LAST FRONTIER GARDEN

Breaking News: North oddly hospitable to plants!

2012-01-27T15:05:00.000-08:00

My usual reactions whilst reading the newspaper, though always thoughtful and apropos, range from a smirk, snort (of derision or laughter, your choice), eye roll, to your everyday exclamation of “we’re doomed!” Today however, I was jolted from my repertoire of pat emotions and expressions by a shocking article in our local paper, the Anchorage Daily News.

The article, written by a Mr. Seth Borenstein of the AP, was a fascinating quarter page entitled, “Updated planting zones reflect warmer reality.” What drew me in was the subtitle or whatever they call that thing in large font under the title, “USDA: More southerly vegetation has found north oddly hospitable.” Now you get to choose what I found shocking. What fun!

Choice A: Our daily paper has printed an article concerning gardening, in section A no less. We are treated to a once-weekly garden column and, in my opinion, little other local coverage of that delightful hobby that ensnares approximately 31% of Americans. Wait a minute, on second thought, that might be the percentage that regularly use expletives. I’ve read 61% of persons in the USA garden, a figure that was not (I’d be willing to bet a six-pack of marigolds) gathered in Alaska. 61% of Alaskans have blue tarps but only 21% garden, according to the numbers I just made up.

Choice B: The north is termed oddly hospitable. Why can’t we be just hospitable, why must we be odd? A few plants do make their home here in the north country sans global warming: I can think of at least 4 offhand. Oh, wait, never mind, that cherry tree did die after all.

Choice C: A dear man, one professor Richard Primack, said (and I must quote this in it’s entirety, too shocking) that “people who grow plants are well aware of the fact that temperatures have gotten more mild throughout the year, particularly in the wintertime (interruption by me: the temperature has been subzero almost every day of January. I am currently swaddled in blankets and a turtleneck under a thick wool sweater with ugly brown slippers to complete my indoor survival outfit. And am still cold. But who am I to complain, yesterday I wore my down jacket and hat in the house. For goodness sake, prof, we’re usually in the twenties this time of year. Now back to the quote where he goes on to rub it in my face.) “There’s a lot of things you can grow now that you couldn’t grow before.” Yes, like false hopes and shattered dreams and that blasted orange Heuchera. Whoops, not the Heuchera. I’m waiting for that “warmer reality,” Dr. Primack. Anytime now.

Choice D: The government actually updated the climate zones. To give you an idea just how often this happens, the old map is from 1990. One really terrific feature of the new map is “for the first time [it] include[s] more detailed factors such as prevailing winds, the presence of nearby bodies of water, the slope of the land, and the way cities are hotter than suburbs and rural areas.” Bravo!

Now that you’ve made your choice, I urge you to hotfoot it over to the USDA’s website and check out your zone. I did just that and found myself to be in zone 6. Just kidding, I only wish I was in zone 6. I’m still zone 4b. Wait, that is warmer! Still, Alaska looks pretty cold according to the map and my current reality. I’m waiting, Prof Primack, waiting for that “warmer reality”. Go ahead. Anytime now. Still waiting….

Are you enjoying a warmer reality? Oddly hospitable, perhaps?

Tebow vs. garden topic of some kind

2012-01-16T05:26:00.000-08:00

My husband suggested I write about Tebow mania. “You’re not being helpful!” I retorted. Moments before, fresh out of garden related topics (don’t judge me, I have no garden right now), I had unwisely turned to the other half for ideas. I get “football, thermometer, mouse corpses,” and big surprise “write about nothing. Like Seinfeld.” What am I supposed to do with those ideas? Other than increase my reputation for odd, off-topic writing.

Another, rather better idea is finally offered. “Write The Gardening Handbook for Alaskans, or was it The Kid’s Coloring Book?” OK, you twisted my arm, here is the outline of my magnum opus in rough form:

1. your soil is poorly drained

2. the moose and bears and rabbits eat your plants

3. your growing season is short

4. it won’t grow, overwinter, flower, or ripen

The End

Do you think I can retire on the proceeds of this handbook? Though upon reflection, a 3 x 5 card would be more cost effective than a whole handbook for four tips. In fact, school children could memorize these four simple pointers and the reality of gardening in our state would be ingrained from an early age.

“So you see, children, successful cultivation of rutabagas clearly violates principle number four and we mustn't be bitter.”

I am being counseled from across the room to include the pros with the cons lest I sound cynical. Oh, ok, fine!

1. summer days last almost all night

2. relatively few introduced pests and diseases

3. cool season vegetables can grow to prodigious size, see my post here

4. something will come to me, but a blank for now

What I need are two 3x5 flashcards and a couple of pages of blank paper on which to draw a few sketches of moose eating peonies or rabbits eating primulas and shazam! A handbook AND coloring book in one. Let it not be said that the Last Frontier Gardener is out of ideas. Anything but that.

Next week: Tebow lost out to a garden topic today, but will he win next week’s writer’s block?

How would the garden handbook from your area read?

Saying goodbye with a sniff and a whimper

2012-01-08T23:54:00.001-08:00

Well, I’ve reached rock bottom. If this is all I am able to string sentences together for, if this subject before any other is the one that occupies my thoughts, this blog is doomed. Again. And I had such high hopes for the new year.

I have decided to discard a close companion. You all know I’m capable of anything, but this is to be a particularly brutal departure. The object of my (formerly tender feelings, now only) derision is my bathrobe and it’s getting donated, pronto. Yes, just after I find a replacement, right then. Most likely.

My bathrobe and I have had some adventures together. About 2.35 hours of quality time and uncounted heaps of squandered hours, but who’s counting? It’s only natural that I would cast my mind back a tad and reminisce about our good times together. Go ahead and think of any cheesy 70’s song while you read this next bit. I’m thinking “That’s the Way (I Like It)” by K.C. and the Sunshine Band will put you in the right frame of mind, but far be it from me to deter you from the Bee Gees.

Things I have done in my pink, 100% polyester bathrobe:

1. chased a bear out of the curbside garbage bin. I wrote about it briefly somewhere on this blog. Don’t worry, I was waving a broken golf club and hurling cheap garden ornaments, so I was totally protected. The neighbors put API (Alaska Psychiatric Institute) and APD (Anchorage Police Department) on speed dial, just in case.

2. taken my daily walk. Now, now: on a treadmill (admit it, I had you thinking I was strolling around pre-dressed in public). Sometimes in my slippers or socks sans shoes. And working up a sweat is no problem with the belt cinched tight. It’s like a sauna without all the steam and naked people.

3. staggered to the shower after giving birth to a 9 pound toddler-sized baby. Of course I didn’t feel strong enough to walk just then, but who can say no to those strict labor and delivery nurses? When they strongly suggest you should shower, you don’t murmur “no, I’d rather sleep for 2 years, preferably heavily sedated followed by six months in a luxury spa,” you answer “yes, ma’am, right away.” If I’m ever involved in some sort of battle, say against Mel Gibson in blue face paint, I’d want a dozen of them on my side.

4. eaten my breakfast. And occasionally spilled a bit of it on “pinkie”, too. Don’t tell me you don’t drop crumbs on your lap! And please don’t tell mother I almost never put my napkin in my lap for breakfast (gasp!). I enjoy living on the edge sometimes.

5. opened Christmas presents. After watching the compulsory home movie afterwards, I determined that the camera’s 10 pounds and the bathrobe’s 10 pounds landed right on my midsection with a sliver diverted upwards as a second chin. No more bathrobes during filming.

Upon further reflection, I have decided no one gets to film me under any circumstances short of breaking some sort of Evel Knievel world record or winning a gold medal for Indispensable Contributions to Gardeners Everywhere. If Santa and I can come up with the door-to-door sales repelling plant, that should do it. Though banishing blue tarps from Alaska (nay, the world) would be a close contender. I’d start with the one in the above picture, which must bring tears to the hearts of all who see it. On a daily basis. Whether they want to or not. Presto, brown tarp!

I haven’t yet decided on a replacement. Silk? Cotton? They even make down robes these days, presumable for we dwellers of arctic regions. I do feel a natural fiber is in order this time, after encasing myself in something made in a vat for years. It needs to be soft, slimming, light as air, and have a long belt, for security. Sprints to the rubbish bin happen rather unexpectedly and we can’t be exposing ourselves to the neighbors now can we?

Is your bathrobe polyester? Fit to be seen in public?

Santa: Ten Things an Alaskan Gardener Wants

2011-12-19T05:22:00.001-08:00

Dear Santa,

Despite appearances, this only looks incredibly greedy:

1. Two weeks more of spring and autumn. Three days of spring and 8.5 hours of autumn are just not enough. To demonstrate my restraint in this request, I’m not even going to complain about our weeklong summer.

2. Moose that eat bears and bears that eat stray dogs, cats, and moose. The fewer mammals pillaging my veggie patch, the better. And one more fecal present from the local pets, unearthed whilst I am working the soil barehanded, and I won’t be responsible for my code red response.

3. A tomato/pepper/(fill in difficult-to-grow-in-Alaska vegetable here) that goes from seed to ripe fruit in oh, say, four weeks. Is that so much to ask, Santa?

4. Tools that (much like the elves surprised the shoemaker in the morning with assembled footwear) sharpen themselves overnight. A couple of out of work elves would do nicely. They can live under my bed between the fire escape ladder, rifle case, and Tyrannosaurus-sized dust bunnies. Cozy!

5. Some electrified fencing, in case number two isn’t workable.

6. Another blue tarp. That was a joke, Santa. (I was going more for deep belly laugh, rather than outright shock, dearest Santa, so apologies if my humor was unfunny.) Would it be too much to ask if you would, for the sake of beauty, neighborly relations (see picture), and peace on earth, please replace all those blue tarps with brown ones?

7. Catalogs for seed/plant companies that actually ship to our forsaken state. We are part of mainland America. This fact seems to have escaped the notice of some mail order companies. I’ve received calls from nurseries telling me sadly, after I’ve placed an order, that “we don’t ship to Alaska.”

“But your catalog says you ship to the U.S. and Canada.”

“Except Alaska.”

Well, that grieves me, Santa. Were we, or were we not, granted statehood in 1959? And more importantly, I really need that rare grass/heather/salvia/what-have-you and it’s just not to be found here in old A.K. I’m sure Hawaiian gardeners know how I feel. They are nursery shipping outcasts as well. Aloha!

8. Plants that repel politicians and door-to-door salespeople. I’d place a few (OK, twenty) on my front porch. Don’t say red geraniums already do that, Santa, that’s just an urban garden legend. And Santa, the plant has to let Girl Scouts selling cookies through. I love the Thin Mints and the Samoas, which you must admit, dear sir, are heaven in a manufactured food item. One final note: the plant should be absolutely toxic to men peddling magazines.

9. A perfume that, when spritzed into the breeze, carries itself to the nearest non-gardening neighbors, and infects them with a rabid desire to not only beautify their property with plantings, but to haul off the rusted-out snow machines and ancient truck on blocks. I’m still mulling over ideas on a name for this miraculous scent. How about we go halvesies on the patent, Santa?

10. This one is a grab bag, Santa, you pick: a spare pair of felcos, pair of well-made wellies in (gulp) purple or green, lumber for a fence, or new garden gloves.

I have been a good gardener, you can check your list twice! (Just stick to your naughty/nice list and avoid the police blotter and certain of my relatives and we’re golden.)

Sincerely yours,

Christine B.

The Last Frontier Gardener

What’s on your list?

A Series of Unfortunate Events, Hurricane Included

2011-12-12T06:18:00.000-08:00

Despite the gloomy sounding title, I guess I’m lucky. The tree did not crash through the bedroom window, the trampoline did not mow over a pedestrian on it’s way to the neighbor’s ditch, and the computer is merely in a coma, versus flat lined. However, a blizzard has just been announced by the National Weather Service, so there’s that.

