-tag collection of Abyssinian bananas (Ensete ventricosum ‘Maurelii’). ‘Black Stem’ colocasia actually surprised me with creamy yellow blooms – a first for this gardener. Standing at the end of the wet and wild season this garden has endured, I am thankful for these tropical accents.

There is still much to be done, both at my desk as I go through reams of notes and photos and try to make sense of them, and outside, as I assess the successes and failings of my landscape in the absence of the resident gardener.  But the true challenge is not the work ahead – it is being kind to myself as I do it.

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Reprinted with the kind permission of The Frederick News Post

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Fresh from an exhaustive three weeks driving 1800 miles to tour British gardens and their associated tea rooms, I am full of ideas and inspiration for next year’s planting schemes. The British know how to do it. The hype is real.

But what exactly is that ‘it’ comprised of? Cottagey color? Architectural hedging? Jam covered scones and cups of milky sweet tea sipped in salvia scented patios?

Or are they just dazzling us with their accents and that gentle Gulf Stream?

To answer that question for myself, I’ve combed through thousands of photos, dozens of wow moments, and a ratty notebook that smells vaguely of real ale to boil ‘it’ down to ten garden concepts I have seen illustrated throughout the United Kingdom – both when I lived and worked there and during subsequent trips over the last fifteen years.

The herbaceous border at Waterperry Gardens, Oxfordshire

These ideas are not exclusively British by any means, nor did many of them have their genesis on that little island.  But the underlying cultural embrace of horticulture in Great Britain means you see more of these elements at the same time in public and private spaces.

Each point certainly bears exploring in more depth, and thus we’ll plan on delving a little deeper over the winter months ahead as we consider how to approach our spring gardens.

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1 – Experimentation energizes a garden.

In a land steeped in conventional gardening practices and the love of tradition, you’d think the British would be the last ones to push boundaries.  Yet many of the greatest gardens are doing just that.  Whether they use color, form, texture or movement, they’re changing things up and bringing energy back into old spaces.  Sometimes it works and sometimes it fails – but treating the garden like a vibrant, living experiment is guaranteed to inject excitement into your day-to-day chores.

An excellent example of successful experimentation is the Exotic Garden at Great Dixter in Sussex, which replaced the traditional rose garden many years ago and is now one of Dixter’s most popular gardens.

2 – Revolutionary design is always possible.

When experimentation works, new movements are created. Robinson’s naturalism, James’ mixed border, Chatto’s right plant, right place, Auldof’s Dutch wave to name just a few of the most popular. Don’t cheat yourself by thinking everything that is worth doing has been done already.  That type of thinking is what stopped you from buying shares of Netflix and Amazon and retiring early to a little garden just south of San Gimignano.

Wildside Garden and Nursery in Devon is an eye-opening example of how using land forming on a large scale can create various micro climates and growing conditions within the same garden space – a truly revolutionary garden.

3 – Right plant. Right place.

What is the point of growing something that merely survives and never thrives?  Spindly, undernourished plants result, and the effect is dissatisfying.  Over fifty years ago, Beth Chatto asked herself this question and inspired a whole new movement of gardening in the UK – putting the right plant in the right place. Taking time to consider the natural growing conditions of a plant could mean you never grow it, but for every plant you cannot grow, there are ten that you can.  Find them and your garden will be glorious – and healthy.

The dry Gravel Garden at The Beth Chatto Garden in East Anglica.

4 – Structure is critical.

Sometimes we get so caught up balancing the thrill of immediate gratification with the inconvenience of budgetary constraints that we neglect the big picture.  The big picture is structure, aka bones or form, and the good news is that you can create it with grasses, with conifers, with broad-leafed evergreens, and yes, with larger ticket items like walls, patios and fences.

Squint your eyes for a minute and imagine this cottage & garden as a cottage & field BEFORE it was the garden it is today (The White Garden, Sissinghurst, Sussex). Now consider how adding structural elements could transform YOUR blank canvas.

Structure creates depth and perspective.  Structure directs the eye and sometimes fools the senses.  Structure exists when the leaves fall.  Structure rewards the clever gardener with a feeling of solidity and time.  Make it a priority in your planning and your garden will be infinitely enhanced.

5 – Connecting the house to the garden creates a cohesive sense of place.

It is hard to think of a British garden without thinking about the home it surrounds.  The British are masters of seamlessly connecting inside and outside living spaces which in turn inspires a life centered around the pleasures of the garden.

The iconic container garden at the front entrance to Great Dixter is a beautiful example of allowing the garden to meld seamlessly with the house it surrounds.

Don’t have a 15^th century half-timbered home and feeling a little bitter?  Well, neither do most people in the UK, and yet you see very modest homes draped in roses, or sporting a conservatory, and becoming as integral to the garden as the plants themselves.

Lady Banks rose and wisteria drape this home in Emsworth. A BBQ grill, dining area, planters and greenhouse further tell the story of a family that lives a life centered around the pleasures of the garden.

6 – Ordinary people can make extraordinary gardens.

This serene retreat in Andover was not created by a horticulturist or designer, but by a chiropodist.

On my last night in the UK, a friend and I walked down a lane in her village to her mother’s garden to water plants while she was away.  Tucked between a corn field and a house to each side, her tiny garden made the most of its space and beautifully meshed the intimacy of a private space with the expansiveness of country views.  I neglected my share of the watering just to stare out over the field and watch the sun set from the windows of a small summer house.

Was her mother a horticulturist I asked?  ‘No, she just loves plants and goes to all the gardens and shows.” said my friend proudly.

You don’t need a certification to create something beautiful.  By all means study your heart out – go to the shows, attend the lectures, take a class or two, but don’t let the idea that you ‘aren’t an expert’ stop you from creating an extraordinary garden. The British don’t.

7 – Gardens connect us with our past and our future.

It’s one of the best reasons for growing one. Some public British gardens are a testament to the past – like the Lost Gardens of Helligan in Cornwall.  Others, such as the Gardens at Blenheim Palace incorporate ancient trees to link past, present and future.  But many private gardens have that same sense of timelessness – aware that  working around treasured features instead of removing them, and planting with an eye toward the next generation evokes a spirit of constancy even in the midst of change.

My edible nephew under an ancient oak at Blenheim Palace.

8 – Gardens and dining go together.

I am a lover of formal dining rooms and have the place-settings to prove it, but in my mind there is no better way to enjoy a meal than in the garden.

The British feel similarly, and consequently most people with a garden or patio have a table and chairs set out to enjoy meals al fresco (even if those meals only happen once a month due to British weather).  When you visit a public garden you are almost guaranteed to find a tea room or refreshment tent, and it is a rare garden indeed that doesn’t subscribe to the notion that tea and coffee always taste better served in china cups.

A simple table set up next to the garden does not need to reflect the latest trends, or even match. It’s about the food & drink, good friends & family, and the pleasures of being surrounded by the beauty of the garden.

9 – Incorporating plants within the cultural collective makes life more beautiful.

When searching for a pint without a specific recommendation, I have to admit to always heading for the pub with the most flowers. A shallow criteria certainly, but it rarely steers me wrong.

Having spent a fair amount of time arguing with the council in my last town over the need for horticultural beautification and management, I can confidently say that we don’t put the same priority on using plants to enhance our day to day lives the way that the British do.

We can blame government budgets, but private businesses are just as guilty of not giving plants the chance to enhance facades; or worse, planting poorly, maintaining abysmally and then allowing a dead Alberta spruce to grace the front steps for six months.

Whether it’s a median planter filled with native grasses or a pub covered in pelargoniums, the British get this right.  I wish we’d accept that challenge on a national level and raise them a hanging basket or two.

10 – Using Latin doesn’t make you a snob
– or a geek.

The answer to: “What is that plant?” isn’t straightforward when you’re using English common names and you step outside your county, state, or country.  My mare’s tail may be your horse’s tail; your love grass may be my cleavers.  If you’re speaking to someone who doesn’t speak English, the situation gets infinitely trickier.

The British gardening media doesn’t expect everyone to know the botanical names for every plant, but will use them interchangeably with common ones.  So do many everyday gardeners. This leads to a greater cultural understanding and acceptance – and the ability to talk Garden with a visiting friend from the Czech Republic without having to switch to politics.

I’m excited to announce that next May, I’ll be working with Carex Tours to lead a small group through many of the great gardens of Britain, ending with an exciting day at the Chelsea Flower Show.  Interested in joining us?  Join the mailing list for the 2019 schedule at Carex Tours.

A version of this article was originally printed in The Frederick News Post and is used here with kind permission.

The post What Can We Learn From British Gardens? appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

Well, we’re square in the middle of the autumn season. I hope you’re enjoying your garden right now and not thinking too much about the end of it.  These last little drops of fall are to be savored – after all, they are what we will remember when the January banshees start to scream.

As miscanthus plumes ripen and the last of the chrysanthemums brown and fade, you may be tempted to do a bit of wacky-wacky out there to get on top of your fall workload.  But that may not be the best idea.  Let’s explore our options in terms of a pro and con list – the way I like to look at a lot of options in life.

The Total Clean-Up:

What you do:
Exhaust yourself.

