Orange Crush

I believe I have discovered the flower that may be the most tolerant of my novice gardening bumblings and missteps.

This plant simply waits its turn for attention.  It doesn't seem to mind if it isn't watered, if it isn't weeded, or even if it's chopped up in places to make room for a flower garden companion.

This lovely plant, low-key in all ways except its gorgeous bloom, is the daylily.  I have several blooms opening right now, which has absolutely nothing to do with my skill as a gardener.

In fact, the daylilies are blooming despite, or perhaps because of, my nearly outright hostility toward them.

Don't misunderstand me -- I do love daylilies.  Their showy orange blooms can evoke only admiration.  However, the problem with my little patch of daylilies was that they had been neglected for years before they became mine.  They had been planted in front of our well cover, perhaps as long as 10 years ago, and they most likely haven't received much attention since that time.  I didn't know what they were when I first saw them -- I honestly initially thought they were a type of grass.  While tearing out nearby dead bushes and one very sorry-looking peach tree, I considered digging them out as well.  Their reedy appearance just seemed to match the weedy decor I was fighting to remove. (See the photo below.)

I didn't realize when I first noticed this "weed patch" that when daylilies are overly crowded, they cease producing flowers altogether. 

Last year, I decided to plant hollyhocks behind the daylilies.  Using the shovel, I chopped out several of the daylilies (which I realized by then were not actual weeds, but still seemed useless) in order to make more room for their new neighbors.  The hollyhocks didn't bloom, or survive longer than a few months (more on that at a later time), but the daylilies at the edge of the patch, near where I had so carelessly uprooted them, began to flower in early summer!   

I did a little research on daylilies over the winter, and found out about the overcrowding problem.  This spring (when I re-planted the hollyhocks), I took the hoe and applied it rather ruthlessly around the edge of the daylily patch. I admit -- I sacrified a few around the edges to make the whole patch healthier.  As a result, the plants yielded even more buds this year. 

As the buds begin to open, I am growing more and more fond of these flowers.  They are so low-maintenance that they now seem as though they should be an essential part of my garden!  This fall, I plan to divide the remaining daylilies and give over half of my supposed "weed patch" to neighbors, so we can all enjoy them next year.   

Grand Lady

The final bud on our magnolia tree is opening.  It signifies the culmination of a long and delightful season of magnolia blossoms.  I feel a little bit like I do while I'm watching a good film -- conscious that it's about to end, and perhaps a bit sad that it will, but satisfied with the experience.

Magnolia trees are extraordinarily exotic to me.   They are, after all, among the most primitive of plant forms.  (Unsurprisingly, I've always imagined the Garden of Eden with magnolia trees.)  I grew up in a forest, surrounded by pine and birch trees.  I loved it -- the trees provided a protective playground, giving us shelter from the sun, wind, or rain showers.  Their branches showed off winter's snowy delights, and, ultimately, they gave us firewood and warmth.   None of them, however, held the power to dramatically unfold such a huge, showy flower.  For years, I wanted a magnolia tree.  As soon as I lived in a climate that could sustain a magnolia tree, I couldn't wait to get one.  Three years ago, when my husband and I became homeowners, my parents bought us a magnolia tree as a house-warming gift.

She was perfect.  We settled on a slightly smaller variety, rather than the stately and towering Southern Magnolia.  We chose the "Kay Parris" variety, instead, which is more compact than its larger relative, but produces blooms at an earlier age.  We placed her in a prominent location in the front corner of our lawn, replacing two scrubby, half-dead barberry bushes and a misshaped sand cherry tree, which we moved to separate locations. (The sand cherry tree sprang to life and recovered its shape and dignity; the barberry bushes, unfortunately, did not.)  Instantly, she added a little class to the place.

When she begins to bloom, typically in mid-May, it is with such dramatic movement that it's almost as though she is aware of my anticipation.  She holds each bud out from her branches like a delicate white fist teasingly folded around a treat.  For weeks, I slow down each day as I back out of the driveway on the way to work, checking to see if that might be the day that I will arrive home to a brilliant, white, open bloom.  If I miss it, it'll be too late; the peak only lasts a day at the most -- if I find the bloom too late, the edges will have browned, and ants, bees and beetles will have already begun their clean-up work.    