Our desktop (say that slowly with me now, children: “desktop”) computer has been with us many years. The way this machine behaves, you’d think it was a thrift store find, but my husband assures me we bought it retail, at about the time the Russians sold Alaska to the United States of America. I am now typing on newer technology: a laptop that was manufactured circa Alaska gaining statehood (we’re the 49th state, in case you were wondering).

The old desktop was very slow, and occasionally provoked me by freezing up or flat out refusing to be switched off. Writing blog posts was especially agonizing. The race was on to get my nonsense typed out before the great beast froze up on me. Something once eminently useful, now a piece of junk.

When people think Alaska, “hurricane” is not the first word to spring to mind. Maybe “earthquake” or “wild animals eating one’s garbage” or even “cold, miserable, dark wasteland on the tundra” though I’m just speculating, of course. Mother Nature threw us a curve ball yet again last Saturday, blowing in an unseasonal, warm(ish) wind from the south. Not a gentle wind, mind you. I’m not opposed to a little gentle wind as long as it gives a little body to my limp mane. This Chinook wind took things to extreme.

We prepared as best we could as the wind started up. Then the rain/snow came. Sideways. The front window sprung a leak. Mister Fix It was blown off his ladder trying to seal it with silicone it in the dark. Don’t worry, he is tall, so the landing was shorter.

However, that naughty trampoline rolled or flew or got up and walked through a formerly impenetrable thicket of alders and landed in a heap at the neighbor’s. What little form and function left was reduced to nil after the head ATV driver pulled it back through the alders with a winch attached to the four-wheeler. It is now completely retired from all jumping activities (see above picture), and on a related note, we have acquired ample metal to practice welding modern garden art. Something once useful, now a piece of junk.

We awoke (if you can call tossing and turning, and waking at every big gust sleeping) to a tree blocking our garages and driveway. The tree was kind enough to break halfway up the trunk, so there was a mere thirty feet of it to fly through the air and land on our roof and bash our (new) gutter on it’s way down.

As we walked through the ‘hood admiring the damage the next day: at least a dozen large white spruce, a couple of which were blocking driveways or roads, a few birches, and an entire roof of shingles on one home. Poor sap, hope he had insurance. A little further down the hill, I spied a chimney blown over, a first for me. Those of you in windy areas, no laughing now! I’ve never experienced winds over 100 mph (I’m not counting those breakneck amusement park rides at Universal Studios) in my life, so the wonder and destruction of it all amazes me.

*Update: as I tap this masterpiece whilst my house is literally shaking from the wind, we are enjoying the first blizzard of the season, with 1/4 mile visibility. And along with another dose of 100mph winds. Is the Apocalypse near? I hope not, I haven’t tried growing artichokes yet….

Got hurricanes? Blizzards? Ill-tempered computers?

Caught up in events beyond my control, as usual

2011-10-24T05:12:00.000-07:00

I suppose dirty diapers or stomach upset fall into this category as well. But I am really referring to several agenda items to canvas from my recent jaunt to Florida. Plants will be mentioned, if only to maintain my claim to the subcategory “garden blog”. (Really, I should just have done with it and call this a blog about nothing.)

Firstly, a lifelong Alaskan doesn’t often look so sharp in 90 degrees Fahrenheit. A partially melted ice cream sundae looks more put together. I did my best by packing my newly acquired linen clothing (why do I need linen in Anchorage? It’s about 70F on a hot day) and channeling Katharine Hepburn.

The effect, once the sun/heat hit me, was more “celebrities without their makeup”. My bit of makeup seemed to pool up about chin level and drop in spatters onto the pavement, where I could have fried the proverbial egg. That would have been more healthful than all the donuts consumed over the course of ten days of family reunion-ing.

Secondly, I spent less time in lines that I had supposed. The longest was about an hour. The result of that wait: getting deluged to the point of actually ringing my skirt and shirt out upon exit. However, the sodden underpants were more refreshing than an adult has any right to admit.

This wet ride, Bluto’s Bilgewater (or something like that) at Universal Studios, was a true water ride. As in, you will be taking a lot of water home or down the path at least, and an hour later, will still be looking as if you wet your pants. (Sorry for all the commas in this post, I blame, jetlag.) The water ride at Disneyworld a few days later was quite a letdown. Only my right sleeve was soaking wet. Just not good enough when one is melting like a pat of butter.

Thirdly, I thought nothing could be more exciting than running with the reindeer, but Florida proved me wrong. The sleepy little beach town of New Smyrna was an eye opener. Not only was I caught up in my first pub crawl (quite perplexing for a teetotaler like myself) but about half of the crawlers were clad in red dresses. Doesn’t sound so bad, and rather posh, but hairy chests bursting from scarlet satin are still rather rare in Alaska, so forgive the ignorance.

Some of the men looked rather fetching in their frocks and were brave, too. The tail end of a biker fest was being feted at the very same bars. Can’t say I saw any of the Harley Davidson crowd in a red dress, but it must be rather difficult to mount a motorcycle in a miniskirt. Me and my lot of squares just ate our yogurts (bacon flavor-who knew there was such a thing?) and watched the crowd, secretly expecting someone would be thrown through the front window of a bar before our eyes.

Fourthly, (is that a word?) what’s with all the houseplants? Types I beg and threaten in turns grow into the sidewalk cracks here with a jungle-like abandon. The shopping malls in Florida even have better landscape fodder than the most blooming and lush specimens here in Alaska. (I didn’t see any dandelions. There, that’s one thing we grow better!) I freely admit it: I am jealous of all this botanical vigor.

Fifthly, and lastly, a rundown of things I learned:

*wear sunscreen, stupid!

*do NOT eat at Pinocchio’s cafeteria two times in a row

*if wearing a skirt on a wild amusement park ride, use hands to hold down skirt unless you have a desire to flash everyone (I really am sorry about that!)

*try a frozen Butterbeer, after, I repeat, after you ride Harry Potter’s Forbidden Journey

*perfect the art of pulling out your swimsuit wedgies as quickly as possible, so as not to flash everyone, yet again (so sorry, but I know you water park life guards have seen worse) at the bottom of the breakneck speed waterslide

*I (still) do not fare so well on long plane rides. Orlando to Seattle: sanity in question, Seattle to Anchorage: insane, but welcome home

I loved Florida so much I was almost pressed into buying a timeshare. Too bad twelve airplane hours with my six-foot frame cramped and near starvation (you call those peanuts sustenance?!) are what separates us. I think I’ll try the west coast for the next family vacation. Or even better, maybe somewhere within driving distance…I’m turning into a travel grump.

Vacation tips? Places you love to visit?

*Blurry picture with a portion of the red dress pub crawlers includes my brother-in-law, who insisted upon posing with this group

Well. That was quick.

2011-09-28T05:59:00.000-07:00

A faithful reader in the northwest USA gently berated yours truly for being so spotty about writing the blog lately. Duly chastened and slightly abashed, I disciplined myself to ponder pertinent Alaska gardening topics. Just moments later I was done pondering and a sense of finality settled into my brain. We’re all done here.

Of course I’m speaking of summer, and not of the mental state of Alaskans at large (though this might also be apt). A few days ago some ominous-looking cloudy riff raff deposited dandruff on the lofty peaks to the east. I suppose it must be snow but I’m not hiking up there to find out. Curses! The termination dust is here!

For those unfamiliar with the term, it has nothing to do with Arnold Schwarzenegger, nor unsightly accumulations of particles under your bed. Opinions vary, and if I were one for research I would find out which is the most plausible (or on a good day, factual). However, Camp A insists the term “termination dust” was coined by those souls who believed the first dusting of snow on the mountains signaled the end of an all too brief summer. Camp B shrilly maintains that the reference actually comes from the practice of laying off (firing) seasonal workers at the end of the summer.

I’m with camp A. Our summer is about ten days long. OK, I’ll throw in that sunny day we had in May and make it eleven. By the time my petunias, dahlias, and fuchsias are reaching their peak, it seems like a crime of nature that frost should take them. (And yes, I had a banner year of growing sophisticated garden plants. Have I mentioned I grew hot pink pelargoniums, too?) So when the white stuff is sighted on yonder lofty peaks, a constriction of the airways is not uncommon in gardeners here.

Sadly, I have to announce I put my containers away for the year. (Now, now, dry your eyes.) It seemed only natural after mowing the lawn one final time last night. There was perfectly good icy blue Lobelia growing in one particularly fine container. Good (as opposed to ratty, rip it out posthaste) Lobelia in September is akin to a good hair day without using conditioner: good luck.

This particular container was a study in texture, or at least, that’s what I told myself as I rammed different blue leaved plants into the dirt with little method and most likely a spot of madness this spring. The lobelia was a surprise. I don’t usually (OK, ever) use it as it’s been done to death in my city and can be fussy on sunny days with it’s watering requirements. I picked it up at a nursery that was offering a free 6-pack for Mother’s Day. What gardener can resist a pack of free plants? Apparently, not I. Heaven help me if they start offering some kind of weed for free.

Anyone a fan of the children’s book “Goodnight Moon” by Margaret Wise Brown? An homage in the spirit of the season, by the Last Frontier Gardener:

Goodnight grass Goodnight mower cutting the grass

Goodnight sunlight and the red afternoon

Goodnight grizzly bears

Goodnight lawn chairs

Goodnight outdoor sittin’ and hello mittens

Set back clocks and put on wool socks

Goodnight garden tool abuse and hello cranky, hungry moose

Goodnight fork and goodnight hoe

Goodnight nobody Goodnight grow

And hello to the cold wind whispering “snow”

Hello bright stars Goodnight warm air

Goodbye summer everywhere

No doubt Lord Byron looks down fondly on me now. Or else he’s getting ready to hurl a lightening bolt. I don’t often feel poetic so this is a rare treat for you all. If I get any more complaints, gentle or otherwise, I may riff on “Back in Black” by AC/DC. So there, you’ve been warned. Bundle up, winter is coming.

Are you ready for the next season? Or content and hoping it will never end?

Why do I curl up in the fetal position, you ask?

2011-09-05T05:07:00.000-07:00

If that particular pose isn’t your thing, a primal scream is a good equivalent. On several occasions in the past month, I’ve caught myself in the midst of a fervent wish to be: 1. locked in a padded, dark room, 2. myself, about two seconds earlier, before I’d seen/heard the horror, or 3. shopping for expensive leather goods.

The only feasible choice at the moment is rather impractical. The attic is somewhat padded (I should know, I spent my birthday loading a hopper with cellulose insulation whilst the husband used the long hose to blow it all around the bottom of the attic. Happy birthday to me!) and certainly dark. I don’t have the energy to procure a ladder, boost the ceiling hatch, and fling myself into the void up there. Though no doubt that would be something to write about and very entertaining to watch.

Things I would have rather not seen, in no particular order:

1. the giant, gaping hole in my floor. And wall. And ceiling. And in that chasm, a leaking pipe from the kitchen sink that has probably been leaking for 25 years. The moisture and decaying food bits were supporting their own little ecosystem. Strange looking flies lifted off en masse, mold flourished, and spiders scuttled out of sight. What with the bamboo flooring ripped out, carelessly tossed into a pile of long sheaves and the stink emanating from the darkness below, it was too much for me. I walked back the way I came in a haze and resolved never to respond to “Honey, I think you need to see this” ever in the course of my whole life.