How you do it:
Cut back perennials and annuals, rake all leaves and compost, remove all debris, stack cages, trellises and stakes, mulch heavily, feel smug.

Photo credit: Kelly Fowler

Pros:
The garden looks as tidy as a military base, without the Panda Express.

Clean up is reduced in the spring when you are busy with planting.

Some pest and disease problems are alleviated with the removal of debris.

There is less habitat for winter-destructive voles.

Aggressive fall seeders are dead-headed.

Your neighbors love you.

Winter weight gain begins in January, not November.

Cons:
Exhaustion

Less habitat for wildlife, beneficial insects and pollinators.

Winter interest is drastically reduced.  ‘Neat’ doesn’t necessarily mean ‘interesting.’

Without marking, you won’t be able to tell where many of your herbaceous plants are located.

A heads down/jobs done approach that can keep you from enjoying the season.

And then there’s the school of Let It Be:

What you do:   
Nothing

How you do it:     
However you like.  I prefer a glass of Zinfandel and a wicker chair.

Pros:       
A lot more time on your hands.

A beautiful winter scene as frost carpets the rise and fall of the previous season’s garden each morning.

Possible compositions of poetry as a result of the above.

Over-wintering places for pollinating insects and wildlife.

The ability to see where you have planted your herbaceous plants before you cut them back in spring.

Cons:    
A ‘country messy’ look that might bug you.

Non-beneficial bugs that might bug you.

Winter weight that’s definitely going to bug you.

More work in the spring. (There being no such thing as a free lunch.)

Your neighbors give you tight little smiles in the evenings.

You’ve got to weigh your options.  And more than likely, you’ll come up with a compromise.

I certainly do.

• I try to rake fallen leaves on lawns and driveways and use them to create big piles of leaf mold for next season, but I never remove them from my growing beds, preferring instead to leave a blanket in place for protection and eventual nutrients.

• I try to cut back some of my more aggressive seeders such as Pennisetum alopecuroides ‘Moudry,’ but leave the heads of golden rod, teasel and Echinacea for the birds.

• I try to mow the lawns one last time and edge the beds tightly, but leave the mowing of wilder areas of grass until the late winter.

• I try to remove my tomato and pepper cages and stack them, but wait to strip them of odd bits of vine until it is brittle and falling off in March.

• I try to sit on my deck in November with that glass of zinfandel and wonder what my neighbors are thinking.

Wicked. But satisfying.

Notice I specifically wrote ‘try’ in the above.  I cannot get to everything, and I certainly don’t want anyone thinking I can.  We attempt, we succeed, we fail, we start again next season.  Remember, clean-up is not the only item on the menu in the fall.  We’re planting, we’re digging tender plants and storing them, we’re organizing our garages, basements and potting sheds, we’re painting our daughter’s room even though she really didn’t need it and why of all colors, white?  Well, you get the picture.  Clean up is only one of the possible tasks for the busy gardener in autumn.

The tweaks you make to your plan depend on who you are, what you wish to see in your garden, and whether you live under the auspices of an HOA (It’s not so satisfying to get a wicked letter from the clipboard police).

Every garden is different – as is every gardener.  Keep an open mind about what must be done and what mustn’t be and you may find a better rhythm to your gardening life.

The post Clean It Up or Let It Be: The Fall Garden appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

“We lost too many plants in our impatience to possess them,
because we had not achieved the proper growing conditions.”

– Beth Chatto, The Beth Chatto Handbook

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If ever a sentence deserves a garden writers’ gold medal for excellence and simplicity, it is this one, written decades ago by gardener and garden designer, the late Beth Chatto.  The sentence highlights a universal trait amongst gardeners (avarice), illustrates the wages of sin (loss) and offers the reader a solution (redemption).

That common-sense solution turned gardening on its head over fifty years ago – advising gardeners to look to their gardens first and match the plant to the conditions they found. Not the other way around.

The Gravel Garden at the Beth Chatto Gardens in Elmsted Market, Essex, UK.

Consider:

What happens when one takes a ‘Phenomenal’ lavender (for there are such things), plants it in a silty stream valley soil, surrounds it in cool, wet mornings and gives it full sun that begins at eleven, ends at five, and severely stretches working definitions of the concept?

At first the plant puts on a brave face and gets down to the business of growing.  After all, there’s always summer heat to soak up. Perhaps it won’t be as luxurious as those grown in the Luberon, but it’s growing.

But when steady rains come, difficult growing conditions are exacerbated. Fungus sets in.  No matter how phenomenal, the lavender eventually goes out with a whimper. And if the wet summer didn’t kill it, the wet winter will.

How we react to this situation depends entirely on how much experience we have as gardeners or how much we’re  paying attention to others that do.

If you’re fairly skilled, perhaps you planted it as an experiment because your sunny, gritty areas weren’t cultivated yet, and hey maybe Phenomenal is SO phenomenal it might throw thousands of years of adaptive behavior in the bin and suddenly grow like a fern….  and..well…dammit you just wanted to try it.

Congratulations. You just illustrated that beautiful Chatto sentence:  Your desire to possess was too great and you lost a great plant. Thankfully you know why.

However, if you love lavender because a recent Pinterest pin made it sexy beyond words (especially when they container paired it with a fern), and you have little experience in the garden, you may come out of this feeling a bit depressed.

These failures hurt, and depending on your personality, can color how you feel about gardening and your skills in general.

Time to change your perspective.

Maybe you did fail your plant  – but you did so the minute you paired a A Year in Provence with Jurassic Park.  Once you finished patting the moss covered soil around its fibrous roots and stepped away, you could have helicopter-parented that plant every moment of the summer and the outcome would have been the same.   You didn’t follow a very simple rule – so simple it only takes four words to express.

Right plant, right place.

Using this concept to guide any further choices you make will have the single greatest effect in your garden. Give your plant the growing conditions it desires and it will reward you – tenfold.

The dry, sandy slope leading away from the Chatto’s house makes an excellent site for plants that thrive in these conditions.

She of the fabulous sentence was the first to popularize this movement beyond whispered wisdom passed down from gardener to gardener.  In 1960 Beth Chatto and her husband built a new house in one of the driest geographical areas in Great Britain. A south-west facing sandy slope fronted their house, and made its way down to a spring-fed ditch.  Everything was covered in blackthorn and bramble.  Those in the know told her to forget the idea of having a garden.

Beth and her husband Andrew (who spent decades intensively studying plant ecology) made some big mistakes as they began to create the garden that would eventually become internationally famous, but slowly they began to work with the site itself.

They didn’t divert the spring to drain the property – they dammed it and expanded it to create a series of bog gardens populated by the plants that love them.  They didn’t remove the native, brutish soil around their house, instead they planted sun-loving, drought tolerant Mediterranean lovers on the sandy slopes, and apart from watering plants to establish them, they turned their backs on the hose.

In many ways, they did forget about the idea of having a garden – they forgot about having a garden that typified the style of gardens that they knew: Lawns, borders, topiary and hedges.

You can do the same. Get a grasp of the conditions with which you wrestle, then look for lists of plants based on similar growing conditions in other areas of the world. If you’re a nativist, don’t be a naïve-ist too – do not assume that all native plants embrace all native conditions. They do not.

We are all swayed by tempting plants. If you really cannot look at your conditions first – at least be methodical in your avarice.

1) Lust after a plant

There are as many motivations as gardeners.

2) RESEARCH  the plant’s native growing conditions.

Where does this plant come from?  What does it encounter in that environment?  What type of soils, weather, temperature, rainfall?  Does it have a dormant period? Is it sun or shade loving? Does it like wet feet or a dry environment? Don’t forget to look at high temperature hardiness while searching for the usual growing zone – many plants cannot handle high heat even if they made it through a cold winter.

An extensive library is not necessary to conduct this research – used one or two trusted manuals.   I often reach for  The American Horticultural Society A-Z Encyclopedia of Garden Plants  and then go from there to other volumes and authors I trust. If you’re online, the Missouri Botanical Garden’s Plant Finder is an excellent source. (A reader recommends The New Southern Living Garden Book for heat hardiness and I do too! – MW.)

3) Look for those conditions in micro-climates within the garden. 

If they don’t exist in any way shape or form, move on to another plant. Don’t waste time crying about it. For every plant you can’t grow, there are ten that you can.  Examine your conditions thoroughly and go from there.

The ponds at the Beth Chatto Gardens take advantage of the many marginal zones around the edge of water features to grow everything from gunnera to pickerel rush.

Some plants can be played with.  For instance, I grow bananas (Ensete spp., Musa spp.) in a part of the world that knows what an ice storm is. The bananas grow well during the season as we have a hot, humid summer with adequate rainfall, they deal with part sun well and they like all the organic matter I dig into their holes.  In winter, they go dormant in the garage (with a  little help from me).  However, the lavender I referenced earlier (yes, that was me beating my head against a wall), simply cannot be healthy in my current conditions of low sun, cool temperatures and wet feet.  Until I clear my south facing hillside of invasives, I will have to find something else to perfume my drawers.

Experimentation is okay.  It is very okay.  But it can be costly unless you know which rules you’re breaking and adapt accordingly if things go wrong.