A bud opens slowly at first, as though hesitant to reveal its full splendor. However, after they've begun to separate, the petals (and sepals) rapidly unfurl, like long white fingers stretching out in the sun after a long winter chill.  The seeds are released, the insects gather for their nectar feast, and the flower's beauty ends quickly.  

She is still young, but each year, including this spring, this tree has never opened more than one bud at a time.  She seems to deliberately deliver her performance with maximum effect, allowing each flower to receive the audience's full attention and admiration before moving to the next.

Therefore, as I take a last look at this year's final magnificent blossom, I give the grand lady her moment in the spotlight.  I am already looking forward to next year's event.     

First Fruits

I harvested my first batch of produce from the veggie garden on Saturday.  

This year was my first attempt to grow green beans, and it looks as though the three rows that I planted will be providing us with tasty side dishes for some time.  I can't believe how quickly the beans ripened, and how many beans these relatively small plants have growing on them!  It's a good thing, too, because green beans are one of my husband's favorite foods.

After I picked this bowl, my neighbor walked over, bearing gifts of sunflowers and a tomato from her garden.  She also gave me a bag full of squash -- one of my favorite side dish ingredients -- the other day.  I haven't planted squash yet this year, as part of my effort to thwart the nasty squash bug.  So, the green beans went to her table tonight, and her sunflowers decorated mine.  We'll have plenty of beans over the next few weeks anyway.   That's truly one of my favorite aspects of gardening.  It provides us with the opportunity to share with others.

Song of the Bluebirds

Each day I hear the bluebirds sing.  We have several living in our neighborhood.  They perch on my crepe myrtles, feed at our birdfeeder.  On some days, their song is clear and strong.  At other times, it's a little more soft, a bit muted.

Eastern Bluebird (Source: http://www.musicofnature.org/)

A few weeks ago, I wrote about the nest a pair of bluebirds built in our mailbox. 


I continued to carefully monitor the mailbox, and found that the pair quickly moved on to another home.  My chosen theory is that they determined the location was just too busy.  We get mail daily, and I have a large patch of black-eyed susans underneath the mailbox that I had to water frequently at the time, because we were experiencing a stretch of dry weather.  In any case, I prefer to think that was the reason they left.


Shortly after I discovered the bluebirds left our nest, our neighbors told us that a pair of wrens had made a nest in their mailbox this spring, and hatched and raised a brood in it as well.  My neighbor shared an amusing story about one incident she and her daughter experienced while trying to retrieve their mail. She drove up to their mailbox, and when she rolled down the window to reach for the mail, the mother wren flew straight through the open window and into their car!  Poor thing -- it was just as startled as they were.  They were able to open their car windows and help the mama escape before it harmed itself in any way.


Hearing the story, I began to miss our mailbox bluebirds.  I bought a nesting box, but it remained in the dining area. I wasn't quite sure where to place it.  


Then, I read a story posted by my fellow blogger, Holly, on her blog Your Gardening Friend, about birds nesting above her motion detector light. Her story provides a glimpse of a songbird's dramatic struggle to raise its young.  She expresses the anxiety that we humans can feel in our background role as observers of nature.  When a hatchling falls from the nest, she struggles with the desire to protect it, and the hesitation to intervene.   


One evening, I bought some stain for the nesting box.  If we were going to put it up in the yard, we might as well make it a pretty home.  Our nephew was also going to be staying with us for a few days, so I figured it would be a good little outside project for him.

My mom told me about a small ornamental, but functional, birdbath on sale at the hardware store.  I picked one up over Memorial Day weekend and put it in the flower garden.  I felt that the least I could do, in the oppressive heat wave that we just couldn't seem to shake off, was provide a little water.   


Our nephew arrived, and he spent one sunny morning applying the stain.  We scouted a location for it, and recruited my husband to get an old post from our spare lumber pile on which to mount the box.  My husband got out the post-hole digger, and a few inches down, hit what felt like bedrock in our clay-based soil.  It was too dry -- it had been too hot for too long.  Another time, he said.  Once we get some rain, I'll put this up for you.