2. those yellow leaves on the wild cottonwood (Populus balsamifera) trees. At first, such infrequent sightings were forcefully brushed off as disease or a result of all the rain we’ve had in August. Now there is no denying it: vandals are spray painting all the leaves around town a bright gold! The nerve of some people. A simple soul in the home dared bring up the word “autumn” and the result was just shy of apoplexy. “Mommy, why are you clenching your teeth and tearing your hair like that?”

3. a story and X-ray of a gardening mishap so horrifying that I must caution you of feeble stomach not to visit this link. To prepare you, a quote from one of the surgeons, Dr. Lynn Polonski: “It was wedged in there so tightly, you could not move it. It was part of his face.” I will never look at, much less carry my felco hand pruners in quite the same way. I say, he’s lucky to be alive and if his lady friend and team of surgeons ever let him garden again, I recommend a pair of child-sized safety scissors, welder’s shield, and ten-foot tongs to carry any gardening paraphernalia.

So in the last 30 days, I’ve had thrown in my face the awful fact that my basement is a smelly man trap supporting new, unnamed lower life forms, winter is coming in a week or so, and gardening can kill you. Does curling up into a ball on the floor sound so bad?

*Pictures taken at the Alaska State Fair in Palmer last week.

What scares the pants off of you?

A river runs through it, sort of

2011-08-15T05:48:00.000-07:00

Let it never be said that this garden blogger is unresponsive. One reader in Olympia wrote (and I paraphrase) “enough with the dipnetting…why haven’t you written lately?” So I hereby promise not to write about odd Alaskan pastimes for at least two weeks.

You’ll be pleased to know the house paint is on, the gutters are up, and the dirt work is done(ish). I am now in the market for a dry streambed, slightly more exciting and quite a bit more attractive than a mud chute, which is the current incarnation.

I know the neighbors are pleased. We have large windows in the living room that I like to spy from, and cars have slowed to almost a complete stop. I witnessed one neighbor enter a vehicle in her driveway and proceed to drive by slowly to snoop. Then she turned around and drove back home. She lives approximately 20 paces down the road, so a special trip just to see our progress put a smile on my face. (Actually, more of a guffaw, but that’s not polite now, is it?)

Lucky for me the latest issue of Fine Gardening (October 2011, if you must know) had four whole pages on how to construct a natural looking dry streambed, imaginatively entitled “How to build a dry streambed” by Jeff Snyder. We read that Mr. Snyder has actual experience with rocks. What a strange and quaint notion.

Actual experience doesn’t seem to be an impediment to writing articles and giving lectures in the gardening realm. Why we Alaskans are being treated to a special lecture by a plantsman of worldwide repute (so says the back of his book jacket) on plants that do well in Alaska. This man is not from Alaska, nor has even a seasonal residence in Alaska, more’s the pity. So just how is he supposed to get up and preach new plants for the Last Frontier? (I suppose next on his itinerary are “Plants that do well in Iceland” followed by “Plants that do well in Cuba” after which he’ll finish up with “Plants that do well in either Australia or Antarctica, take your pick.”)

He is in fact from the gardening Shangri-La of the United States, the Pacific Northwest. Those lucky gardeners down there are loving that zone 5-8 and growing every plant imaginable. (Phormiums in ground for some. Have I mentioned how much I spend to winter over my wretched purple Phormium at the nursery down the road every winter?) There is just no comparison in climate at all other than it rains, snows, and is sunny or cloudy in both places. The proportions and severity are so different I wonder that this lecturer can really recommend his “finds” with a straight face.

So here is my latest garden lecture fantasy: as the “will work in Alaska” plants are enumerated by the out-of-state gardener, I raise my hand and inquire: where in his experience has the plant been grown? Then he will say at his place, and then I will say, you mean the one about 2000 miles away in Garden Wonderland?

An absurd equivalent, to illustrate my point: I show up at some lecture in Portland and give a hoity toity presentation on what grows for me outside my igloo, therefore will grow for you in Oregon. Puh-leaze! The people would either 1. exit quickly muttering under their breath, or 2. stay for laughs. There is always option number 3. they invite me back. This seems de rigueur for certain speakers on the A-list. You are an expert on X, therefore qualified to speak on Y and Z. I’m not buying it.

Now you all know I would never cause a scene (during a garden presentation, at least…unless I was the speaker). But I am a little disappointed with the clubs/organizations that want a “big name” and expect a very regional/local experience (growing certain plants in zone 7) to be everything to everyone (aka we zone 2-4 polar bears in Alaska). Why not bring someone up from Minnesota/Wisconsin/the Dakotas or somewhere with a smidgeon of similarity in climate severity to Alaska to speak on what may also grow here.

It’s nice when the experts are experts. Or in other words, it’s nice when the experienced have experience.

Sat through any lectures that you secretly wanted to interrupt? Any favorite garden speakers?

Like a fool, back to dipnet

2011-07-27T05:22:00.000-07:00

No one ever accused the Last Frontier Gardener of being too sensible. Being in one’s right mind may in fact bar one from living in Alaska more than, say, 12 days. As I am going on my 36th year in this state, calling my sanity into question is something even I do (and in winter on a daily basis).

Luckily, I am not the only nitwit around here. Approximately 75% of Alaskans are right there with me. How do I know? Not by the prevalence of blue tarps or junk vehicles, which is damning to be sure. My made-up statistics are drawn from the fact that the hordes were drawn like locusts to the mouth of the Kenai River last weekend to dabble in that bipolar-like little pastime we call dipnetting. For my fascinating coverage from last year, go here.

But the Kenai River is a world-class fishery, you say, what’s the big deal here? Of course people are going to be drawn by the thought of catching 10, 40, 100 red salmon in a day or two. (What they do with 100 salmon is a whole other essay. The Last Frontier Garden hubby purses his lips and mutters things that sound suspiciously like “going to get freezer burned before they eat it” or “half of it’s just going to get thrown out in May.”)

The problem here is this: mixing hundreds or even thousands of tired (do you know how long we drove to get here?) Alaskans (dipnetting is a residents-only type of harvesting fish) of varied backgrounds together on a beach with 20 foot-plus net poles, sharp filet knives, fish bonking clubs, and large rocks is bound to result in some kerfuffles. Or as they say in Hollywood, there will be blood. We need a few rules.

It started out innocently enough, a wish expressed for some salmon in the freezer. By early summer, bulletins go out by radio, TV, and internet. The tension grows. Orson Welles could be announcing over the airwaves that the aliens have landed and are sucking our brains out and we’d be a less captive audience. And then the moment arrives: THE FISH ARE IN! By the time the sonar count from 19 miles up the river has been announced, it’s a free for all. An amazing 230,000 salmon already up the river to spawn by the third week in July! Emergency order by those in the know: dipnetting doesn’t close from 11pm to 6am, no sir, open 24 hours a day!

I won’t describe the traffic. Well, maybe a little, just to give those new Alaskans who haven’t yet experienced the joy of heading down to the peninsula to fish: “appalling” about covers it. The words our driver used were somewhat less civil and quite a bit more eloquent.

A vintage brown motor home from the 70’s, loafing along 20 mph under the limit was a particularly blatant offender, but was eventually passed by seven vehicles, two of which were other motor homes. Those widely ignored road signs, the ones that read “A delay of 5 or more vehicles is illegal. Use pullouts.” is expressly for motor homes (and Subarus in my opinion, tell me if I’m wrong) clogging up traffic on long drives. And the few passing lanes that appeared on our journey were turned into temporary autobahns of desperation, with every vehicle racing ahead of as many motor homes as possible and trying not to glance at the speedometer to see how close to becoming airborne they happened to be getting.

Alas, we did not take flight and the brown motor home conquered us (and those behind us) all the way through Cooper Landing and Soldotna. I see I’m losing focus here and must firmly wend my way back to writing about dipnetting. Drat. As I am under limitations here (your attention span being an important one) I will cut to the chase. Here are Christine’s Rules For Dipnetting, or Dipnetting for Dips.

1. Equipment. Basics include a dipnet, cooler, ice, filet knife, fish bonker, and waders. Some folk think these are optional. I noticed several persons fishing up to their shoulders sans waders. Did I mention we live in Alaska and the water is what we refer to as cold? Lots of things tend to shrivel after awhile in cold water, my desire to fish being one of those things.

Some had no fish bonker, and clouting a slippery, jumping fish in the head with a rock is more difficult than it sounds. The LFG hubby lost his filet knife in the hubbub on the beach after dark (luckily he’d already cut up 80% of our fish) and his folding knife was a poor substitute. Bring sharp knives, you won’t be sorry. If you catch no fish, they will come in handy for cutting up duct tape or slicing a hot dog or something.

2. Friends. Family is acceptable, too, I suppose. Remembering just where you put your fish (because you have to get right back into the water or lose your place, depending if the fishing is hot or slow), braining the fish, putting in a cooler, etc. are rather time consuming things to do, especially when the beach is covered with hundreds of people trying to do the same thing. And salmon tend to look the same. “Hey, that’s my salmon!” “No, that’s mine!”

Or even worse, not noticing when the tide is coming in and it washes your landed fish away. Save yourself some stress and have someone sit on the beach in a camp chair with a cooler and the bonker. This might be, perhaps, someone who has no interest in fishing (gasp) themselves. Some industrious sitters (not me) cut the fish up as they were caught. Saves a lot of time.

3. To walk or not to walk? Decide whether you are a walker or a stander and get in the right area. The poor LFG hubby blew a gasket or two over dips that would insert themselves and their nets into the middle of an area where people were walking against the tide in a line, and just stand there. The line then comes to a screeching halt, no doubt with a fond desire to keep going right over the new stander and rejoin the walkers on the other side.

For those that wish to stand, there are standing areas for that, usually on either side of the walking area. The point is, look around before you put your net in: what are the other dipnetters around you doing? Remember about those sharp knives and tired drivers, we don’t want to push anyone over the edge now, do we??

4. Be aware. Of others, that is. There are net people. Knife people. Club people. Little people. Dogs. Coolers. Fish. Lots of things to trip over or get struck by. Why I myself was struck with a pole and net from an overanxious dipnetter hauling out her catch. And I was sitting halfway up the beach in a chair minding my own business.

Just know this: the dipnetters probably aren’t paying much attention as they haul fish out, so if you must walk on the beach near the water, keep one eye on them and the other on the beach itself, which is littered with nets, etc. Or just go back to the tent and read a book, which I would have done, had not my electronic reader stubbornly refused to cooperate.

Well, four rules is about three too many for Alaskans, so I will just have to wait for your memories to fade by next year to write my Advanced Dipnetting Etiquette tome. Oh yeah, we caught 23 red salmon (and one pink salmon, but don’t tell anyone), about three more than I wanted, but about 100 less than the guy next to us. Fish on!

What activities need posted etiquette/guidelines? Have you ever told a stranger they were breaking an unwritten rule?

Bobbing along

2011-07-08T05:49:00.000-07:00

“Bobbing along, bobbing along on the bottom of the beautiful briny sea.” For the life of me, I can’t remember just where I heard that song. After taking my ginkgo infusion, I seem to remember that a crusty old man was singing it in a movie, but the title eludes me. I believe it must be a rather older Disney movie, but won’t swear to it.

I seem to be just bobbing along this summer, not really doing any “serious” gardening. By serious, I suppose I mean pulling weeds and occasionally fertilizing/watering my containers. Have I dead-headed a single plant? “No,” my petunias resentfully lament. “Not once,” opines the Cosmos, littered with spent flowers rivaling moldy lettuces in attractiveness. And my poor Alyssum needs the horticultural equivalent of a crash cart after three days of sun and not a drop of water. I’m a horticultural serial killer this summer.

After cruising by some home improvement stores (who am I kidding? I spend an enormous amount of time at the paint counters there. We’re down to Behr’s “Rolling Pebble” and “Elephant Skin” for our home exterior. Do cast a vote!) I noticed that most of their plants for sale are still full price. This illustrates to me just how out of touch the rest of the country’s retail schedule is with Alaska.