With a bit of brain retrain, Right Plant, Right Place is a very easy philosophy to run with. Do you want to grow a plant that survives, or do you want to grow a plant that thrives?  I know which one I prefer.

Want to delve a little deeper?  Chatto’s books The Dry Garden and The Damp Garden as well as
The Beth Chatto Handbookmight help you realize that for every place, there is a plant.

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A version of this article was originally printed in The Frederick News Post and is reprinted here with kind permission.

The post Right Plant, Right Place – The Wisdom of Beth Chatto appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

It’s Thanksgiving morning.  What have you forgotten?

You’ve thrown the turkey in the oven, the stuffing is made and on its way to being glorious, and your sister is bringing the rolls and jello. In a few minutes the game and/or parade will start blaring from the living room and you can start to relax.

Or not.

The table.  You forgot to decorate the table! And that little grocery store bouquet you bought on Tuesday night looks woefully inadequate – even if you threw a couple candles around it.

Remain calm.  You’ve got this.

From berries to seed heads to the foliage of plants still vibrant – this colorful arrangement is a wealth of texture and color and was put together within ten minutes of collecting the materials – who knows what it could be with twenty?

Some of my very best tablescapes are made up of the things I have in my garden, my refrigerator, my pantry and my home  – and no table is better suited to this kind of decorating than the Thanksgiving table.  Thanksgiving marks both the end of the growing season and the holiday season to come, bringing our family and friends around that table to celebrate it.  Outside our windows the world is dying back and preparing for winter, and it’s doing so in a muddle of browns, greens, ochres, oranges and reds.

This arrangement is a celebration of not only my mother’s old turkey roaster, but the incredible diversity of the landscape around their home in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains.

If you try to think of the table as an illustration of those things – the exquisite beauty of Nature in all her shapes, textures and colors intertwined in a careless, joyful messiness – it’s hard to go wrong.

Fresh rosemary, pears, hydrangea, bittersweet and apples nestle together on a bed of miscanthus plumes in an old soap mold. (photo credit: Allison Walser)

You have to think outside the cornucopia.  A deconstructed landscape awaits reconstruction on your Thanksgiving table. Your mission: bring the best of the outdoors in.

Natural materials you’ll need to decorate your Thanksgiving table:

The materials we use depend upon the land around us – but they can also come from surprising sources such as our refrigerator (apples), our pantries (whole spices), or our cupboards (those lotus seed heads you’ve been holding onto).

When you go outside, pruners in hand, don’t look for the obvious florist-fodder that most likely won’t be there – you’ll only end up disappointed.  In fact, I rarely use any flowers in my arrangements. Instead, I look for shapes, for colors, and for textures.  Chances are that if it catches my eye outdoors – it will thrill me inside too.

Some suggestions to get the wheels turning:

If you’re lucky enough to come across a small log filled with turkey-tail fungi, grab it and work out how to use it later.

Ornamental berries
Pyracantha, holly (it’s not just for Christmas), beautyberry, viburnum, bittersweet, toyon.

Interesting branches, sticks & bark
Red osier dogwood, yellow twig dogwood, Florida dogwood, grapevine, bittersweet, willow, hazel, various hardwoods, manzanita

Mosses & lichens
Often you can find stones covered with them, or if you’re very lucky, long slender branches.

Fruits & vegetables
Osage oranges, rose hips, mini-pumpkins and other gourds, green apples and pears from the fridge,  papery-skinned onions and tight green Brussels sprouts from the pantry.

Nuts
Acorns, hickory, walnuts, horse chestnuts and buckeyes.

Foliage
Magnolia, thuja, juniper, camellia, chamaecyparis, pyracantha, privet, honeysuckle tendrils, ivy, tawny grasses, euonymus, aucuba, mahonia, evergreen herbs like rosemary and thyme.

Dried hydrangea flowers
From florist macrophyllas to sun-loving paniculatas.

Dried colorful leaves
They’ll last for a day in your arrangement, but if you think about it ahead of time, you can preserve your favorites with glycerin.

Seed heads
Foxtails, other grass plumes and panicles, teasel, coneflower, sea holly, sunflower, opium poppy, blackberry lily, ligularia.

Fern fronds
The brown, fertile fronds of ostrich and sensitive ferns. You’ll find these sticking up where your ferns used to be.

Don’t forget to have fun! These old jello molds reflect Thanksgivings past and create an informal look for a smaller table.

Things to think about when decorating your Thanksgiving table with natural materials

Large arrangements can be very striking, but tend to impede conversation.

• We want to be able to talk to each other over the table (at least I hope we do), and so I always try to keep tablescapes below eye-level. If I do have time to create a shock-and-awe floral arrangement in the center, it is removed when we sit down and replaced with something a little smaller.

• If you use the entire center run of the table in your decorating – moving out lengthwise from a center point designated by a small arrangement – you can utilize long lines of interesting branches and enjoy placing objects in small groups along the run. This stops intense focus on a single arrangement often stuck awkwardly in the middle of the table.

• The same is true of round tables – radiate out from a central point and consider bringing the arrangement to smaller points between place settings.

• Use a piece of burlap, fabric or a table cloth folded lengthwise with ends tucked under to frame your arrangement. Mess with it a little – rumples and crannies are good.

• Decide where you want candles (oh come on, this is the day for it!), and set them in place first. If you don’t have taper candles or don’t want them, tea lights in glass are almost better for a long tablescape.  Want to impress your son’s new hipster girlfriend?  Use small jam jars or other mason jars to hold the votives.  Tell her you were just using them to ferment something or other.

• Blend the concept of ‘between the seasons’ as you tuck in branches and add a bit of greenery. Use earthy tones and textures to set the tone, but bring life to your ‘dormant’ tablescape with evergreen vibrancy – skipping the Christmassy spruces and firs for sprays of thuja and juniper.

• If you’ve been given a Thanksgiving-themed bouquet – or bought one – pull it apart, grouping blossoms in threes to add a bit of floral magic in bud vases along your tablescape.

• Group objects together into little scenarios – don’t space nuts every four inches down the table. Be as random as you can within the space.

• If you have time – or can enlist a helper – add to the tablescape by tying a small piece of something you have gathered onto each napkin with raffia or twine, or leave it simply on its own. A bit of ivy, a foxtail…a tiny bit of lichen covered branch – you get the picture.

The smallest natural accent on a napkin can make an entire table.

Above all, be brave.  Half of any decorating undertaking is believing in it. This is why I just saw three heads of cauliflower sitting starkly on a wooden table in the pages of a high-end magazine.  If they can do that and get away with it, we can mess around with a few branches and a bit of fruit.

Happy decorating – and Happy Thanksgiving!

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A version of this article originally appeared in The Frederick News Post and is reprinted here with kind permission.

The post Decorating The Thanksgiving Table with Natural Materials appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

It’s the weekend before Christmas, and even though you’ve tried to ignore it, the spirit is in the air and you have an itch to undertake one last decorating project: a natural wreath for the front door.

Except…you’ve never really nailed the art of wreath making.

‘Spindly’ and ‘amateurish’ are words that figure prominently in the memories you haven’t already blocked, possibly followed by ‘garish,’ ‘lop-sided,’ and ‘award for participation.’

Perhaps you’d better just leave the artificial wreath where it is and bake a batch of cookies instead.

Relax. As Christmas projects go, making a natural wreath is a relatively easy one when you know a few insider tricks.  Plus, there is no royal icing involved.

If that wasn’t enough of a draw, it’s a completely personal project made with natural materials. For that precise reason it will not – and cannot – look like anyone else’s.

Those of us who have stood in a flour-dusted kitchen staring at a magazine flaunting perfectly iced cookies in just the right shade of wild juniper – and then turned our gaze to the island of misfit toys sitting on a cooling rack near the sink – know why that matters.

So forget the cookies. Let’s put our creative energies into making a one-of-a-kind wreath.  Once you apply these three easy tricks, and see what a difference they make to constructing a sophisticated product, you may even make two.

Materials you’ll need to make your Christmas wreath:

Gloves – no matter how careful you are, evergreens find a way.

Lightweight green florist wire – Cheap and found in hand-held rolls or ‘paddles.’

Pruners – Sharp and agile. They can double for wire cutters if you are lazy and the wire is a light enough gauge.

Wreath frame – I  often save these from the purchased cast-off wreaths of others, but they are fairly cheap. Some have brackets attached – which is handy.

Assorted greenery – Look for one main actor and two to three supporting roles.  Use your strongest (and most abundant) greenery in the main role – such as spruce, fir or thuja – and use sprigs of pine, juniper, holly, boxwood etc. to complete the picture.

Assorted luxury – Everything from pine cones to artichokes. Let your imagination run wild – raiding your fridge and cupboards just as much as your backyard. Tiny pomegranates, wrapped bundles of cinnamon sticks, clove-studded clementines, fertile fern fronds, holly berries and the seed heads of favorites such as teasel or grasses.

Assorted bling – Battery operated lights, jingle bells, ribbons, raffia, small ornaments and possibly a garland.  Use moderation. (See Tip #2).

