Breaking ground

Last weekend we were scowling at an overly persistent winter.  Yesterday I worked outdoors with bare arms and bare feet.  When I read "cool season" in a plant's description, I wonder if it has a chance in this climate of rapid and extreme temperature fluctuations.  Not that 15C is extremely warm, but already it is necessary to watch that the greenhouse doesn't overheat.  The delicate cauliflowers that were transplanted yesterday are looking limper than ever after a sun-intensive day followed by a near-freezing night.
All the planted seeds, on the other hand, should be fine.  The past few days have seen the addition of three raised garden beds (just mounded, not walled), transplantation of cauliflower and borage, a few rows of seeds sown (carrots, parsnips, pak choy, radishes, garden cress, lettuce, and peas), and installation of structures to support the peas.

pea fences

pea cages

This is our seventh year of growing peas and we still have not taken the trouble to build good fences for them to climb.  This year, again, they will cling to various improvised structures that limit their soaring ambitions - a short sturdy fence, a taller floppy fence, and few tomato cages embellished with twine.  The latter are a bit of work to create, and lacking in stature, but  once made are easy to place.  All you need is a square foot of ground.

Every time I insert the shovel into soil, I hear admonitions against disturbing the soil structure.  It echoes again when the shovel-full of earth is squirming with earthworms, who are apt to now consider this a bad neighbourhood.  A better gardener would use other methods (black plastic and patience, maybe) to rid the garden of last year's encroaching grass, dandelions, yarrow, and chives.  Perhaps someday I will be that better gardener.  If it meant the first heat wave following the June rainy season would not turn our soil to quasi-concrete, it would be a worthwhile effort.

Besides following the seed-germination route to new plants, other propagation methods are in the works.  The two bee balm plants are now eight (we hope).  This was achieved by brutally forcing a shovel, east-west and then north-south, downward through the base of each plant.  Although there was far too much of that root-ripping noise as sections were removed from the ground, they all appear to be alive two days later.  I wonder if they will grow in quarter-round shapes this year.  The purple flowers on one are a big favourite with the local bees, and the red flowers of the other drew the attention last summer of the first hummingbird that I've seen in Lethbridge since 2007.

One honeyberry bush now sports two rooting pots in an attempt to create two more bushes.  Honeyberries are tart dark blue berries, attractively shaped to resemble giant mouse droppings.  We have two varieties that both offered a decent quantity of fruit last year, so why not have more.  (I finally gave up on Saskatoon bushes last year.  It was humiliating that a shrub which flourishes in the wild would not even grow, much less produce fruit, while in my care.)  The rooting pots were advertised in the Lee Valley catalogue as a way to clone woody plants much more rapidly than by traditional cutting methods.  No doubt there was a "results may vary" caveat in the fine print.  While trying to slice off a half-inch circumference of bark, I found the bark to be soft and stringy.  Far more than half an inch was stripped away.  Well, what's done is done and I might as well proceed now that the branch has been damaged.  The branch wasn't quite thick enough for the opening, so the pot tended to lose its grip and slide down the branch to where it was not wounded.  Nor was the branch quite vertical enough.  Hence, water is leaking out of the reservoir.  On the second attempt, on another branch, I realized that the stringy outer layer was making way for the real bark, which I was able to cut away in the prescribed size and shape.  But then the same problem with inadequate verticality and girth.  We'll see how it goes.

April showers

Yes, there was snow in the forecast for Wednesday night, but not this much.  By Friday afternoon, most of it is gone, but more is on the way in the next few days.  It's a wet clinging snow that octuples (at least) the diameter of the clothesline and brings down tree branches.  It's good that all the new growth around here is still fairly short.  The newly hatched crocuses were buried deeply yesterday morning, and today they were standing upright, all three inches of them, as if nothing had happened.  They brought to mind a dismal recollection, though.  Our daffodils have, on more than one occasion, been struck down, not to recover, by this kind of snow.  Furthermore, the daffodil tips are still underground.  The sad implication here is that, starting no earlier than now, adding the time it takes for a daffodil to break the surface, grow a stem, and open a flower, brings us to a point in the future of this spring when there is still a chance of snow.  Nevertheless, I am generally at odds with the snow haters and winter detractors around here, so I must try to appreciate the existing circumstances which I do not control.  The snow brightened up the landscape for the day, soaked into the ground where tree roots can always use a little more, and may have compressed all the grass and leaves I just added to the compost.  And no harm done.

Hours before the snow fell, Barry was at work on a covered garden bed.  He cut lengths of plastic conduit (collected from our own rewiring project and from construction sites, quite legally) to serve as a frame - a cheery combination of orange, yellow, and white, to counteract my whining about the drabness of my little piece of the planet.  The frame can be covered with plastic, or row cover fabric, or shade cloth.   I vote for clear plastic, at least for the early stages.  Last year we had a section of the same bed shrouded in white row cover fabric and I routinely forgot there was anything living underneath.  The Swiss chard and lettuce did fine.  They got watered through the cloth once in a while and the cover cut down on the transpiration rate.  The volunteers (weeds) that went unnoticed for weeks at a time did even better.