We are practically a different country here: call us Canada West or Southern North Pole. When July rolls around, Alaskans start that resigned sighing known as “it’s practically the end of summer”. The desperation doesn’t start ‘til August, but the cooler temps start then also. Don’t smirk, you’d be desperate if summer was only 3 months long, too!

So here we have only two more summerish months and Home Depot still wants $30 for a dahlia? I gasp at paying $12 at the beginning of summer for my favorite orange dahlia every year. Spending $30 on one annual might push me into the “society page heiress” category of plant purchasing.

I’m wondering just what the plant spending habit break down is for avid gardeners. Do most buy full price? Only on discount? Sow their own? I tend to buy annual cell packs full price, but look for deals on anything bigger than a 4” pot. Of course I occasionally splurge on the bling, like my $12 dahlia or a really unusual perennial/shrub/tree, but not often enough to call myself a plant heiress. Good grief, I can’t even be bothered this year to water what I have, I shouldn’t be thinking of acquiring more victims. “Christine, you’re needed in the plant ER, STAT!! And bring your watering can and felcos, woman.”

(Rolling Pebble on the left and Elephant Skin on the right. Adventurous, no?)

How much is too much, for a plant? Would you pay $30 for an annual?

Alaska Gardener Answers the Unanswerable

2011-06-27T05:28:00.000-07:00

My writing options this week as far as subject matter goes were, and I quote verbatim: 1. the bunny and the dandelions, 2. something about the clouds, 3. something about gardening because this is a garden blog, and 4. the tortoise almost ran away. As suggested to me by my sounding board of 12 years whilst I was collapsed in a heap regretting I had nothing to write about (again). All were rejected in favor of answering reader “questions”. Much more entertaining. And I would have to do actual research (sort of) to find out about clouds beyond what I learned from Sesame Street and the ninth grade.

I had great fun answering the search queries that led to my blog here. Now trolling keywords in blogger has become an addiction for me, along with jelly beans and cheap trowels. Judge me not…I know each one of you has a similar cringe-inducing habit. Otherwise, why the plethora of lawn gnomes, movies starring terrible actors, brisk trade in white tube socks, and extensive chocolate-themed aisles at Costco?

Query: those things in Alaska with the color

Answer: Subduing the natural urge to write “huh?” I take it to mean you are referring to blue tarps, that purple house on Hillside Drive or one of it’s many brightly hued brethren around town, or the approximately one trillion yellow dandelions around here.

Query: Keep closed unless airborne

Answer: If by keep closed, one is referring to a motor-mouth or a full purse, then I say “hear, hear.” Actually, those needn’t be opened on a plane either. I spilled the contents of my purse on a flight once and it wasn’t pretty. My favorite lip balm is probably still rolling around on some Delta flight, tripping up little old ladies in velour track suits. And as for the blabby guy with the carrying voice that seems to be on every red-eye flight I am, well, I guess I didn’t need those five hours of sleep anyway.

Query: trees that moose won’t eat

Answer: I’ll let you know if I hear of one. Even if they won’t eat it, they can still snap off all the leaders or mar it in some other conspicuous way before determining the tree is not snack worthy (my poor, poor Prunus maackii trees will never be the same). Stick with evergreens, kid, and you may have a chance.

Query: alaska, when to give up on perennials

Answer: When you spend more time spraying, dividing, and coddling them than with your family, job, and other hobbies combined. Have the Extension Service do a soil test. Are you trying to grow them in construction backfill or a swamp? And try the easy ones first. In Alaska that’s Trollius and Iris. Take a garden class at one of the nurseries. Pick a veteran gardener’s brain. Enroll in the Master Gardener course. Say it with me: “I can do it.”

Query: gas station plants

Answer: No. You can’t make me.

Query: difficult neighbors and fences

Answer: If I had the answer to this, I’d be richer than Bill Gates, more revered than Mother Theresa, and probably a top advisor to the President of the United States. I think this problem is ubiquitous, and generally speaking, difficult neighbors will still be difficult whether or not there is a fence involved. So why not get the fence and then you will see/hear less of them. I prefer a ten-foot brick wall with razor wire running along the top and accompanied by a drooling pack of mastiffs, but strangely enough city ordinances frown on this approach. If all else fails, try cookies or homemade bread.

I’d like to thank all of those earnest searchers out there who were brave enough to tap out their heart’s desires, I’d like to thank Google for referring them here, and I’d like to thank you all for reading this goofy blog. Next week, I really must write something about gardening. Or perhaps I’ll run out of time (as usual) and be left with one of these lovelies: “Strolling with Stratus,” “Counting the Cumulus,” or maybe “The Nimble Nimbus.”

Do you search for garden answers on the internet? In books? Or in person?

I’m just a little black rain cloud

2011-06-15T05:54:00.000-07:00

Now how many of you finished that phrase with “hovering over the honey tree” or some other Winnie the Pooh nonsense? Today’s twittering (in the old fashioned but non-avian sense) is all about what to do when it’s pouring, drizzling, driving, or pelting rain.

For me, the answer should be: not gardening. I imagine all that fabulous soil structure (I’m an optimist) I would be compressing to bits whilst tramping about. Instead of “think of the children,” I think of the pore spaces and that precious oxygen. Anyway, the children are in the basement watching “The Andy Griffith Show” reruns, so they will give me (a few giggles and) no grief.

Those fellow gardeners inhabiting famously dampish climates are no doubt old pros at what to do when even the briefest excursions must involve galoshes, trench coat, umbrella, wet suit, and snorkel. If they don all that to garden, they get a gold star and a pair of wool socks from me. We get a mere 16” a year of precipitation, so technically, I’m a desert dweller. In a parka.

So far, on this rainy day I have:

consumed a pack of Skittles
changed from my shorts and short-sleeved shirt to a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt (I know, classy)
got suckered by an online sale and spent way too much time deciding if that cute cropped jacket was in fact “my” yellow or would make me look jaundiced
made my bed, then got back into it (don’t worry, I managed to eject myself from it’s cocooning coziness for a second time)
noticed the tortoise did his business
scrounged the house looking for that giant jar of jelly beans that was (too successfully) hidden from me last night
looked at the dead leaves and other outdoor debris on my white living room carpet, and thought “I should vacuum”

I did manage to comb my hair, but thought it was too trivial to mention in my list. So you don’t get a wrong impression of me (I’m only lethargic on days when it’s cold, rainy, snowy, or hot), yesterday, a cloudy but dry day, I managed to spend a couple hours outside jack hammering dandelions out of the lawn. Note to self: wear gloves next time, dummy!

We have about 8 more hours of “lawn vs. weed” labor…and then the back yard. I’m thinking of investing in either 1. a flamethrower, industrial size, or 2. a large earth mover, whereupon I will bury about ~~50%~~ 85% of the lawn and plant trees, shrubbery, and ornamental grasses. While I’m dreaming, I might as well have a pony. (But not a Shetland, I’ve heard they are mean….)

This is a strange day and a strange post. I seem to have both done and written pretty much nothing. I’m not even making dinner tonight. We’re having leftovers. Hurrah for inclement weather and Winnie the Pooh. Silly old blog.

What do you do on a rainy day? Do you garden in the rain?

Shameless promotion: in Alaska this weekend??

2011-06-08T14:37:00.001-07:00

Every year in June (the 11th & 12th this year), the garden event of the year unfolds off of Tudor and Campbell Airstrip Road. Yes, I tapped that out with a straight face. Now Alaskan’s know that our gardening scene is a more subdued affair than a similar event in say, Seattle, Portland, Connecticut, England or any other big hotbed of horticulture. But though we are few, we are just as ready to spend our dough on plants, trinkets, and art for the garden.

Some of the art is, as art tends to be, subject to the viewer’s taste. Our city has a different bunch of artists decorate fiberglass salmon every year. They resulting “pieces” (I’m using arty language here) are then salted throughout Anchorage. The Botanical Garden got one last year, and as you can see above, the placement at a public garden was only natural. Besides the “high fahlutin’ art” for sale at the garden fair, there is quite a selection in the more modest “trinket” category, as seen below.

There are scads of well-known plant vendors/growers/nurserypersons lining the walkways and hawking choice selections. But don’t forget to stop by the ABG’s own plant nursery and gift shop. As a courtesy, they offer a plant holding area, much like babysitting for plants, only the babysitter’s are volunteers. I am proud to be a humble sitter of leafy greens for the past…well, more years than I care to say. It’s like shopping vicariously and none of the guilt at the end of the day. “Can you believe he bought that thing?” or “Where did you find that? You say it’s the last one?? Nooooo!” Well, something like that, anyway.

If you have all the plants you care to own (is there a gardener out there that can really say that?), enjoy the multitudinous offering of classes, presentations, and informational booths. There are even classes for the kids at the “Children’s Village.” And if music is your thing, imagine wandering through a delightful woodland with live music wafting through the trees. Now I realize some think music can’t waft, it can only drift, permeate, or float, but I’m hear to tell you it can indeed “waft.” I get a kick out of the bagpipers when they wander through. It’s like that flick Braveheart without all the blue paint and Mel Gibson.

Now, now, I know you’re freaking out at this point: “Where’s the food, woman? We can’t mill around without food.!” Simmer down, there is a very reputable food court that offers such tantalizing morsels as chocolate dipped ice cream bars covered in sugared pecans. (Pardon me as I dab up a spot of drool.) I also favor the reindeer sausages, but for those that frown on cooking up Santa’s fleet, the menus and cuisine run the whole gamut.

Those savvy ABG folk, they’ve thought of everything. Lots of portable toilets, so no mad dashes for the car on that account. Plenty of wagons to tote loads to the car. Oh wait, you’ll probably be riding a bus there, as the parking lot nearby is way too small. The shuttles run continuously, so if you have to wait, it won’t be for long. There are usually pickups at the Alaska Club and the Troopers parking lot. Check ABG’s website for more details.

Just remember to bring your umbrella, bug dope, sunglasses, camera, Uncle Ted, kitchen sink, and discretionary funds for the Alaska Botanical Garden’s annual Garden and Art Fair. And don’t forget to say hello to me and the plant sitting crew in the Plant Holding area from 9:30-12:30 on Saturday morning. Arrive early for the best selection (and smallest crowd).

Hours: Saturday-11-6, Sunday-11-5, members only preview Sat. 10am

Going to a garden fair this summer? Have all the plants you need? Favorite fair food?

I guess I’m still insane

2011-06-01T06:26:00.000-07:00

How else to explain the weekend spend marinating in bug spray, smelling like the proverbial bull got loose in a chemist’s laboratory, and with a clothing-permeating, heavy dusting of partially combusted spruce trees?

I know I’m not the only one that lost my marbles and went camping this Memorial Day weekend. How do I know, you ask. Why else the miles long processional featuring motor homes, motorbikes, and fifth-wheels, boats of all shapes and bikes strapped to every auto extremity, and absolute impossibility of fueling up at the gas station without a long wait? It’s a fact of life, long weekends mean camping here.

Normally, I would say long weekends mean fishing here, but the big runs of salmon haven’t quite come in yet in south-central Alaska. Once they do, abandon all hope, ye who drive out of town on the weekends. Your drive time will be sluggish, nearly as much so as the behemoth motor homes that could be mistaken for greyhound buses on steroids. (Except the motor homes have tricked out interiors that resemble a Vegas casino lounge. If I ever win the lottery, I'll be sure and buy myself one of those palaces on wheels to “camp” in, but mostly to hold traffic up by crawling at a rate of speed Fred Flintstone’s ride could beat. Step on it, would you?!)