Instructions for making your Christmas wreath:

Begin by turning on Pandora, Spotify or the stereo to something festive.  It’s a crucial first step that has the agreeable effect of getting you through the others.  Christmas movies are also extremely motivating, but have a way of drawing you towards the nearest comfortable chair and a large drink (as a friend found out to her cost the day she invited me to bake and played a holiday movie I’d never seen before).

Set out the materials you’ve gathered on a protected surface (sap is hell to shift), and regard your greenery.  Stop yourself from dwelling on past attempts – This will be different.

Wreath forms can be purchased, or you can save your friends’ old wreaths after the holidays, strip them, and keep the forms (which often have wire guides like this one).

Nailed the Christmas Wreath Tip #1 – BUNCHES.

Instead of bending individual straight branches to try and make a full, circular, glorious wreath – which is impossible – you will be making little ‘bouquets’ in your hand with greenery, then wiring them to your wreath form, overlapping as you go.

Attach the end of your florist wire securely to any part of the wreath form and set aside.

Use your pruners to cut five or six ten-inch tip pieces from the assembled greenery and arrange them in one hand into something pleasing – making sure they are backed with one or two pieces of your main actor and fanned out a bit in your hand.

Take the little bunch, lie it against the wreath form and wire the ends (only) to the form, wrapping the wire around the form and bunch ends several times.  Do not cut your wire.

Do this step again, and this time, overlap the display ends of the current bunch over the cut ends of the first one, making sure to overlap them generously.  Whether you move clockwise or counterclockwise is completely up to you, but should be thought about when you attach your first bunch.

Continue this until you reach the beginning of the circle, and with your last spray of foliage, tuck the cut ends under the display ends of your first one, wiring tightly in place.  Twist the wire to secure it and cut. Attach a wire loop to the back of the frame for hanging.

Hang your wreath up and look for rogue branches that need trimming or areas that could use extra foliage tucked or wired in to create a fairly symmetrical wreath.  Don’t be too much of a perfectionist – a bit of messy bed head is endearing if the wreath is full enough.

If you’ve followed these instructions and been generous with your bouquets and spacing, the chances are you’re currently looking at a wreath ten times better than anything you’ve attempted before.  And we’re not even done.

Time to add a bit of luxury.

Nailed the Christmas Wreath Tip #2: MODERATION

Instead of emptying the contents of your craft box onto your wreath and then wondering what went horribly wrong, just pick a few items  – whether natural or synthetic.

It is very easy to gild the lily in your enthusiasm. Before you know it your wreath can go from Kate Middleton-sophisticated to something Clark Griswold would have hanging on his door.

You’ve got a natural, gorgeous, virgin wreath in front of you.  Perhaps it’s so gorgeous and so natural you actually don’t want to add anything at all (which is precisely what happened to my demonstration wreath). But most of the time a bit of luxury and bling can take it to a whole new level.

Think about the theme you are working towards. Natural? Exciting? Minimalist? Abundant? Pick out things that go together and that are in scale with the size of the wreath itself, and use an easy hand in applying them.

If you’ve been drinking alcohol during any part of the previous wreath assembly (no judgement here – I was), stop at once, have a cup of coffee, and apply your clearest head to the proceedings.

Nailed the Christmas Wreath Tip #3: TRIANGLES

Instead of adding materials in circular, regular patterns which will create a round eyeball on your doorstep, think in terms of grouping, triangles, and odd numbers. Throw a bit of asymmetry in and you can call yourself Martha.

I like to talk a lot about grouping when discussing garden design, and for good reason.  Objects grouped together create more impact than when they are separated and at regular intervals.

This is particularly true when they are highly visible.  Red ornaments arranged around a circle will emphasize the eyeball effect, whereas teasel heads in the same circular pattern would tend to blend in.

But for even better placement, think in terms of irregular triangles superimposed on your circular wreath, and add objects at the apex of each angle.

If using several of the same object, use an odd numbered amount – 1, 3, 5, etc.  I don’t know why this works so much better than the alternative (this is an area for mathematicians and neurologists to discuss), but it does.

And as for a bow? By all means, bow away. But resist the temptation to place it or other large objects on the absolute bottom of the wreath.  Instead, place it slightly off-center and group it with a few smaller objects.

Wreaths don’t just have to be circular. This Advent wreath is rectangular for a long table.

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How long will this wreath take you?  Once I had the materials sitting out, the actual construction took 30 minutes.  I opted out of the luxury and bling steps this year because the contrasts in natural foliage were too interesting to tart up (Thank you variegated boxwood!). However I will be adding a string of battery operated copper lights to the wreath to help it stand out on my darkened front step.

Bunches. Triangles. Moderation.  Good luck in your wreath making, and if you have a minute, shoot me an email of your results at marianne@smalltowngardener.com. Merry Christmas!

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A version of this article was originally printed in The Frederick News Post and is re-posted here with kind permission.

The post Nail It! Three Tricks to Make a Gorgeous Natural Wreath This Season appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

How should one weed in the winter?

Those with a strong attachment to their recliners might say ‘one shouldn’t,’ and leave it at that. I completely understand.  I have a strong bond with my yellow tufted chair that goes quite beyond love and is entering the realm of soul connection – particularly in the winter.

However.

I submit to you three excellent reasons for throwing off that love affair and weeding during the winter months. One is harsh and somewhat personal, the second, perfectly factual and accurate, and the last, supported by Shakespeare himself.

– One –

Didn’t you made a New Year’s resolution that you would get more exercise?  Let’s kill two birds with one stone; or – according to PETA recently – feed two birds with one scone.

Something might as well enjoy the scones since that particular pleasure is no longer yours.

– Two –

There are a great deal of cool season weeds at their most vulnerable right now.  Vulnerable weeds are second only to dying weeds as the very best kind of weeds to own.

– Three –

If it were done when ‘tis done then ‘twere well it were done quickly.

I.e. it’s a nasty job that’s not going away – deal with it sooner rather than later because, in the words of another immortal poet,  April Come She Will.

Certainly we don’t want any damage to the garden, and I’m not advocating the sort of summer assault that starts with two gin and tonics and ends with a lidocaine patch. If you literally throw your weight around, you are in great danger of damaging your soil structure and the roots of plants you want to keep, so it is important to tread softly and carry a long hoe.

“But wait a minute!” I hear you scream.  “Weeding is for summer and warmth and children who got themselves grounded!  What is there to weed?”

Cool-season vs. warm-season weeds

There are cool-season weeds and there are warm-season weeds, and once you’ve been gardening for a while the appearance of either marks a turning of the seasons (even when you can’t feel it yet). 

For the purposes of this article, I’m not discussing those plants that fit under the classic definition of ‘weed’ – a plant you don’t happen to want growing where you find it. We’re going to focus instead on the ones you never want growing where you find them (unless you are a forager or a masochist, or indeed both).

Annual cool-season weeds germinate in the fall or early spring (early winter too if it is relatively warm) and finish out their lives by late June.  If they’re perennial they tend to be at their strongest during the cooler months.

We can fight cool-season weeds, or if we’re messy and somewhat undisciplined, we can wait to have them replaced by warm-season weeds.

Warm-season weeds are what most people think of as weeds – purslane, dock, crabgrass, pigweed etc…  They germinate or come back to life when the weather warms, ending by the close of summer.  You may see tired and bedraggled remains of mallow or dock in winter, but they won’t start punishing you until late June. 

It’s always nice to have something to look forward to.

Set your sights on cool-season weeds

At this time of year we’re looking for cool-season annual weeds (such as chickweed, bittercress, deadnettle or henbit).  They can be lightly scraped or pulled whether or not the ground has frozen. 

Frozen soil makes scraping easier, though the work tends to be colder and the chair more inviting.  It’s best to cover that bare ground with cardboard and thick mulch when you’re finished to stop new weed seeds from germinating when conditions warm slightly.  It will also save you time in April.

Feeling adventurous? Perennial cool-season weeds such as wild garlic, dandelions and ground ivy may put on a lot of fighting weight in the winter, but extricating roots is impossible when the ground is frozen and is guaranteed to create a muddy mess when it’s not.  Nonetheless, the roots must be removed or smothered to kill the plant.

If you are feeling particularly adventurous AND patient, and the ground is not frozen, you can use a very thin trowel or tool to urge the taproots up. But beware, everyone’s feeling a little fragile in winter, including our weeds. If that root snaps in half, you’ve still got it and now you’re muddy. 

It’s better to scrape the top to weaken the weed and then use the cardboard/mulch method (thickly!) to smother it.  If it’s in your lawn, you’ll just need to wait until spring.

We all know what a dandelion looks like and can put two and two together when it comes to the telltale oniony leaves of wild garlic, but some of the others might just go by ‘weed’ in your Mid-Atlantic landscape.  Here are some of the more common cool-season weeds to aid your ID process.

I include the Latin names to make sure that my chickweed is your chickweed, and perhaps to help you make connections between some of the plants you love (Lamium maculatum – deadnettle) and the weeds you don’t (Lamium purpureum – also, awkwardly, deadnettle).