And then the thunderstorm came, with a dramatic entrance, bringing us a long, soaking rain.  I took one of the dogs and went for a long walk early the next morning. The air felt refreshed, and the earth somehow relieved.  The birds seemed to sing with more fervor than ever. Another thunderstorm arrived that evening.  The following morning, I ventured out again to enjoy another early morning walk.


That's when I discovered it.  The round nest was tilted awkwardly on its side, in the unlikely location at the foot of a mailbox; the signature blue eggs were spilled forward onto the black pavement.  Bluebirds had made another mailbox nest, this time at a vacant home down the street, but they had not been successful.  A predator, or, perhaps, a curious neighborhood cat, had scooped the nest out of the mailbox, knocking it to the ground.  It hadn't been there during my walk on the previous morning, so the damage must have occurred during that previous day.  I also saw that the pair had already started a new nest -- the mailbox contained a thin layer of pine straw teased into what appeared to be an evolving circular pattern.


I scooped up the fallen nest, and placed the damaged eggs temporarily back into it.  I pushed the small new nest back into the back of the vacant house's mailbox, away from that precipitous edge.  I knew what I needed to do.

My husband put up the nesting box that day.  I didn't have time to apply the matching stain to the old post, but I didn't care. 

I placed the eggs from the failed nest in the woods, but thought that perhaps the nesting material could be re-usable.  I pulled the nest slightly apart, and placed it upside down in a crook between two branches in a tree just feet away from the new nesting box.

That was on Sunday.

On Tuesday, I stopped by the nesting box on my way to water my butterfly bushes.  I noticed the nesting material that I had placed in the tree was completely gone, but some evidence of activity appeared in the box.  I took a closer look.  A few pieces of pine straw peeked out of the entrance and the bottom corner.

Hesitantly, I opened the box.

Later that same evening, I saw the female bluebird perched atop her new home.  Her breast jutted out confidently as she appeared to intently survey her surroundings.  Her posture radiated excitement; she stood tall and leaned forward on her perch. She was chirping emphatically in the direction of the pine trees nearby, as though calling out directions to a mate who was busy gathering more supplies.  Since then, I've seen her flitting back and forth from the nest a few times, and I know she's noticed me -- I can't quite get close enough to capture a decent photo.  I don't want to disturb them too much, however.  I'm quite content to let them make themselves at home.


I now hear the bluebirds' crisp, vibrant song in the morning as I step out the door to leave for work.  And now, I know.     


I know the song the bluebirds sing. 


It is a song of hope.  

Remembering Our Roots: Sowing Oats

So far on Sprigs and Roots, I haven't taken much time to reflect on farming and gardening methods of the past, as I originally planned when I started this blog. There is much we can appreciate about the progress made in agriculture, and even more we can learn about both historical and current-day methods. Today's post features a guest story, and that guest is none other than my father.

Dad grew up as one of eight children on a small dairy farm in Minnesota, the son of a World War II veteran.  His experience is likely representative of many farming families of that generation -- a time when small farms were still plentiful, when the nation was enjoying a surge of post-war progress on several fronts, and when the world was continuing its transition from an agricultural to industrial-based economy.

Dad has told us several stories about life on the farm in the middle of the 20th century, and just recently, we've coordinated our efforts to record some of his memories.  Here is his recollection of helping my grandfather plant oats.  The story is his alone; I've only just helped him flush out a few details. I hope to feature more of his stories in future posts.

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The spring of each year was planting time, and we would spend a lot of time in the fields. Oats, one our main crops, provided feed for the chickens and turkeys, and was ground up with corn to feed the milk cows. Its primary purpose, however, because of its fast growth and height, was to act as a cover crop for the slower-germinating and growing alfalfa. First, the preparation began.

We started in the granary, with the oats we saved from the previous year’s crop to prepare the seeds for the current year. Using a fanning mill, we cleaned the oats, ridding them of straw and weed seeds. The machine had shaking screens and a blower. I would dump the oats in the top, over the first screen, which captured bigger stems and seeds and had openings just large enough for the oats to fall through to a second screen. As the oats dropped, a blower blew air through them to get rid of the chaff and small pieces of straw. The second screen had small openings through which small weed seeds would drop, and the cleaned oats would drop out to the front. We would gather them into a bag from there, for seeding.