Some high points: 1. sighted 24 bald eagles fishing on the mud flats for hooligan at low tide, a first for me, 2. we were able to get one of only two spaces left at the Black Bear campground near Portage Glacier, 3. I didn’t forget the pink and white frosted animal crackers, which would have been, as a grown man put it “a crisis”, and 4. we had a seventy degree day, maybe the “best day of the summer” as another grown man put it. Dreary thought, as summer doesn’t start officially for another three weeks. And in Alaska, perhaps not even then. (All together now: knock on wood!)

Some low points: 1. the dratted barking dogs, all night long, 2. my sleeping bag was, shall we say, insufficiently warm, 3. wood smoke in my eyes for an extended period, and 4. the absolute worst Kevin Costner movie I’ve ever seen, which is saying something. Might I suggest when one goes camping, if a movie is in order, pass by “The New Daughter”. My eyes/brain are still cramping up from the experience.

Still, the taste of an ooey, gooey, slightly burnt marshmallow and it’s attendant graham cracker and chocolate bar make up for a lot. Perhaps not Kevin Costner’s movie, but close. And the feeling of exhilaration from a bike ride literally over the river and through the woods was worth something. It won’t build the enamel back that I ground from my teeth whilst watching the movie, alas. I must be crazy for watching it to the end.

Seen a bad movie? Camping tips?

Babysitter's Dilemma: Tortoise or Hare?

2011-05-23T12:59:00.000-07:00

A blindingly obvious choice for anyone that has 1. raised a child, 2. taught kindergarten, or 3. seen how fast a hare actually moves. Do I commit to tend a slow reptile that drinks/eats every other day, makes a sloth look hasty, and needs cleanup every three days? Or do I take the (admittedly geriatric) highly strung bunny, that needs daily feeding and watering, clean bedding, cuddling, treats like fresh carrots and rutabagas, and probably a big pink bow as well?

We have the tortoise. A shock to all, I realize. Some members of the family were expecting a small, hand sized creature, harking back to pet turtles of yore that never quite managed survival and attainment of greater girth. We tend what can be termed a largish dinner plate with chubby, clawed legs. Weight watchers may not be out of the question, for the blasted thing might weigh twenty five pounds.

Such an alarming pet, for such a slow and gentle beast. We must wash our hands after every contact, even the most casual. Salmonella is a bit catching, says our local tortoise whisperer. Now conversations around the house are likely to be punctuated with “and wash your hands! With soap! For more than seven seconds!!” Mealtimes are even less pleasant, more like interrogations. “Did you wash your hands?! Let me see! If you’re not telling the truth, you could get very, very sick” and etc.

[Change of topic, because I feel constrained to mention: I planted my containers last weekend, and risk the wrath of Nature/Murphy’s Law/certain Alaskan garden experts by planting out early. We shall see who has the last laugh. For all the pesos I spent on annuals this year, I sure hope it’s me. Back to compelling tortoise narrative.]

A dog wandered into the front yard on Saturday, and it was as if the Russian army had been discovered swarming the coast (I can see Russia from my place, you know….). The five alarm klaxon went off. Adults were hollered at to protect the tortoise, who, blithely ignorant of his impending doom, was roaming the yard at the speed of molasses. Fortunately, the aged, drooling Labrador was driven off and “Tort” was spared.

Our “rent-a-pet”, for lack of a better word, is summering with us. For his day job during the school year, he spends time amongst children aged 3-5 years old, gadding about the preschool room, avoiding craft projects involving paint or hole punches. I came to a realization last week, at approximately the same time I was loading Tort’s coffee table-sized habitat into the truck. I am one of those sucker parents, that takes the class pet because no one else volunteers for it. I felt sorry for a tortoise. At least the class pet wasn’t a wolverine, a rhinoceros, or a blue whale. I suppose I’ll be president of the PTA next….

Any strange pets? Been subjected to a guilt trip?

A chuckle (at another’s expense, of course!)

2011-05-16T05:22:00.000-07:00

I found myself in quite a quandary a couple of days ago. My Friday evening was spent, spade in hand, lifting perennials. How sublime, you’re thinking. Not really. I fit about three wheelbarrows’ worth of plants into one load. Very irresponsible, but quite efficient. What’s the quandary, woman, you’re now thinking. Well, the owner of the said perennials mentioned I could take as many as I wanted as she was moving and turning the house into a rental. The problem? I have nowhere to put them. At all.

On to new and totally unrelated topic: Fellow bloggers, have you ever checked under “Search Keywords” and discovered just what phrases tapped into a search engine led a person to your blog? It’s such fun! I often wonder if said person feels quite deceived when they land on my blog, as I’m sure the poor sap who searched for “buy miniature evergreens” did. No evergreens for sale here, my good man. In fact, you’d have a dickens of a time finding any in the state of Alaska. But I’d check Faltz Nursery if I were you….

I feel as a courtesy I should be attempting to answer at least some of the queries, and address (if humanly possible) the statements, however bizarre. (Long time readers know I make “bizarre” something of a specialty.) So without further blather, I give you actual, real examples of search terms that led people to my blog.

Search: When can I plant in the ground in Anchorage, Alaska?

Answer: The jaded Alaskan gardener in me wants to answer “about three weeks before the first snow flies” but I mustn’t be bitter, so instead I write: Wait a bit. The traditional planting out date is Memorial Day weekend (last weekend in May), so a couple of weeks yet for most ornamentals. For cheaters (like myself) as soon as the birch leaf out…so pretty much anytime now. Also, the soil in containers is warmer than the ground, so I plant my containers early as a general rule.

My lawyer tells me I need a disclaimer, so here goes. Disclaimer: Anchorage has had late frosts in June before, so you’ve been warned. Don’t blame me if you plant early and your heliotrope turns brown or your impatiens go to mush. It’s risky, I tell you, risky!

Search: What can I have in my yard that the moose won’t eat?

Answer: A grizzly bear, a blue tarp, or a rusted out Chevy Camaro. Old timers also swear by tall fences, junkyard dogs, and Plantskydd, a blood-based repellant. Good luck.

Search: “Sneezy” from Snow White psychological disorders

Answer: Blame your parents, kid, everyone else does. That’s what I get for writing a post about Snow White. Which coincidentally is my most popular post. Go figure. Here’s a tip- write a post about a Disney character, prominently mentioned in your title, and prepare to have all blog records broken. Disney isn’t a brand, it’s a cult. (If anyone has tips for visiting Disneyworld, let me know. I am being forced to go in October. I’ll need a double ration of Paxil.)

Search: “Garden whirligigs”

Answer: No thanks. But if they tickle your (ulp!) fancy, head down to Alaska Mill, Feed, and Garden Center. They have an unrivaled assortment. Hopefully my neighbors aren’t reading this. If they are, I say, “I am already dealing with your badly behaved dogs, don’t you dare add whirligigs to the mix!”

Search: snow garden pictures

Answer: If you figure out how to garden in the snow, let me know. I assume a snow garden picture is as easy to find as a documented sighting of a sasquatch. If you’re referring to strong design and lots of evergreens making a garden interesting under snow, well, why didn’t you say so?

Question: And just what did I do with that aforementioned barrow load of perennials?

Answer: There are nestled in a blue tarp, one on top of the other all higgledy piggledy inside the wheelbarrow. No fence to keep out bunnies and moose. No safe ground (we have some drainage issues and need to do some re-grading). At this point, I’m thinking a few bags of compost inside the abandoned dog run, heel in, water, and call it good. Or maybe I’ll search for “place to plant perennials when there is no place to plant” and land on one of your blogs….

Questions? Answers? Amusement park tips or horror stories?

Are the oldies goodies? You decide.

2011-05-09T06:38:00.000-07:00

Every area has it’s classics, the plants that are de rigueur, be the home a cottage or manor house. Sighting one of these standbys can conjure up feelings of nostalgia, reminiscences of the hardships endured by the pioneers to the area, and satisfaction at the longevity of perennials.

Such plants can also inspire dread at the chores involved (pests, staking, fertilizing, etc.), disdain at the short flowering season and uninteresting foliage, and resignation at the futility of trying to introduce/try/share the joys of growing something new or different in the area. But this is supposed to be a touchy-feely post, so I shan’t dwell on that last bit. Onward, to Alaska’s most time honored perennials.

1. Delphiniums. We grow these better than anyone, save perhaps the English. A staking nightmare, but we can’t have everything now can we? (Though a gardening staff would be helpful if you’re growing more than three.) Watch out for Delphinium defoliators as well. In many colors and flavors: white, green, blue, purple, pink. Don’t even get me started on “bee” colors. Lots of choices.

2. Trollius. If it likes the spot, it may seed around a bit. Emerges earlier in the spring, a bonus for Alaska when all we have to look at is brown dirt. The classic yellow gold and orange colors are pretty common, but if you’re searching for something a bit less conspicuous, try the creamy ‘Cheddar’.

3. Iceland Poppy. Or Papaver nudicaule, for those that speak Latin. The Iceland poppy is so happy here, it seeds around in ditches. The most often sighted colors are orange, yellow, and white, but they come in a range of warm tones. Buy in flower, as they are most often grown and sold as mixed colors. Look out for the more unusual champagne, peach, or scarlet.

4. Siberian iris. Many have a fondness for Iris sibirica, I must conclude, as I see them in nearly every Alaska garden. The Siberian iris will be here, along with cockroaches, and coyotes, after a nuclear annihilation. It is tough. We have a native iris also occurring in large numbers on the Palmer Hay Flats and surrounds, Iris setosa. It is very lovely and occurs in purple and blue shades (and the occasional white). Needs division pretty frequently to look it’s best.

5. Bleeding heart. Good old Dicentra spectabilis, never lets you down in the shade. Seeds a bit when it’s happy, too. I had the white flowered form growing in rocky crevices at my old place. So sublime in spring! Not much happening after flowering….

6. Geraniums, called cranesbills by some, are represented by four species here, including an introduced weed (thanks a lot!) from across the pond. This pioneer plant, brought into the garden from the forest, is G. erianthum. Seen in light violet and occasionally white. I know it’s not PC, but I prefer cultivars like ‘Johnson’s Blue’. I’ve found the native plants a bit sparse foliage-wise and shy of flowering. [There, I said it. The native plant purists, with accompanying sharpened trowels and pitchforks, may now be sent for…. ]

7. Ox-eye daisy, or Leucanthemum vulgare, or whatever the taxonomists are calling it today. White flowering and often found growing in ditches. People often lift it (or the birds plant it) and it can become quite a nuisance in cultivation. Don’t you be fooled. A weed.

8. Columbine, or Aquilegia. Very common, and very charming in a mix of colors. Not much going on after bloom, except defoliators and leaf miners. Hooray?

9. Pasque flower, or Pulsatilla vulgaris, is a spring bloomer, most often sighted flowering in white or purple, but also available in pink or red. I love the fuzzy look of this one and surprise, the seed heads are interesting as well. Rather a shocking trait in a spring bloomer, at least to this jaded gardener.

10. Meadow rue, another one Alaskans grow better than anyone (why are all such plants requirers of arduous and complicated staking?), comes in a range of sizes. If you’re Latin, you call this one Thalictrum. There was a specimen of T.rochebrunianum (Lavender mist) at the Alaska Botanical Garden that must have been nine or ten feet tall. Boy, did I feel sorry for the poor sap that had to stake that thing. A lot of work for not much payoff, in my humble opinion. Try one of the smaller species unless you enjoy staking plants.

Luckily, at my new place, we’ve only numbers 2 through 4, so the staking chores are still nonexistent. Now what to do with the hundreds of Iceland poppies popping up everywhere?! Guess I’d better get the hoe out, or have a plant sale….