A few of our most common cool-season weeds

Common chickweed
(Stellaria media)

A succulent bright green plant that stays low to the ground at 3-6 inches. Opposite tiny leaves are pointed at the tip. Five-petaled white flowers.

The good news about chickweed is that it’s very edible.  The bad news is that it’s rampant. The earlier you harvest chickweed (either for the cook or the compost) the better.  Once it has begun to flower it holds onto the earth with greater tenacity, and pulling it up usually involves a lot of precious topsoil.  Once it’s gone to seed, it’s even tougher to shift and hundreds of seeds sow themselves liberally while you try to get it out of the ground gracefully.  Chickens love it if you have a flock – it’s a great winter forage for them.

Hairy bittercress
(Cardamine hirsuta)

This is a plant that starts life as a very low rosette made up of pinnate leaves.  If you haven’t scraped it, pulled it or otherwise gently ushered it out of this world by mid-April, it forms white flowers on the top of 4-6 inch stems which rapidly set seed and explode all over your lazy weeder’s hands in June.  An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure with this one – about 3 ½ pounds of seeds to be specific.

Henbit (Lamium amplexicaule); and
Deadnettle (Lamium purpureum)

Henbit and deadnettle are related, and often confused, but the good news is that you probably don’t want either one of them so you needn’t get too scholastic about it. Both have square stems. Both have opposite leaves. Both have lipped flowers.

However, if you wish to positively ID the plant you’re culling, this is where Latin comes in handy. Dead nettle (L.purpureum) has a purple cast to the pointed leaves (bit of alliteration to aide memory) which climb the short spire-like stems and overlap each other, somewhat hiding the flowers.  Henbit’s leaves are frillier, flowers are showier, and well, it’s just girlier overall – but then it’s called henbit, not roosterbit.

Ground Ivy (Glechoma hederacea)

Ground ivy is exactly what it purports to be: a tough, creeping, semi-evergreen, perennial groundcover that very quickly takes over – rooting at its nodes.  Leaves are opposite and rounded with scalloped margins.  Ground ivy has a very particular fragrance when it is crushed or mown – think bright, vegetative and sharp with a little onion chopped in.

Though it seems to come up easily, it’s a tough one to eradicate as the roots are brittle and happy to keep growing if you miss a couple.  In the winter it’s best to cardboard it.

Garlic mustard (Alliaria petiolata)

Where do those tall, invasive stems of garlic mustard come from?  Well, they shoot up from rosettes that have settled in nicely the year before.

Garlic mustard is a biennial, so either find those rosettes and pull them or find the new seedlings and scrape those.  Leaves are rounded and textured at first, turning more pointed as they grow upward. 

If you’re not sure of your ID, pick a leaf and crush it between your fingers – the garlic scent is unmistakable. If you’ve missed it over the winter and see it flowering, pull it up at once – luckily it doesn’t hold to the soil too tightly.

Mouseear chickweed
(Cerastium vulgatum)

Though the common names suggest it, Mouseear chickweed and common chickweed are not related.  Mousear chickweed has opposite, hairy leaves and stems, tends towards a tighter growth habit and always reminds me of miniature petunia seedlings.

It is also a perennial weed that roots at its nodes.  I’ve found that scraping it is very effective however – as long as mulch is applied where the weed once was.  Very quickly forms large, dense clumps.

One last word about winter weeding

Chemical controls are futile, so don’t waste them, they’ll only run off.  Temperatures must be higher and plants in a state of strong, active growth in order to be affected.  What we’re seeing now is just the pre-show leading up to the main event in April and May.

Can’t get enough of the academics of it all?  Great resources include Weeds, Friend or Foe? by Sally Roth; Weeds in My Garden, by Charles B. Heiser, and online, https://extension.umd.edu/hgic/topics/spring-weeds .

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A version of this article was originally published by The Frederick News Post and is published here with kind permission.

The post Staying On Top of Cool-Season Weeds appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

In the last days of 2018, there was one email I looked forward to each morning in amongst the coupons and the Groupons and the chaff and the wheat that now passes for correspondence in the 21^st century.

It was from Agrible, Inc.® – an agricultural and commercial service headquartered in Illinois that provides farmers and growers all over the United States with field-specific, real-time data.  A friend had alerted me to the service earlier in the year, and though it took a bit of time to plot my property on their maps and jump through a few random hoops, once I was registered, the data issuing from the Oracle each morning had my full attention.

For this non-farmer, that meant what kind of real-time rainfall (and temperatures) I could expect in the dismal swamp once known as Oldmeadow – i.e. yesterday’s accumulation, today’s further disappointment and tomorrow’s martini-inducing prediction. 

Agrible was also kind and cruel enough to give me annual totals and inches above average, and I think it must have been around the first of October that, to stay sane and relatively sober, I began to play a game with myself called “Maybe we’ll hit [insert outrageous total here] this year.”

Suffice it to say, my round number estimates shifted several times.  By December 31st, Agrible had charted 74.58 inches of rain in my Virginia stream valley (38 inches above normal and within NOAA’s own estimates) and left me feeling vaguely and bizarrely dissatisfied that the clouds couldn’t have wrung out that last half-inch on New Year’s Eve and called it a round 75.

I quickly repented of the thought. New Year’s Day began with an equally strong commitment to the policies and practices of the previous administration: All Rain. All The Time. No shutdowns on the horizon.

So where does this leave us, besides sopping wet and up to our calves in mud and unknown parasitic life? What can we do?

There are of course Big Picture answers sparked by the above question, but putting politics, predictions and policies aside for a moment, I’d like to focus instead on The Little Picture.

After all, The Little Picture is where each of us resides, and to reside there saturated in pessimism and despair tends to negate the reasons we’re out in the garden in the first place. I don’t think anybody is debating the fact that we’re experiencing some challenging weather patterns (if they are, I’ve got some swampland in Virginia to sell them), but the soldiers in the trenches are being forgotten as the generals debate who’s got the shiniest stars.

So let’s ask that question again, a little differently. “As gardeners, how can we prepare & plant our gardens to most effectively navigate between extreme and more normative weather events going forward?”

To answer this question with more authority than I can provide, I talked to Scott Aker, Head of Horticulture and Education at The U.S. National Arboretum, and Q & A columnist for The American Gardener magazine.  I attended his lecture on USDA Zone Maps for Gardeners at a Master Gardener training session a few years ago, and his ability to discuss the touchy subject of climate for his entire audience impressed me.  

1.   “Don’t panic.”

I particularly loved Aker’s very first, very succinct, answer to my question above.  But then, I’m a Douglas Adams fan from way back, and ‘Don’t panic’ has always struck me as sound advice in most situations. 

2.   “Be flexible.”

“As gardeners we shouldn’t be too focused on how things deviate from how we want them.”  Aker said. “You can either become discouraged and give up on gardening or you can look at what happened as a challenge, and learn from it. For instance, this was a great year for figuring out which parts of the garden need better drainage!”

So what happens when you get depressed about losing plants in the landscape? I asked him.

Aker tells us to try and see the bright side, and likens furnishing a garden with plants to decorating a house with furniture.

“The fun part of gardening is changing things out,” he says. “You don’t think anything of switching out your orange, 1970’s couch with a modern replacement – why not update your plants?  When you lose a plant it gives you a great excuse!”

3.   Don’t rely solely on the USDA Zone Map.

The USDA Zone Map was revised in 2012, and many of us officially jumped a half a zone even if we’d been gardening that way for a while.  But Aker cautions us not to rely solely on this map.

“It is a good guide based on average low temperatures, and that’s what it should be used for…but one of the most important things to think about is average night temperatures in summer [heat zones]…as plants stop being able to produce the food they need to survive.” 

Aker then reminded me of the recent winter of 2016/2017 where we had relatively mild weather in the very early spring.  Plants came out of dormancy only to be zapped by extended temperatures in the teens.  These temps fell within our ‘designated zone,’ but were deadly due to timing. 

“We lost plants [at the Arboretum] that year that had never had problems in the 26 years I’d been there.” he told me. “Even though our average winter temperatures may be increasing, we do need to think in terms of plants that are hardier and can withstand more fluctuation.”

4.   “Provide the best drained soil you can.”

Unless it’s a bog or marginal plant that thrives on extra moisture, the better drained your soil is (especially over winter), the less likely you are to have plants suddenly perish in the landscape when conditions get overly wet.  Our growing season takes place in a warm, wet climate, so erring on the side of better drainage is better practice. And don’t forget to look at your drainage areas.

“People often don’t think of this,” said Aker, “But when it rains, check what’s planted near your downspouts. You need to know if some parts of your garden are getting 2-3 inches when other parts are getting a half an inch.”

5.   “Use your micro-climates.”

Every garden has them.  Scott urges us to find them. And use them.

“For instance, that neighbor who can grow a Zone 8 windmill palm without damage probably owes most of his success to his warm courtyard surrounded by a poorly insulated home.”  

I myself love to take responsibility for the 6’x 6’ Edgeworthia chrysantha growing in the L-shaped cozy of two wind-buffering walls near my front door, but you won’t see me applying my ‘magic touch’ a second time by planting one down by the barn where it will be hit by cold winds, badly drained soil, and stagnant, cold air on winter mornings.  This girl’s not stupid.