Each year, we pulled a seed drill behind the tractor to create small trenches, drop the seeds, and cover them. The drill, made by the Peoria Drill & Seed Company, was eight feet across, and four inches separated each disc that made the trenches. Our particular seed drill was old and had previously been horse-drawn. Each of its wheels were wooden, with wooden spokes and an iron band running the circumference of the outer rim. As we prepared to use the seed drill, we would take off the wheels and placed them in the water in a shallow area of the creek. By the time we returned to remove them a few days later, the wood would be swollen, tightening the spokes and pressing against the iron bands, securing everything in place.

Depiction of horse-drawn seed drill (www.arthursclipart.org)



Cultivation came next. Fields, covered with manure during the winter months, received a thorough plowing. After that, we would disc the field, breaking up the sod clumps left by the plow. The alfalfa fields would produce for the following three years, and during each alfalfa harvest we would need smooth, even fields for cutting, raking, and baling. Conscious of that fact, we would drag the field with a fifteen-foot-wide drag, usually a couple of times in different directions.

We planted the oats at the beginning of May. By mid-June, they were knee high. At this time, I walked through the fields to pull out the mustard plants. If left alone, these weeds would soon take over the oat field. The yellow flowers on the mustard plant made them easy to spot in the green oat fields. It would take me a day and a half to pick the mustard and carry them to the end of the field for burning so the mustard seeds would not germinate.

By mid-August, the oat plants were waist high, turning from a dark green to yellow, and heavy with oat seed. In some years, when the crop was heavy, a windstorm would knock part of the field over on its side and we would be unable to harvest those oats.

One August, when I was 10 years old, we noticed small areas where the oats had been knocked down, and no windstorm had blown through for weeks.  Looking closer at the area, we could see wide trails made through the oats field.  About that time, my older brother David, who was at the other end of the field, saw a small bear stand up on its hind legs to face him.  Seeing David, the bear turned and ran out of the field and into the pasture.  Our herd of cows that had been grazing there bolted to the other side of the fence line as the bear ran by them.  Over the next several days, we watched for the bear, but did not see him again.

The original seed drill, now in retirement at the farm 

Winged Defenders

The summer heat has arrived here in central NC, and with it... the insects.  I was out watering my plants this evening, trying to make up for the fact that we've suddenly hit a dry and hot spell, when I noticed how dramatically the six-legged population has increased -- especially the most annoying varieties. 

Then, a team of acrobatic flyers came to my rescue. 

While I watered plants, battling the insects whining and buzzing over my head, the dragonflies did their part -- diving and swooping and generally terrorizing (I hope) the less-desirable winged pests.  Multiple dragonflies swarmed the air, but two in particular stayed near me for some time, and I snapped a few pictures of each.  I researched them after I returned inside, and identified them as a male and female whitetail dragonfly.  The male features the dramatic white tail; the female's wings appear more delicate, and her tail is more subtly colored.    

I'm not usually one to praise an insect, except to acknowledge the role they play as pollinators or bird food, but the dragonfly is an exception.  Perhaps because they've been much maligned in cultural lore, or mistaken for a (human-)biting insect, I feel a partiality to them.  Masters of flight, bearers of intricate and detailed wing designs, carnivorous feeders with a particular appetite for mosquitoes -- what's not to like?  Yet, in Europe and Australia, the dragonfly has traditionally been seen as evil, with multiple unmerited connections to the devil, witches, and snakes.

In Japanese culture, however, the dragonfly is highly revered, and is symbolic of happiness, good luck, strength, and victory.  I remember when I first learned this fact; it was in Seattle's Pike Place market, where I bought a matching set of hand-painted nature scenes from an Asian vendor.  He informed me that I did well to choose the set with the dragonflies, as they would bring good luck to my home.  I frequently stop and look at the dragonflies in those paintings -- they are depicted as small ornamental insects, not the focus of the work, but complementary to the eye-pleasing scene.  