What are the classics in your area, and do you like them? Alaskans, did I miss any?

Trump, trinkets, and trash…not in that order

2011-05-02T05:21:00.000-07:00

This post is written under extreme duress. Currently, “The Celebrity Apprentice,” brainchild of Mr. Donald “Wheaties in my hair” Trump, is playing loudly in the background as I vainly try to type a coherent sentence, or at least, one that doesn’t involve the phrase “you’re fired.” I would turn it off, but Father’s Day is coming up, and this counts (in my book) as a generous gift.

I think I was set to write something about the annual citywide Cleanup Day (which is actually a week), how I filled six bright orange bags with trash alongside a freeway, and what interesting bits and bobs I discovered along the way. How difficult this task has become, as I try to block out the sounds and sights of our cultural heroes. “Low down, dirty back stabbin’…she been vicious, honey….” Who could not admire a person that says all this in front of a table full of peers and the Donald plus a national audience, and in a manner that implies the subject of the diatribe is not in fact two places down the table from the ranter.

OK, the channel was changed momentarily to a “Closer” rerun, so I am able to tap out a few pertinent sentences. In my experience (and I’ve been doing cleanup day since I was a kid), the type of rubbish depends on the area of town. I cleaned an area of downtown once (15th and Denali, for those that want to know) and my top three finds were 1. a used drug needle, 2. a pornographic magazine, 3. a used prophylactic, and 4. a car stereo. Quite a haul. Next time I clean there, I’ll bring my industrial sized tongs and a HAZMAT suit.

My finds this year were rather less exciting. Top picks: safety goggles in great shape, an ice scraper, two golf balls, and a race car-themed kids shoe. I usually find money every year, too. Not so this year. I suppose my site next to the freeway is to blame. The trash is more of the fast food, beer bottle, mattress, and broken bumper variety. A road near a high school is the way to go if you want to find money. Dollar bills are common, but once I found a ten. Who says virtue is it’s own reward?

The Donald and team are back, so I can no longer refrain from mentioning that one of the contestants has dark glasses on at all times (and most unfortunately, poor soul, teeth that resemble mahjong tiles). Isn’t there a song about “…a future so bright you gotta wear shades?” And is landing on “The Celebrity Apprentice” indicative of a bright future? Another struggles to grasp the basics of the English language. Endearing in a two year old or immigrant to this nation, depressing in a born and raised adult U.S. citizen in an industry and role that puts them in the public eye.

Next year, I must remember to bring an extra pair of latex gloves, as picking up slimy cardboard and dripping wet fast food bags with ripped up gloves is akin to picking up slugs with bare hands. Who does that? The Last Frontier Gardener is admittedly squeamish with slime, but the whole experience was improved by a medium coating of road dust from head to toe, wind blowing said dust in my face, and the beep, beep of friendly passersby.

I’m now hearing a commercial for a beauty product, hawked by a well known thirtysomething actress that appears to be untouched by age, sun, or the genetics of aging. I bitterly console myself that strong, bright light will do that. I should have the kids tote movie lighting around after me, or wear dark glasses everywhere, indoors even. She asks “how do I stay young?” OK, that’s it. I can’t hear any more. And now “Two and Half Men” is on. Must turn off TV and have a primal scream.

How do you stay young? Any Trump, TV, or trash lately?

Neighbor versus neighbor’s tarp

2011-04-18T06:39:00.000-07:00

I thought of entitling the piece “Spy vs. spy”. So much more catchy. Alas, nothing to do with the topic, but regular readers know that rarely deters me. In my humble hometown of Anchorage, Alaska, we have exactly one daily newspaper, The Anchorage Daily News. I receive said paper on a daily basis and peruse it with mild interest. Not so this Sunday afternoon.

No doubt most garden bloggers are writing about spring. Sensible, and most welcome after a long winter. Since my spring news consists of the latest triangulations for measuring snow cover, counts on moist doggy land mines (I’m up to six, but there is still plenty of snow….), and tracking the dust storms from the winter road gravel, I figured I wouldn’t bore you all with my unsavory spring details. I can thank my local paper for a more compelling topic.

Finally, after long neglect, the topic of blue tarps appeared in print in a newspaper with the largest circulation in Alaska. (Yes, even I am impressed, at least thirty other people must have read that article, too!) Dirty secret or just uninteresting, I’m not sure why it hasn’t been written about before. Of course, not one to bypass obscure and meaningless topics, I have written about blue tarps, it being an integral part of living in this state, and I being intrigued by certain blights, warts, and general weirdness associated with Alaska.

Check out my salutary shot on the subject here, and for my jolly Christmas card on the subject, click here. And now experts have determined what we all knew: blue tarps bring down property values, tick off neighbors, and are only slightly less conspicuous than the sun at midday, Donald Trump’s hair, and a train wreck. I feel like the cat that got the cream. You don’t have to take my word for it, read the opinion of long-time residential real estate brokers, Barbara and Clair Ramsey in full here.

Their article “Home next door can affect ability to sell your house” to which I would add the subtitle “No, duh!”, contains some hard truths, readily apparent to 99% of the population in general, and to approximately 75% of Alaskans. Some people cannot fathom this simple truth, as captured so aptly by the columnists, that “the vibrant blue telegraphs this bold statement: “I will be the first thing you see when you look out your window! Not the mountains, not the view, not the trees…just ME and only ME!”

Perhaps only Alaskans can truly witness all the horrors possible with this medium, but I have included two humble examples, for a taste of what we live with every day. Surely, you are pleased neither one is your neighbor! Two more exquisite extracts, rife with vindication for me: “not quite certain why blue tarps have become so popular as a universal outdoor cover” and “the appearance of a blue tarp is never a positive selling point.”

I’m thinking of running off a few copies and mailing them to especially egregious cases as a favor to the city, neighbors of “blue tarpers”, and humanity in general. One bright spot: I have noticed increasing numbers of people flipping the blue tarp over and using the gray side instead, for as the Ramsey’s rightly note “some color choices blend more easily into the surrounding scenery” and “tarp color choices include white, green, silver, brown, clear, mesh,and camouflage.” I eagerly await my first camo tarp sighting. But perhaps that’s the point. I might have seen one and not known it. What a radical thought….

Will buyers be negatively influenced by one of your neighbors? Or are you the naughty/colorblind neighbor?

*Things are going to change, I can feel it….

2011-04-05T12:25:00.000-07:00

Yes, today is that special day that only happens once or twice a year. That day when the choking vapors of bleakness dissipate with the new dawn of opportunity. A day where past mistakes are rectified and promising new things are nurtured into growth. A day where…oh, forget it. Who am I kidding? Today is election day and I am mad.

One of my faults is a cynical streak. Mostly, I am a realist or an optimist or some amalgamation of both. I want to believe the best of people/organizations/situations, but I like to prepare for the worst. Everyone makes mistakes, (though politicians campaigning would have us believe only their opponent has this problem). Didn’t some angry voter quip,”To err is human, to forgive, unheard of?” Witness any blubbering politician holding a news conference to admit to the long denied illegal or immoral act. Yup, a cynic.

My cheerful attitude was all set to coast through this election season, smile plastered on…and then the dreaded ads started. Annoying at first, but one can always flip the page of the newspaper (yes, I am a dinosaur and read the news on paper) and carry on. Afterwards, and closer to that fateful day, we are treated to a barrage of piffle on the radio. Even my beloved classic radio station, KLEF, is not immune. Forty minutes of dire or folksy political advertisements and twenty minutes of music. Inspiring! (A cynic or realist here, you choose.)

How often one hears a particular candidate on the radio is in direct proportion to: how irritating their little jingle is, how much money they have in their political war chest, or how far their views are from one’s own. I haven’t turned the on radio in days. When one expects to hear a harmless number from Tchaikovsky or Copeland, and ends up with hot air instead (and not from the horn section), lips are pursed, teeth are ground, and radios are flipped off. I’ve even taken to muttering.

Why all this spleen? I am rather sick of hearing how a certain candidate or proposition is going to heal all wounds and set the choir singing and the alternative is bankruptcy, joblessness, children suffering, angry mobs, and old folks having to fund their retirements by working in sweatshops. OK, enough inner cynic, enough!

People are risking their lives and dying on a daily basis to have this privelege I am fussing about, so I realize that my biannual peeve is just this: grumpiness. I hereby resolve to grow up and be more thankful for my opportunity to vote. And the cynic in me is trying mightily not to be discouraged by the symbolism of a strong wind this morning, blowing lots of cold, wet snow into town. Slick, near whiteout conditions whilst driving to my polling place. Is there a double meaning in that?

*Lyrics from “Loser” by Beck

Stood in line to vote lately? A shout out for a beloved politician or ad?

Five ways to know it’s pseudo spring

2011-03-29T07:02:00.000-07:00

Yes, this is in retaliation for all those enjoying bona fide spring, not some false, perverse tease of mother nature before she dumps the next blizzard on us. You all know I live in Alaska, right? Good, I’m glad we cleared that up. Hopefully, that will make you more forgiving, or at least, less inclined to notice the largish chip on my shoulder.

1. It’s only April, fool! Long time Alaskans, called sourdoughs, will scoff at the newbie Alaskans (called cheechakos, no laughs from the peanut gallery now) assumption that a thaw in March/April means spring. So sorry little greenhorn, that’s nature clowning again.

2. Where’d the sidewalk go? Mostly it’s under snow, still buried like my design hopes, tender green dreams, and any bulbs the previous owner may have planted at my new home. Yeah, I doubt he planted any bulbs either, but this being fake spring, I’m hopeful. You weren't planning on busting the sandals out for a little stroll, now were you? Boots are still the wise choice.

3. Still no leaves. Don’t even think about the “s” word until the birch leaves are the size of…well, any size will do. For now, they are still encased and in denial, as am I.

4. Subtle scent of dog poop. If it were actual spring, the odor would be as gentle as a moose being chased by a dog, as elusive as the scent of that milk you spilled in the car yesterday.

5. Kids under five are still sporting full-body winter armor. You can hear them before you see them, swit, swit, swit. I feel sorry for the little blighters. Just try getting to the toilet in a hurry when you are encased in fluff, zippers, and snaps. Snowsuits mean it’s not spring.

Are you waiting for something impatiently?

Leonard Bernstein and something Mass(ive)

2011-03-21T06:17:00.000-07:00

One wonders from where certain turns of phrase came. Take that charming idiom “butthead.” I shall wonder no more, for Friday night, the meaning was made clear as fine crystal. What is less clear is this, why do such things happen to me?

Being a trifle ignorant of musical theatre in general, I had never heard of Leonard Bernstein’s “Mass”, which I note from the program is a theatre piece for singers, players, and dancers. (My companion and I were there to see one singer in particular in the bass section, and he did a fine job. I wish I could say as much for a few of the soloists. As Bart Simpson says “ay, caramba!”)

Two items before I dive into the aforementioned figure of speech. One, when attending religious performances, it helps to have a good idea of meanings or symbols or traditions to prevent one’s companion (or self) from muttering “what the heck is going on?” I needed a Catholic to guide me here, as my knowledge of that religion stems from “Father Dowling Mysteries” and “Sister Act”. (The last Mass I attended was Bach’s “Mass in B Minor,” which was no aid. I didn’t understand that one, either.) How would I know when the SECOND INTROIT or CREDO started? What about the MEDITATION No.3 and the OFFERTORY De Profundis, part 2? And what was that little sash thing-y hanging around the priest’s neck? Hollywood just doesn’t get into enough detail…drat!