“If there’s something that you’d love to have, and you look at the catalog and it’s a zone beyond your own – look for a sheltered spot and try it.” said Aker. “The plants don’t always read the catalogs!”

And finally?  “Diversify.”

“Our gardens and landscapes have a function,” Aker told me.  “And you need to think of that function first when you’re choosing plants. That function is different for every gardener and every garden.”

Think of it almost as a theme. So, whether you’re planting for pollinators, planting for color, planting only natives or creating a tropical paradise for five months of the year, it’s important to recognize what you want for your landscape and how each plant can achieve that vision in different ways – creating diversity that can then withstand challenging environmental conditions.  This way you are less likely to lose all when things go pear-shaped.

Don’t live in a bubble of one-size fits all gardening. Keep an open mind.

*    *    *

Aker’s guidelines are all excellent, but as we launch into the new year and new seasons of garden challenges ahead, I ask you to keep his first words closest to your heart – “Don’t Panic.”

When we spend a lot of time stressing about things over which we have little control, and don’t spend enough time re-thinking our practical, personal strategies in order to be successful dealing with most eventualities, we tread water and learn little.  Running around screaming “The sky is falling!” or feeling so overwhelmed by the enormity of the problem will not help you in the here and now. 

Face your garden knowing your job as resident gardener is to figure it out.  It always has been.

__________________________________________________________

This article was originally published  in The Frederick News Post and is republished here with kind permission.

The post Flexibility in the Midst of Uncertainty: A Chat with Scott Aker appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

This week I want to sincerely thank Scott Beuerlein, friend and columnist at Horticulture magazine, whose irreverent column about British garden writers got me out of my funk and racing for the laptop to write a rebuttal for Garden Rant. 

Do you keep to regional garden advice or do you like to dip into voices from other areas of the world?  I make the case for dipping.  And in the case of the Brits, drooling.

Given a choice of dinner companions at an industry event, with fourteen topics on the table and the wine flowing softly and smoothly, Scott Beuerlein would be at the top of my list. He is entertaining, clever, and charmingly self-deprecating — and an excellent conversationalist.

That’s why it pains me greatly to say that he has his head right up his smart ass.

When, in his July/August column for Horticulture[i], he advocated for the total abandonment of British garden writers by American gardeners, and went so far as to tell the late and sainted Beth Chatto to “bugger off,” he no doubt knew he’d get some pushback.

And as it happens, I’m just in the mood.

The dry Gravel Garden at The Beth Chatto gardens near Colchester in Essex.

“Brit garden writers have had it so good for so long!” he wailed. “[Their] books, gloriously illustrated…filled with classic design ideas and expert care instructions – are naught but works of deception.  They have brought us Yanks nothing but suffering and heartbreak.”

Beuerlein’s passionate words went on to decry the injustice of meconopsis. Christopher Lloyd’s name was taken in vain. A Big Gulp was inexplicably referenced.

“Just sell your damn books to the Australians,” he ended. Or at least he should have done.

I am not a British garden writer.  But I admit to a dog in the fight in that I hold two passports.

Although one of them will no longer be looked upon with favor in European airports after Brexit (the other one never was),  I have a certain fondness for… [Read more at GardenRant.com]

___________________________________

[i] Scott Beuerlein, “Time for a Grexit,” Horticulture, July/August 2019, 64.

The post Dismiss British Garden Writers? Absurd. appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

At the top of my driveway, slightly hidden on a south-facing slope that could less generously be termed a rocky mound, there is a small gathering of snowdrops and eranthis that in a few short months will poke up amongst the stones and the chickweed.  This grouping is visible only to those that pass our entranceway; and as this is not a common occurrence, it can go unappreciated.  

The grouping signifies a large step in this gardener’s life, and one that not every gardener decides to take, no matter how skilled their spring and summer efforts over a lifetime. It signifies a commitment to a four-season garden.

‘Midwinter Fire’ Cornus sanguinea (Photo taken at Montrose Garden in Hillsborough, NC)

I have a large landscape and little time.  Planting an insignificant amount of winter-blooming flowers that will delight only a few could be considered pure folly.

Even I have to remind myself during the winter to go find them and I’m the one who dug them in.  But in this digging I took the first steps in my four-season vision for Oldmeadow, and with time and further plantings, the insignificant will become something more.

Perhaps you are dismissive of the above.  Who needs a four-season garden when we have three perfectly good seasons we can fill with flowers and fragrance; and a house we can fill with armchairs and duvets during the other three months?

I used to feel similarly, and righteously so. I had limited space and limited desire, and my first foray into home and garden ownership didn’t begin with the gentle caress of an early English spring, but with the icy embrace of a Mid-Atlantic winter.  I could see little point in improving a cold, dormant landscape that made up the space ‘twixt car and front door.

It was only through visiting other landscapes better than my own that I began to understand the importance of the winter garden and to see it as a unique and special entity – not as a middle child constantly compared to brilliant siblings. It is a garden that gives far more than it receives.

Daphne odora ‘Aureomarginata’

Mahonia, rohdea and hellebores in February at Montrose Garden in Hillsborough, NC

Though many of us are busy during the “off season” tidying up beds, sharpening edges and pruning trees, our labors are intended to enhance our spring and summer displays.

When those seasons appear, we will not stop our efforts – indeed they must increase in the face of relentless growth.  The work is never-ending, but the carrot is fat and crisp and most of us chase it gladly.

In contrast, the winter garden does not ask this of us.  It simply undresses quietly and waits to be admired.  What is here, was here – it is no longer hidden by foliage and flower.

If you planted various cornus species to control erosion, you will find your slopes covered in twigs of red and yellow. If you planted ‘Sango-kaku’ Japanese maple because of the light-catching foliage, you will be gifted with bright coral stems and branches in late fall.  Your textured conifers will become punctuation marks. Your carex ‘fillers’ will become the main show.

And, contrasted against the browns and greys of a winter landscape, they will all become magnificent – they will all become more.

Thus the greatest effort expended upon the winter garden is not that of weeding or watering – it is choosing wisely in the first place.  

Grasses aren’t just for summer.

Certainly we can leave it there.  We can enjoy this passive space filled with delights we hardly deserve. But often, such pleasures spark an interest in the gardener to build upon this foundation. Winter blooming flowers and bulbs are usually the next step; and with my snowdrops and my eranthis, with my hellebores and my cyclamen, I am making that commitment.

This little edgeworthia is now twice this tall and wide, and makes quite a statement on the walk up to my front door.

I will not for a moment pretend that this has taken any skill on my part.  The only difficulty in growing the above lies in knowing when to manually divide them to increase one’s stock.  And one’s stock must be increased, for one’s salary rarely is.

Neither will I pretend that these are expensive beauties hardly seen in the landscape.  Though they all have swanky relatives (rare snowdrops can sell for hundreds, even thousands), none are represented here, lest they be lost in a large landscape and there be much rending of garments and gnashing of teeth. Hence the current absence of Adonis, and a tendency when it comes to hellebores to favor the promiscuous H. orientalis over expensive and exciting nigercors crosses.

Hellebore blossoms float in a bowl of water at Pine Knot Farms, Clarksville, VA

I am choosing my spots carefully.  Some of these low-growers link to other, larger winter shrubs (hellebores under edgeworthia); some have begun the process of populating large areas (cyclamen in the sunken woods); and still others – such as the eranthis and snowdrops hidden at the top of the drive where we began this tale – are intended to impress in the same way as a carefully selected scarf draped casually around one’s neck might do.  “This?  Oh I just threw that on.”

It is a slow and steady race that could someday result in a valley full of winter color, and a deep appreciation for all that winter can hold. __________________________________________________________
A version of this article was originally published in The Frederick News Post.  

The post Taking Steps Toward Planting a Winter Garden appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

The symbolic promise of a new year is not enough for me this time around.

Normally happy to raise my glass and cheerfully throw out The Old as the clock ticks towards midnight, this year I am not so simple-minded as to think that the Fates look at December 31, 2020 and January 01, 2021 and say “Let’s make everything different, starting…..now.”

Events of the last week would seem to support my cynicism.

So in practical matters of life and everyday, I am perhaps pessimistic as we continue to face a very grim, messy and heartbreaking pandemic, and wait for the associated monsters that cluster wretchedly under its Dickensian skirts.

In matters of the garden however, the start of the new year will always mean a new start to a new garden, and that is a joyful thing and worth embracing with one’s entire body and soul.

Whether a gardener contemplates their very first garden or one they have tended for thirty years, each spring confers the excitement of ‘new’ to all.  There is simply too much that is still yet to be experienced: new growth, new plants, new pairings, new opportunities, new mentors, new foods, new learning opportunities…new plant friends perhaps. The very best kind.

My garden technically goes into its ninth year this spring, and I say ‘technically’ because most of the gardens thus far came into being a few years after the actual transfer of papers across a title company desk.  I will mention this casually if you find weaknesses, but happily use it to my advantage if you are amazed by the progress so far.

My New Garden Resolutions

There are many separate gardens here, but my energy this year will focus on four of them. As you will see, it’s a tall order, but not one to be undertaken during any one season. A year tending the garden represents 365 days, not as too-commonly believed, its best 100.