Now, I'm far too practical to be superstitious, but I couldn't help but feel that the pair of dragonflies keeping me company today were a good omen.  It may have been because they posed so prettily for their photos, perching frequently near me.  Perhaps I felt as though I had two winged protectors, defending me from the onslaught of those newly-hatched, blood-lusting creatures out there.  Once in a while, you just need someone on your side -- someone who will stick with you, when you feel a thousand little troubles whispering in your head, or when you feel the sting of a personal defeat.  And if that someone comes in the shape of a whitetailed dragonfly on a hot summer evening, so be it.  They're beautiful, and they haven't much to say. 

Sometimes, that makes the perfect garden companion.

Mistakes

We've passed Memorial Day, the unofficial milestone marking the beginning of summer.  The season's entrance brings another milestone to my house:  the time I begin to realize the mistakes I've made so far this year. 

I've accepted this annual review of my gardening skills, or lack thereof, and quite honestly, I've begun to dread it a bit.  This year's count is rising rapidly.  Here's a quick summary, in order by rising frustration levels:

• The first mistake I noticed was an obvious one: leaving the hibiscus plants outside for the winter.  I knew it was risky, but, I thought that because they were planted in raised beds, immediately next to the house, and in the area where they received the most sunlight, and one of the plants had become severely root-bound during the previous winter, I would take a chance by leaving them outdoors. However, the hibiscus plants were tropical, and I don't live in zone 9.  It was an irresponsible decision, and this spring, no signs of life appeared in the raised bed (except for several weeds). 
• My carrots are not going to grow well.  The soil in which they are planted contains too much clay, causing it to become heavy when wet and hardened when dry.  It also appears that several of the seeds did not even germinate.
• I have ignored my mums to the point that they are about to bloom early.  I should have cut them back at least once or twice this spring; now it is too late, and they've grown long, stringy legs to accompany their early flowers.  They're like the poor relatives in the flower patch, abandoned while my attention is caught by the showy spring flowers or the exotic new plants I'm trying.  I don't like abandoning things.
• In the sunny raised bed next to the house, where the hibiscus met their chilly fate this winter, I planted canna lilies.  I was really looking forward to seeing those flowers; I wanted something bright, showy, and tropical in this location. I planted the rhizomes in late April, leaving room just in case the hibiscus made an appearance, and spread mulch on top of the bed. We did hit a cool patch of weather for a couple of weeks afterward, but it warmed up quickly after that.  We've had several days in the 80s and 90s in the last 2-3 weeks... and I'm still not seeing a single sign of the lilies.  Crabgrass, yes.  Lilies, no.  I have no idea what I did wrong.  And I'm disappointed.  
• The most significant mistake dates back two years, to the very origins of my vegetable garden.  Last week, for the first time, I realized that I may have placed both of my raised beds in the wrong location.  Besides the fact that they don't receive full sun after 3 p.m. or so, they also are in an out-of-the-way spot for pollinators.  If I placed the beds all the way across the yard, behind the flower garden (which is still under construction, but growing rapidly), the blooms on the veggie plants would see more activity than they do now.  In their current location, they are mere feet away from a large patch of weeds and poison ivy we killed this spring, and it looks a bit bare in there.  I will either need to plant wildflowers where the poison ivy was, or I'll need to move the entire garden this fall.  In the meantime, I've settled for planting a few cheap annuals in front of the garden, to liven up the look and hopefully attract butterflies and bees. 

My mistakes are probably the primary reason why, each year, I hesitate just a bit in the spring, before I get into full gardening mode.  I just don't like making mistakes, and I'm not sure many other pursuits will reveal your inadequacies to you quite as impartially as horticulture.  However, simply writing down these issues brings me some relief.  I'm constantly attempting to improve, and acknowledging that I've actually made a mistake is the first step to correcting it.  This fall, I won't pretend I live in Florida, and next spring, those mums are going to get the haircut they deserve. 

In any case, we are only in the beginning of June, after all -- plenty of time remains to make more mistakes this year.  For now, I'll just note the lessons... and concentrate on keeping those other plants alive.