Second, when foreign languages are involved and supertitles are not, abandon all hope ye who speak not the language. Latin for example. My botanical Latin did nothing for me. “Domine, audi vocem meam!” I can’t recall any plants with those epithets attached to them, but luckily, my handy translation in the bulletin tells me this means “Lord, hear my voice!” I was somewhat thwarted in my attempt (OK, all the way thwarted) to read the translation as we went along because THEATRES TEND TO BE DARK. Yes, I was upset about it, too, but that didn’t stop the elderly gent a few rows ahead. He popped out a pen light and followed along. The warm, friendly glow was not quite as irritating as the cool blue light of a texting screen. I try to make the best of things, you know.

I am used to the peppier Leonard Bernstein (or “LB”, as he’s known to posh crowds) sets. When all the ragtag/street chorus came on to stage, for one bright,hopeful moment I thought it was the Sharks and the Jets and someone was going to belt out “Maria! I just met a girl named Maria!”

No such luck, for then the modern dancers leapt across and writhed around. Did I mention the large choir on scaffolding in the background and the children’s choir in the foreground? At one point, my companion hissed to me “What is he doing?!” It was a rather loud hiss and I felt compelled to shush him, but in fairness, a dancer was either dancing with or dragging the music stand of the oboe soloist across the stage in tortured spurts, so my fellow theatre goer shall be forgiven for the outburst.

At halftime, I mean intermission, I met one couple who decided to leave while the getting was good. “This is either the most reverent or the most irreverent thing I’ve seen,” one said on the way out the door, “I just don’t feel good about it.” When I think of all the constructive things I could have accomplished during the last two hours of the performance (organize my blouses by color, devote more time to writing a coherent string of thought for my blog, read the newspaper) I conclude they were the wise ones. This was three different musicals mashed into one, and perhaps the composer intended it to be discordant and indecipherable. He was the musical genius, not me, but I give it the thumbs down.

To cleanse my inner vessel (you see I am capable of understanding some religious imagery, Mr. Bernstein), I must share this first and only time I had the bad fortune to be millimeters from the tookus of a stranger. An unidentified person in the row behind (wink, wink), kept bumping me with what I thought was a purse or coat. After the tenth bump or so, I hazarded a peek to see what seizures/unruly child/unpacking a suitcase situation was occurring to occasion the assault on the back of my head. Then, without warning, the black polyester-clad beam was in my face. Way, way over the back of my chair and in my face. (And now a moment of silence as you ponder just how glad you are that you are not me.)

For a prolonged period of time after I whipped my stunned head back around, I kept getting bumped with said trunk junk. I do have a stubborn streak, and I gave it full reign. I leaned back and kept my space and the buttocks remained firmly pressed against me for the space of a full minute, which in due reverence to the situation, was probably long enough in “horror minutes” for me to get my hair cut and colored. Finally (and probably because they heard my partner struggle to stifle a guffaw at my predicament), the offender gave what sounded like a sincere “oh, sorry” and removed the offending caboose. I might need to shave my head.

Any theatre lately? Horrors with strangers?

‘Running with the Reindeer’ among other things

2011-03-07T07:38:00.000-08:00

I ran with a diverse crowd on Saturday. Just what brings together Sweeney Todd, Santa Claus, Tarzan, and a penguin? Not alcohol in my case. (I can’t speak for the others, but I did smell alcohol on the breath of a few Steelers fans.) A fundraiser (emphasis on fun) for kids, drew the Last Frontier Gardener out of her winter ~~coma~~ cocoon for a little exercise. With ungulates.

A relative newcomer to the Fur Rendezvous proceedings, Running with the Reindeer, as I explained to a fine employee of Subway later that evening, actually involves people running with the reindeer. She thought it was just reindeer running down the street (and was confused when she saw a bib number on my shirt). What’s the fun in that? Potential goring or trampling has to be involved to get Alaskans riled up. And undressed.

If you are scratching your head about “Fur Rondy”, catch up here and here, and if you must, at the official Rondy site here. A mere three or four city blocks of a sprint (is that like a 0.5K?) that would hardly wind a four year-old had me in stitches by the end. And reindeer are most certainly not the hulking, angry bulls of Spain’s famous street runs. They have actual fatalities and serious injuries there. The worst we can claim is men clad in fur jock straps perhaps burning the retinas of spectators. No one told me it was a costume party! Next year, I’m dressing as a rutabaga.

I didn’t see any scantily clad women, so I must conclude women are either 1. less tolerant of cold, 2. more modest in dress, 3. smarter, or 4. less juiced up. I did, however, see a large group of male Aussies in nothing but fur thongs and tattoos (am I the only one left on earth without one?), a large group of men deemed “Spartacuses” by the crowd, and a loner in a postcard-sized green thong. It was 20 degrees Fahrenheit, or about 7 Celsius.

One bad thing about the races, too few reindeer in proportion to runners. Now the LFG is wily and cunning, so she weaseled her way to the middle of the pack and the middle of the street. We women (there were three heats, men, women, and groups) were given a ten second head start by the DJ, and though the LFG was muttering under her breath about bigots, double standards, dark ages, and DJ’s, she got her medicine in the end.

I wanted to be touched by a reindeer. After watching people run too fast, too slow, or not at all and hardly see a reindeer during their run, I devised my plan. “Be pushy and practice some crowd threading to gain the place I wanted.” As I am tall, I think I intimidated most of the people inclined to say, “Hey!” or worse. I got into my best Apolo Anton Ohno speed skating stance, and 3-2-1, we were off.

Shrieking from some runners, and the clopping of hooves. Next thing I know a reindeer barrels into me, pushing me to the left. Hard. And then, another. Success! It may have been the adrenaline speaking, but those beasts looked shoulder height and about 2000 pounds. They might have had fangs, too, I’m not sure.

The LFG husband is fired as head cinematographer/photographer. After I finished my race and found him and the kids on the sidewalk (harder than it sounds, there were at least five hundred other tall guys with kids wearing red coats), he looked at me and said, not ‘you were great’ or even ‘I saw you get bumped!’ No, no, he said, “Did you already race?” I regret to inform you no photographic evidence exists of my brush with death, but maybe I’ll smarten up next year and give the camera to my 10 year-old.

Seen any memorable costumes? Races?

Mary Poppins blows into town

2011-02-28T07:11:00.000-08:00

Well, it’s the end of February, and everyone knows what that means. (I’m looking for an answer other than “March” here.) In Alaska, it means we long for spring and nature throws the usual northern fastball, single digit temperatures and various other unpleasant items, like a wind that can blow away nannies (see Mary Poppins or any child under fourteen for an explanation). So what do Alaskans do when spring isn’t in sight and they’re really sick of the prolonged cold? Why, we have an outdoor festival of course!

Some may recall I wrote about our world famous Fur Rendezvous last year. If you missed the fantastic and nail-biting parade coverage or dog sled race lowdown, check here. Only one snag: Alaska is about to blow away. If you don’t believe me, check the facts at NOAA here. So if nothing else, “gusts to 45 mph diminishing to 35 mph toward morning” should be a clue that not even mad dogs or Englishmen are outside by choice.

It turns out we’re the lucky one because Juneau can plan on “gusts to 65 mph near downtown” and Valdez is getting “gusts of 65 to 80 mph in town” but they can’t complain. Their wind has died down a little from 95 mph. I have conveniently circled how windy it is in the picture below but was unable to capture all the nannies blowing away. I apologize, and I can only assume, some kid or kids in Anchorage just got a new nanny named Mary Poppins who is “practically perfect in every way.”

Our little fur festival is downtown, mostly. All those narrow and straight city blocks are great wind tunnels. At one point, during a particularly nasty gust, people were gasping and shielding their faces. I turned the kids around to face the other direction till the gust died down. Then we tromped onward through the dirty snow, envying those wearing cozy fur hats and coats. One thing about modern arctic wear, it just doesn’t look cozy, like these fluffy animal skin hats for sale on the sidewalk. Sorry, gore-tex, I had to say it.

My destination, 3rd Avenue and E Street and the Rondy Carnival. I was there to see some people getting tossed around on a blanket of seal skins. It has a history you can read about here with our Native peoples during their spring whaling festival. Check out the link, there’s some fun pictures and they actually mention Alaska’s very own far northern town of Barrow. But first a couple of interesting ocular diversions for you.

Ever wondered just how a musher transports a team of dogs and all the miscellaneous gear required for a race? Me too, and if I ever find out, I’ll let you all know. Meanwhile, here are some pictures of vehicles that I think have something to do with it.

Reminds me of a hotel room I once stayed in, but the dogs seem cozy enough with their straw lined vehicular cocoons. Another fun sighting, the entrants for the Outhouse Race. Yes, you read that correctly.

I can just see the Anchorage Chamber of Commerce, thick in a meeting about how to drum up some tourists and spending during the official “most disappointingly cold month” of the year. “Eureka, we’ll have them race outhouses down the street! The tourists will flock to Anchorage to see adults push their latrine themed, and ski equipped, Frankenstein's down the street in a footrace!” People were posing on these babies for pictures, I kid you not. I wanted to, but my posterity vowed to disown me if I did. Rats, foiled again.

Ok, ok, enough of the potty pictures. This blanket tossing stuff is what I wanted to see in “real life” having only seen it previously on newscasts and at one really rowdy high school party where the landing wasn’t so good. And once at the bottom of a sledding hill where the landing was even worse.

After walking in a bent position for approximately 20,000 city blocks into the wind, I had my first reward. The temperature in the sunshine raised a degree or three and nearly thawed my fingers and my jaw enough to croak, “there’s the carnival, kids, keep moving or hypothermia sets in.”

My next reward, the sight of a person being tossed above the crowd. I elbowed a few five-year olds out of the way and got to check out the blanket and the tossing method. My investigation should be useful when I try to replicate this pastime at home sans seal skins and twenty able-bodied helpers. Maybe I’ll use a blue tarp.

Do you have a favorite thing to do when it’s too cold to do anything normal/reasonable/rational? Outhouse comments?

Three periods in a row and no mess!

2011-02-22T05:31:00.000-08:00

I was all set to write about that grand sport that all Alaskans try at least once before giving up and moving to Arizona. The experience that cannot be accurately simulated, imagined, or described. And just one of the many sporting activities in which three year-olds regularly out-perform the Last Frontier Gardener. Naturally, I’m referring to ice hockey. But first I want to see how long I can ramble before I get to the point. This may be a new record.

The LFG hubby and I celebrated a double digit anniversary in high style: an early walk-about at my favorite art galleries downtown, a dinner at trusty go-to restaurant Club Paris (a great little dive, and a great filet mignon), and attendance at the University of Alaska Anchorage men’s hockey game.

I feel I also must mention that we capped the whole thing off with a trip to Home Depot. It’s just not a truly romantic and meaningful date without that compulsory last minute trip to pick up odds and ends for the house. (For the record, we bought a box of rivets, three magnetic register covers, and torx screw bits. I have no idea what those last bits are.)

Now, you may be smirking at our little pit stop, but I haven’t even shared the part where we went through the McDonald’s drive-thru for dessert. Oh yes, it gets better and better. Our low brow natures (well, his at least) got the best of us. He got a vanilla ice cream cone and I got the Oreo McFlurry. McYummy! (I think all those items at the galleries that I pointed out would be a great investment/make the room look smashing/I can’t live without/etc. made him feel like he needed to be thrifty for the remainder of the evening.)

The best part of the evening was the ~~art gallery walk~~ hockey game. Besides politics, what can turn ordinary, even sensible folk into a bellowing mob of borderline lunatics? Why, organized sports of course. What flips a switch in cute little six-year old children, wherein they utter phrases like, “Die ref!” or “You suck!” at the top of their precocious little lungs? Why, sports of course. Just what is it that turns docile, frail octogenarians into potential agents of destruction for someone wearing/waving the “wrong” colors? Sports again.