The Kitchen Garden

This year the vegetable (or kitchen) garden that was initiated five years ago with cast-off 2x12s will be renovated with new, sturdier raised beds made from 4x4s, gravel substrate and a gathering platform and fire pit where (someday!) friends will once again converse late into the night. Let’s hope we remember how.

I’ll be leaving room for a greenhouse, as I try to match my horticultural needs with my financial ones, and will start to eke out a respectable design with the hodge podge of trial plants, cast-offs and rare nursery picks that make up a great deal of this space and have been planted fairly randomly depending on their needs.

First season with the new raised beds. They allowed me to grow wonderful vegetables, but it’s time for a strong design. And no mulched, weedy, pathways that betray the field from which they sprang.

Drawing up plans is both exciting and terrifying. What it could be, vs. what it will be, has much to do with my energy and time.  Will those two things come together?  How quickly can I move on this?  Will I have cold frames up and running before the tropicals need to come out of their winter digs?

Yes, exciting and terrifying.

The destruction began yesterday and left me with a frightening but exciting canvas. And a fence that needs staining.

The Woodland Garden

I will be spending many winter hours in the Woodland Garden (I’ve already spent several in these first two weeks), clearing multi-flora rose, wine berries, oriental bittersweet, wild grape, honeysuckle, poison ivy, and a massive underground network of paw paw suckers.

The paw paw lovers amongst you will gasp and clutch your pearls as I ruthlessly mow them down (and then do so again and again), but I am fortunate to have paw paw over much of this property and a grove of single clone, fruitless saplings gone amok cuts down on other shrubs to be grown and appreciated such as Viburnum wrightii, Aesculus pavia, and Lindera benzoin.

Planting mertensia and little flags to find them by.

Once the galanthus, mertensia, trillium, sanguinaria, cyclamen and dicentra have bloomed, I will plant even more into the soft, rich soil, marking them with little colored flags that confuse my neighbors, but allow me to keep track in the early days of this garden.  It is an ephemeral garden, meant to be viewed and studied in the late winter and early spring – meant to be walked with a cold drink thereafter.

The footprint of the woodland garden is small – perhaps 1/2 an acre – outlined by an old switch back. But it’s more than big enough for me.

I also hope to build another human sized ‘nest’ toward my end goal of five. These nests are perhaps the closest I will ever come to creating any manner of what could be termed “installation art.”  They cleverly make use of the copious twigs, trunks, and tangle emanating from trimmer and chainsaw, and with their undeniable, if somewhat odd, presence, signify Garden in the midst of a beautiful natural space.  I thank the many wonderful volunteers at The Delaware Botanic Gardens for inspiring me with their woodland nests to use my trimmings wisely.

The first nest under construction last winter.

The Serpentine Bed

I am claiming a further fifteen linear feet of the Serpentine Bed for planting this year.  This is an odd thing to read if you have not followed my approach to this bed up until now. Let me explain:

The 103 x 20 Serpentine Bed makes up a large part of the lower gardens, snaking through this sunny area and creating an undulating pathway. It is a spine that mimics the gentle curves of the stream and links many of the other lower gardens. The pathway leads out of what will be a barn courtyard someday, through to the kitchen garden and beyond to the mini-meadow, thuja berm/hedge and bonfire area. (And perhaps someday, a Terraced Garden if funds and flesh are willing.)

I set out the full outline four years ago, filling it in with a hügelkultur of sorts which incorporated all the discarded biomass from the property, and gave the bed an ever-changing height.  Wood, brush, weeds, stems, compost, manure, straw, dead bodies…everything.

Just making sure you’re paying attention.

Slowly I ‘claim’ a few feet each year, mulching that area heavily, planting with strategy and with pure caprice, and allow the rest to go to weed and pumpkins.

This was last year’s 15 foot project in this bed – and it involved a small pond. Note the sea of pumpkin foliage beyond.

It is simply self-preservation – I don’t want to bite off more than I can chew and end up losing good plants; but I need the outline, ever-present, to guide me towards the finish line where a weeping copper beech has held court for three years, Amsonia tabernaemontana at its feet.

The Long Bed

Also known as The Boring Bed or The Inherited Bed. 113 feet long, 30 feet wide and better than Unisom for promoting good, REM sleep. Some decent azaleas, kerria, ferns and Japanese maples are there, but it’s so choked with Japanese stilt grass, and various other weeds that it requires a vaccine certificate and appropriate protective clothing before you get within ten feet of it.

In addition it’s filled with naturally seeded and exceptionally plain hosta which become celery sticks in early July when the deer population sniff them out – increasing the ugliness factor and lowering my tolerance at the very sight of it.

See a bed there? Neither do I.

I swear I am going to do something other than mow around it this year. Even if means suffering the tragedies inevitably meted out by a weed whacker. Sadly I planted many ‘good’ plants in its depths before I realized the extent of maintenance needed to tame it. Perhaps it will simply be a rescue mission.

I’m signing this particular resolution in blood, as I think I might have made the same resolve last year. Or was it the year before? I can take another year of boring, but I can’t take another year of boring and overgrown.

Every year a new garden. Even in an old garden.
Even in a crazy world.

This is what gets me excited in a year where there is much to drain energy and disrupt sleep.  This is what helps me dream and fuels my happiest thoughts.  It is mine – dangerously and beautifully mine, and it does not entertain the troubles of the world.

There are no masks here. No riots. No frightened looks, twitching curtains, political signs and social media snark. The only hand sanitizer sits in the cart, waiting for tools and a soft cloth.

I cannot draw a line between catastrophe and normalcy with the advent of 2021, but I can excitedly enter the world of my ‘new garden’ with great awareness and joy.  I might even accomplish 50% of what I have now publicly resolved to do. That’s enough.

Whatever your ‘new garden’ happens to be in 2021 – windowsill, balcony, patio, hellstrip, abandoned lot, acreage or wilderness, I hope you grasp it with both hands and give in to its eternal message of optimism: Life goes on. Differently, beautifully, passionately. We must allow this to fill our souls. – MW

I’d better get started.

The post Garden Resolutions: The Triumph of Hope Over Experience appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

There are few things more magical than a snowfall, and few terms more overused to describe it.

Nonetheless, the cliché communicates the outright miracle of slowing a world that refuses to slow itself.   As the flakes fall, and the cardinals and Jenny wrens bob back and forth from feeder to trees, I am entranced.

24 hours later, I am so over it.

I have a running dialogue with a very dear friend that begins around the end of November and continues ad nauseam until the daffodil blossoms break.

She maintains that if it’s cold, it should snow.

I maintain that, as the Mid-Atlantic is a region where there is no chance of snow hanging around long-term and insulating the ground against the normal onslaught of frigid temperatures, nor is it a region filled with 9,000 foot peaks topped with cozy skiing lodges for the intrepid, I’m good without the occasional complication and accompanying suburban media freak-out.

This year she started a shared text thread with my equally enthusiastic daughter (for whom she functions as a ‘cool,’ alternate, mom), where they exchange GIFs of pandas rolling down snowy hills, and Will Ferrell nonsense, and frequent screen shots forecasting ‘snow events’ (when did we change this terminology I wonder), and I counter with the Heat Miser shaking his fists at the skies.

My friend’s enthusiasm is childlike and wonderful, and an extension of an enviable personality that searches for merit before fault. Secretly I am ashamed at the contrariness it instantly inspires in me (and which Scott Beuerlein at Garden Rant constantly falls over himself to mention). But I am a pragmatic soul, and there are animals to care for, and so many young shrubs and trees that often need tying up or careful, post-event extrication.

Five years ago, a rogue snow storm dumped 24 inches in two days and 18 inches a few days later.  It quite literally flattened my new and precious Edgeworthia chrysantha, splitting branches which I had to meticulously excavate and then (successfully) splint with flexible tape.

You know what’s under that drift? My edgeworthia.

My friend was not splinting her edgeworthia.  She was sledding.

Throughout several nights I had to trudge down to the vegetable garden to keep cheap and cheerful mini-hoophouses from collapsing under the weight of the snow, wondering if the lettuce and chard was really worth it. In waist-high drifts we dug a tunnel from house to far-off woodyard to feed the furnace to keep us warm.

73F. Days like yesterday make you believe that the

I love those bananas and yet I’m not digging the

November 1st and our frost to finally arrive this

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Those hives are on two foot stands.

My friend is not checking hoophouses. She is not feeding a furnace. The deeper the snow, the happier she is drinking cocoa indoors and watching her Husky frolic like the dog he was born to be.

The year of that record snow was also the year that one of the male guineas had an injured foot and the other male chased his limping, broken figure so relentlessly over icy drifts that even my flint-like heart broke in sympathy.

Catching either one of them was laughably impossible.  Instead we watched the Order of All Things unfold in front of us every morning over breakfast and developed hearts even harder than the ones we had started with.

This year I have an injured duck, whose bill is now half a bill thanks to the attentions of a wicked raccoon.  Each morning I head down to the duck house with a kettle of boiling water to unfreeze their water trough and a bowl of soupy oatmeal to scoop into my hand and force her to eat much like a French goose heading for foie gras.