Spring cleaning

It's amazing what one can get used to.  I put together a small photo album for the permaculture consultants who are going to transform our property into a more productive and less laborious landscape.  Could the sight of flat, brown garden beds under a grey sky inspire a grand design?  Does it help to have a couple dozen water-filled plastic bottles, previously used for weights, strewn about at random, serving no purpose?  How about endless aluminum cans (cutworm barriers) that didn't make it back into the storage area after the last harvest?  Solar garden lamps are askew, shreds of green plastic compost bags litter the soil, and the lawn has never looked worse.  Therefore, I also allowed them to view my garden album from last summer, which was nearly a shock to me when I reviewed the photos recently (see the strip under the blog title for a sample).  I had almost forgotten that nature had colours other than brown and was inspired by the thought that this dazzling green could be here two months from now.  But it's good to have ugly "before" pictures, right?

Not much has been done about the non-organic stuff, but this past weekend I walked around with a big bucket, quietly calling "Bring out your dead!".  Mainly in reference in dead leaves and grass, of course.

The lawn (it was hard to even call it that) was pale, dry grass squashed flat and matted together and didn't appear to bear any potential for renewed life.  Luckily, we have a dethatcher, a vicious kind of rake that gives a good comb and tease to the grass.  I usually dethatch a bit later in the season and am rewarded with a greener, fluffier patch of grass than I started with.  This time of year there isn't much green, so the lawn just gets a little fluffier, and dirtier.  The rake really is vicious, the ground is wet with melted snow, and the grass roots, not so robust at this time of year, are easily yanked.  There are bald spots here and there and I know I should have been more patient, but now the new grass has better access to sunlight and that chore is done (and my back has almost recovered).

The front garden accumulates leaves in the fall and we allow them to stay to give what comfort they can to the many perennials that are stuck in that harsh environment.  Now that the daily high was into double digits, I felt okay about exposing them to the fresh air.  Let them grow while they can.  We still have an ample supply of bagged leaves that can be emptied to provide temporary shelter again in the event that severe cold returns in the next few weeks (which is almost guaranteed).

The best part of cleaning up from winter was unearthing last year's parsnips, including two that might have been huddled together for warmth, or maybe one is trying to consume the other.  Can't blame it; they are delicious.  We've had a few meals of these, humbly prepared in the microwave oven with butter and home grown garlic (also last year's, dried).



Getting the outdoors spiffed up for a new season is a bit of work.  That's my excuse for neglecting the more traditional version of spring cleaning, interior.

Is anybody alive in there?

It was March 31, the weather had been sunny and mild for a few days, snow and ice had almost disappeared from the yard.  Was it time to get growing again?  I roamed around the property with my camera, looking for signs of life.  This wasn't as much fun as I hoped, looking for emerging plants.  What usually happens is I stumble across these early risers and gasp with surprise.  Searching for them raises my expectations, taking away much of the surprise and  causing some disappointment that there isn't more to be found.  However, this is all in the name of record keeping and my degree of delight is not important, and it wasn't totally devoid of fun and surprises.

Parsnip

Edibles are on the way.  In fact, parsnips are ready now and are making me a bit impatient.  New leaves are springing from the roots that were left in the ground last year;  I worry that they are going to use up the stored sugar and not taste as good when we dig them up to eat them.  We can't dig them up until the ground thaws a few more inches down, so maybe they should be kept in the dark to discourage new growth.  I feel an experiment coming on.

Chive flowers

Chives for human consumption are nowhere to be seen.  Apparently the pink flowers lead the way, being one of the first major gathering sites for bees in the spring.  We can do without vegetative chive parts for now, since the perennial onions are coming on strong.  I planted a few chives six years ago, unaware that they would go on indefinitely and become such an important fixture in the garden.

Rhubarb

Three rhubarb leaf capsules were found among the decomposed leaves and stalks in the center of the old tire that is intended to keep the monster under control.  There is no good reason for having rhubarb in our garden. It takes up space, and more space.  I can't seem to plant other vegetables far enough away from it.  We don't really like eating it and feel guilty about that.  The upside - we sometimes get to give it away to friends and neighbours and it's a huge lush green thing after a desolate winter.  Now if only I can remember this summer to transfer it to the front yard, where it won't be in anyone's way.

Bee balm

Alpine aster, sedum, iris, tulips, lamb's ears, geranium, gaillardia, baby's breath, flax, peony, columbine, delphinium and bee balm are all presenting evidence that they will be back for another year.  These all die back in the winter and start over again the following spring, generally bigger and more robust than ever.  I plan to divide both bee balms, as soon as the soil is workable.  I'm a little anxious about it because of my limited experience with dividing roots and my fondness for these plants.  Supposedly this is how to keep them vigorous.  My incentive is simply to have more of them around.

Woolly thyme

The plants that don't die back are a mystery to me.  How do they stand being frozen to 30C below zero, and thawed, and refrozen, numerous times between November and April?  Somehow I accept this as normal for coniferous trees yet regard it as impossible for snow-in-summer, thrift, or woolly thyme.  The thyme did turn a greyish purple; fresh green extensions were found under a blanket of dead leaves.  Will the purple leaves turn back to green or will they be replaced?  I have to watch for this.  Meanwhile, the saxifrage looks exactly as it does in July.  Come to think of it, that plant hasn't really grown since joining the garden in 2008.  Maybe it's a fake.  There are also pussy toes, elephant ears, and cliff green that just stopped in their tracks a few months ago and should be continuing on their way any day now.

All this heralding of spring is now obscured by several cm's of brilliant white heavy snow.  Not to worry.  They have to deal with this every year.  If they couldn't take it, they wouldn't be in my garden.