I’m not saying that kneeling in duck poo and runny oatmeal with clumps of snow melting in the space between my inner thighs and a squirming bird isn’t invigorating. I’m just saying that there are better ways of being invigorated.

Yes, it is beautiful.  There are mornings when my eyes open to rest upon the pink-flushed bark of the young tulip poplars against a hillside of white – and I am sweetly and painfully thankful for this cathedral in the woods.  Yes, it is very beautiful.

Jemima the Half-Billed on left, Ping on right.

And to rail against the inconvenience of snow is not to rail against winter. I am no fair-weather gardener, and once I have made the mental shift from the growing season to the ice-times, I willingly, if reluctantly, battle the cold, clothed warmly and gratefully against it each day.

It’s just that the snow makes everything a little more…complicated.

My husband says we live in a place of winter purgatory – forced to endure cold temperatures without the skiable Sierra Nevada mountains of our youth.

Perhaps he is right. Perhaps the snow is an issue for me because most of the time, it isn’t.

Or perhaps the fairly recent lack of little ones taking delight in the occasional snowfall has me reducing something miraculous to a clinical list of pros and cons.

Or maybe it’s just COVID making me an intolerant witch lately.

So what do you say?  Snow good? Snow bad?  And do avoid shaming me for considering my USDA 6b garden as extreme, or characterizing my piddling flocks and domestic pets as ‘animals’. I recognize that in the scheme of things, this most definitely makes me a snowflake.

The post My Love Hate Relationship With Snow appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

Over the last two winters, I’ve been engaged in a curious pursuit which has baffled some visitors but thrilled others – precisely the way I love to garden.  I’m building habitat nests – and it’s one of the most satisfying and artistically fulfilling projects I’ve worked on in some time.

The newest nest (still under construction) near the barn garden at Oldmeadow.

Satisfying – as it utilizes the incredible amount of twigs and branches shed by an Eastern deciduous woodland onto lawns, beds, roofs and driveways…right along with the carcasses of various invasive brambles and aggressive natives. It does so without erasing their importance to the surrounding ecosystem by burning them or hauling them offsite; and creates habitat for insects and birds.

Artistically fulfilling – as carefully siting and building the nests within my woodland garden allows me to dabble in naturalistic and casual sculpture without set limits or rules.  They are one-of-a-kind and they are wonderful.

They are also large. Large enough to arrest the plodding of joggers out for a bit of fresh air as they try to figure out what species on earth is big enough to make nests this size — and why they’d choose residency in a rural corner of Northern Virginia when there are so many less people pretty much anywhere else.

At 12-15’ across, they’re enough to make you look over your shoulder when you first see them. At least that’s what my daughter’s boyfriend did, panicked by my husband who asked him if he knew where “something like that could even come from.”

So so wicked.

The first nest built in the woodland garden on an early spring morning.

Why Habitat Nests?

Almost three years ago I visited the relatively new Delaware Botanic Gardens (DBG) in Dagsboro with a group of garden writers anxious to experience and photograph its main draw – the Piet Oudouf meadow.

On a mid-fall day, it couldn’t have shown itself any better. Mature grasses and perennials covered in a russeting mix of seed heads and late bloom created a rich but subdued color palette that remains forever embedded in my memory.

But The DBG had also begun a woodland garden, which reached down to the edge of the tidal waterfront at Pepper Creek and beckoned the visitor in with mulched paths edged in fallen logs. It too was a very new project, and as such, the clearing of invasive brambles and vines reflected a stark canvas that felt somewhat unnatural, but which in time would no doubt fill in as new native plantings took hold (watched carefully by a large team of invasive-hunting volunteers).

In contrast to my own woods – infested with those same impenetrable brambles and vines – the undertaking was inspiring.

And then it got even better.

Turning a corner early on in the walk, we came across a massive round nest built from twigs, vines and branches – probably twenty feet across and perhaps three feet high. Though it was completely unexpected – and quite obviously fantastical – it felt completely at home in its environment.

There was an opening on one side, and we all piled in and took a photo.  Throughout the walk, there were more nests to be found, all built by teams of volunteers originally headed by Gregg Tepper, Director of Horticulture at The DBG from 2013-2019. It was human artistry building upon the inherent artistry of nature and I was instantly smitten by the scale of the project and its quiet simplicity.

Garden writers nestle together at the DGB. Yours truly on far left. Photo credit: Kathy Jentz

Yeah…. I’m Totally Stealing That

I immediately went home and started my own nests in a small area of sunken woods originally carved out by an ancient creek meander. Compared to the acres of woods that surround me and consistently swallow precious plants the moment I turn my back, this half-acre is bordered by a creek and mown grass. Creating a woodland garden here has always felt finite and achievable.

After eight years on ten acres, I’m really into finite and achievable.

The concept of building a human-sized nest is not an original one. I have seen them in display gardens at shows such as The Philadelphia Flower Show and at Chelsea, as well as in other public gardens.  However, what I found unique at The DGB was the repetition of the nests throughout the woodland.  It wasn’t a one-off installation for a novelty photo-opp.  They felt completely and perfectly at home – linked together with purpose.

73F. Days like yesterday make you believe that the

I love those bananas and yet I’m not digging the

November 1st and our frost to finally arrive this

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Much later I tracked down Gregg Tepper and spoke to him about these wonderful structures and what he hoped to accomplish with their installation. For Tepper, it’s more than just the nests. It’s about the perception and experience of walking through a woodland – a celebration of that sacred space.

Adding habitat nests to that experience:

• Utilizes a plentiful and renewable resource;
• Keeps biomass on site;
• Provides habitat; and,
• Creates beautiful works of art.

In addition, many of The DBG nests are used as compost ‘bins’ for more herbaceous biomass.

In time, Tepper and his team began to copy nest-building techniques for different species; and looked forward to programs at The DBG where children might be instructed on different bird species through careful examination and hands on demonstrations. “Classrooms you can walk into.” he told me.

A smaller nest at the DGB. Photo credit: Kathy Jentz

How To Build a Habitat Nest

Since sharing the photos of my own habitat nests on Instagram @smalltowngardener, I’ve had people ask how to build them and I’ve promised videos that quite frankly take far longer to film and produce than to build the nest itself.  (Dammit Jim, I’m a writer and a gardener, not a YouTuber.)

I’ve got lots of footage on my phone needing attention, but until an intern shows up on my doorstep begging to work for pennies, it may take a while. So here are a few tips in the meantime:

Bottom line, it’s not rocket science. Start there, with confidence.  Then:

• Think about where you want the nest – where it can be seen from, and where it can’t. And don’t forget about how seasonal views change.
• Set out your outline with a flexible vine or piece of string, allowing for at least 2-3 feet of expansion from that inner circle.
• Use larger diameter pieces to make up the first few ‘courses’
• Start to tuck in branches with smaller diameters – no need to secure both ends.
• Use vines to do a bit of extra securing if necessary.
• As you’re working, add some vertical branches from greener wood to provide some stability, and keep the structure even more stable by ever-so-slightly making the top smaller than the bottom.
• Just start weaving. Like a bird.

Again, this is your own creation.  Have fun and be aware that as the habitat nest ‘settles,’ you will need to come back and add material.   You’re working towards a height of 2 ½ to 3 feet.  “Ask yourself,” says Tepper, “Is it convincing, or is it contrived?”

You can work on your habitat nests all year round. The winter makes it easy to see twigs and fallen branches and cut down invasive saplings and vines. Summer leaves help you wedge material in tighter. Spring just feels like nest building season.  And who doesn’t want to work in the woods on a beautiful day in October?

Putting together the outline of the second woodland nest last winter.

Art, Ecology…and Therapy

There’s one more aspect to nest building that goes beyond the art and the ecology of it all.  On difficult days – days when I’m feeling overwhelmed and more than a little ratty, and where even a little rough weeding will only make me think of all the weeding I can’t get to – I go to the nests.

Quietly and methodically inserting twigs lowers my blood pressure and concentrates my mind on thoughts I’m not giving myself time to sit with. And when I’m finished, I’ve built something.

This was Tepper’s experience too.  One volunteer who had recently lost her husband would often come and ask if she “could just work on a nest today.” They became unexpected places of healing for her.

Habitat nest #2 under construction this spring. And Mungo.

Room for just one?

Okay so it’s not Chihuly…but I like to think it’s got a certain something.

I now have three habitat nests under construction in the woodland garden, and three more mapped out.  I might even say ‘professionally mapped out’ as Dan Scott, the new Associate Director at Meadowbrook in Philadelphia, visited last fall to walk around, examine lines of sight and set out markers with me. (And, at the same time take some cheap shots at my highly sophisticated bottle tree.)

With any luck I’m hoping that when I return the visit, I’ll be seeing some nests under construction in the woodland garden there, where I’m sure visitors will love them as much as I do.  I’m also hoping to tempt Gregg Tepper down to see my efforts later this spring, counsel me on some good woodland natives for the site, and help me strategically add a nest or two.

It’s an easy project and an intensely fulfilling one.  Perhaps there’s room for one or two in your garden?

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