I am fully prepared to believe hockey fans are the most deranged of them all but I have yet to attend a curling match or a cricket match, so I may be wrong. And I’m sure you’ll all let me know. The LFG hubby played hockey at college, so he keeps a little torch burning for the sport and we indulge in watching a live game when we can. I stand up and cheer but do not hoot, holler, roar, bray, or bawl. Not for hockey at least….

After sitting through three twenty minute periods and ruefully noting the miserable state of my tailbone area, I concluded that hockey, like so many other sports, is way too long. Give me the first twenty minutes and I’m satisfied. The next twenty minutes I’m thinking about those nachos at concessions I should have gotten and the bathroom break I should have taken. The last twenty minute period, I’m usually listening in on other people’s conversations around me and speculating on the amount of time I can continue to torture my bladder before I make a scene. You can all relax, I made it through.

How do you celebrate big occasions? And are sports games too long?

Something about neighbors and fences?

2011-02-14T08:46:00.000-08:00

Now how does that old saw go? “Fences make for feuding.” No, that wasn’t it. “Good neighbors are hard to come by.” Nope, not that either. “You can meet your neighbor on Facebook anyway, so go ahead and build a fence.” Hmmm, maybe not.

I recently moved from the garden formerly known as the Last Frontier Garden, to my current abode a couple of months ago. I haven’t named the garden yet but I’m thinking along the lines of “Lady and the Pack of Tramps” or “The Shaggy Dog (across the Street)”, or even “All Dogs Go to Christine’s Yard”. My gripe today is twofold, both folds having to do with neighbors and their animals.

A good neighbor is like smooth chocolate fudge. A joy that I don’t encounter nearly as much as I would like. So we’re all on the same page, my low bar for good neighbor includes the following:

1. does not operate a meth lab or brothel on the premises

2. does not have more than one (OK, this is Alaska, so I’ll say two) junk vehicle(s) in a permanent auto coma in the front yard

3. keeps track of their domestic beasts, including spouses and children, and doesn’t allow them to make public nuisances of themselves with regularity (politicians not excepted)

Is this a difficult thing, oh readers? I am writing from the viewpoint of the perky, friendly neighbor here, the one that brings cookies to the new move-ins. It’s not a natural behavior for me, I’m more independent and surly, but it builds character and I know I should do it, so I do. My last neighborhood became so friendly, we had neighborhood BBQ’s in the summer, right smack in the middle of the cul-de-sac. Out of a dozen houses, only one or two wouldn’t show. Not bad, eh?

Of course, like any neighborhood, there were warts. One dog, a beagle, would howl and bark and bay, occasionally for hours at a time. I realize beagles are a noisy breed, but how on earth can you ignore that? My plan of listening to AC/DC really loud only worked 'til the kids came home from school. Then what?

Well, I thought I had escaped the beagle and the roaming cats (I’m saving that topic for another day after I’ve had my Valium) by moving. I have an acre now. Everyone else in the ‘hood has an acre or more, so I naively thought all my animal problems were solved. Not so, said the little white yappy dog that appeared in my garage one day. Some folks just aren’t thinking of others now, are they?

I have to imagine the inner monologue here, as I just can’t believe I’d do this myself: “If I enjoy Fluffy then everyone will! I’ll just turn him loose for a few hours and hopefully he won’t maim anyone with pet allergies, knock toddlers off their tricycles, or get into any fights with wolves, cats, dogs, Republicans, or animal control officers. I hope he stays away from the street, he could be hurt there. Also, it would be great if he didn’t get into the garbage with such zest on trash day. I love my pet! Go free, Fluffy, go free!!”

Yes, you guessed it. We have dogs in the ‘hood. Lots of dogs. Big dogs, little dogs, fat dogs, old dogs, but most of all (gripe one) loud, (gripe two) roaming dogs. I’ve lived in this city over thirty years and never seen another neighborhood like it. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I moved into an off leash dog park.

I wake up to dogs barking at 6:15 every morning. For the past two months. I am lulled to sleep every night, say 11:15ish by dogs. (I think I am beginning to formulate a Dr. Seuss book about it all: “Dogs in the morning, dogs at night, every day a fright, fright, fright!”) I know I haven’t moved into some Twilight Zone vector of selectively deaf and blind pet owners, because I see a couple of people walk their (non-barking) dogs on (hallelujah!) leashes, so their are a few Responsible Neighbors. One of these jewel-of-a-neighbors observed, “Yeah, this neighborhood is weird about dogs. I’ve never been in one like it before.”

My solution: bake bread/cookies/edible items, and walk over and meet the worst offenders. I am tired of waiting for them to come meet the new neighbor (i.e. me), and it seems unkind to just introduce myself to gripe, so I will have a complaint free intro and get phone numbers. I’m thinking something along the lines of “Oh, hi Marge, sorry to disturb you so late at night, but Fluffy seems so agitated. She’s been barking for twenty minutes. Is everything OK?” (I won’t mention that I can hear the barking in every room in my house with the exception of the bathroom. My bed won’t fit in there, anyway.)

I am losing my mind.

Had any neighbor problems? Do you recommend a different approach?

Recovering from the flu? Don’t try this.

2011-02-07T07:03:00.000-08:00

Only a dope would try strenuous exercise while recovering from semi truck crud/swine flu/or numerous other seasonal ailments. For long-time readers (my family, plus Lucy), that statement almost guarantees a subsequent item I really shouldn’t have done. This is no exception.

I blame it all on peer pressure. The problem here is I have these friends see, these exercising friends. (Watch out for this lot. They now have me eating carrots and grapefruit for snacks, instead of my preferred chips.) They don’t “hit the gym”, they exercise outside. Being lost in a snow drift, stomped by a moose, or run over by a motorist doesn’t deter them. If I didn’t like them so well, I’d look into having them committed, poor things. Just what did they force me to do, you’re wondering?

On a whim, last year I bought some skate ski equipment at a swap meet. (Someday I’d like to write about shopping at a winter swap meet and compare it to running with the bulls or riding a scooter on an LA freeway, but today is not the day.) Eyeing it ruefully afterwards, I thought that probably meant I should do some skate skiing. One problem: I didn’t have the book, “Skate Skiing for Dummies” or even a smallish idea of technique. Never fear, the exercising friends are here.

So I went a handful of times last winter and survived. There were some undignified falls, yes, and a few instances when hasty prayers were uttered along the lines of ‘please let me not have a heart attack’ or ‘just let me not hit a moose at the bottom of this hill’ but mostly I was thinking “This would be fun if I was in shape.”

They convinced me (more like forced me) into going on Thursday. My flu was winding down, but that was no excuse for not elevating my heart rate to maximum, breathing cold air, and sweating like the proverbial pig for an hour. Everyone needs such friends, no?

It’s over and obviously I’m here to tap out the sad tale, so no tragedy, but my humble advice for those recovering from illness, stay away from those bullies. No, not the wee tykes smoking during lunch behind Service high school, mucking up the ski trails, and looming menacingly in large groups out of the forest at passing skiers. The exercisers.

Anyone have a bad experience exercising? Taking in the great outdoors gone wrong?

Of flakes and semi truck crud

2011-01-28T09:22:00.000-08:00

And with that unlikely title, I’m off. (Off what, you’re wondering: off your meds, off your rocker, or off to the grocery store?) It’s been too long since I have written a completely and unashamedly useless post. That’s why the “flake” part of the title gets inserted. Truly, I have been a flake. I’ll try my best to make it up to you all….

Why the word “flake” gets associated with being undependable, I don’t know. What did poor flakes ever do to deserve this deprecating connection? Snow flakes are beautiful (but they don’t last long unless it’s really cold and they can grow into a big pile). Corn flakes* are repugnant, unless they are covered in honey, sugar, nuts, or some other flavor disguiser. I know this because I’ve been trying to choke down corn flakes for breakfast lately, and only the ones encrusted in other flavors can bypass the gag reflex. Flakes of gold are hard to come by, but maybe the next storm will blow some into town.

My flakiness has a root cause. No, it’s not stubbornness. Not today, anyway. I have been hit with a bad case of semi truck crud, or STC. Tuesday night: book club numero uno until 11:15pm. Yes, you read that correctly. And I wasn’t the last to leave. But I did leave healthy. A good night’s sleep followed. And then, with no warning at all, I woke up with STC. Symptoms include, fever, chills, fatigue, desire to ignore one’s own flesh and blood, and quite a bit of groaning and sleeping in turn. Not nearly enough sleeping.

The fever broke, and fifteen minutes later, I was at book club numero dos, but alas began to regret it around 9:30pm, when I was slightly alarmed to discover I was stuck to the leather recliner in a sweat. I have no doubt the hostess donned a hazmat suit and debugged the chair after I left.

Day Two of STC finds me without a voice (hurrah, the children shout), and coughing. At least my teeth aren’t aching anymore. The desire to perform even the most basic tasks has evaporated. And that left me thinking of times in the garden (and in life) when something happens and our priorities shift. Like that time I grew fifty Delphiniums from seed. They were gorgeous, but this is a story that doesn’t have a happy ending. All the staking and fussing with them was a nightmare for my lazy self.

And then, one day, that was it. My desire to enter the garden plunged to nil because of all the work that had to be done with those plants. I went from passion to disgust. They were given away to garden visitors and my sanity was restored. I entered the garden with joy once more.

There are more reasons than sickness for garden aversion syndrome, or GAS (yes, I just made that up), but my sick/tired brain can’t think of any at the moment. I’m off. Truly, this time.

Ever temporarily ended a horticultural affair? What made you do it? What brought you back?

*Does anyone else associate corn flakes with John Denver or is it just me?

The flip side of the “new” coin

2011-01-17T10:36:00.000-08:00

I suppose it would be dingy, scuffed, and nicked but as I am not a coin connoisseur, I can’t be more precise than that. Last week I rhapsodized about the benefits of new, new, new. My two X chromosomes are kicking in the guilt from suggesting all those sparkly, shiny, crisp, and brand new things, threatening to overwhelm me. But to paraphrase dear Jane Austen’s Mr. Bennett, don’t be alarmed, I’m sure the sensation will pass away, no doubt sooner than it should. Let’s celebrate the crusty, musty, flaking, stretchy, squeaky, and just plain old, shall we?

1. Favorite sweatshirts or sweatpants. Assuming one wears sweatshirts, that is. The hubby has an old green hockey sweatshirt from UAA. At least fifteen years old. My ratty navy one is from when I was sixteen. Don’t tell my mother I still have this one.

2. Photos. As the kids get older, I get more (disgustingly) sentimental about all those silly pictures. As they get older, the images become more dear…or maybe just the fact that pictures don’t talk back is dear.

3. Certain types of footwear. Ice skates, the hubby suggests. Hiking boots, soccer cleats, and other shoes of the kind that are broken in and molded to your foot. Do Birkenstocks count?

4. Any sentimental bits: teddy bears, blankets, etc.

5. Some food and beverage items. Wine, from what I hear. Being a teetotaler I’ve no idea. Cheese, I’ve had some experience with and prefer a little age to it: I adore well-aged sharp cheddar, for example. Is any other category of food good with a bit of time? Weigh in….

6. Friendships, in many cases. New friends are good, too, I hasten to add, but some friendships of long standing are like the proverbial old sweatshirt (see number one). Comfortable, and you can let it all hang out with no pretending. (All my old friends will shudder at the prospect of me letting it all hang out, I imagine.)

7. Professional relationships. I don’t want to have to find a new doctor/dentist/mechanic unless the wrong organ/tooth/spark plug is removed through incompetency. Just lazy, I guess.

8. Movies. Some of my old favorites are Some Like It Hot, It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World, The Great Race, Ghostbusters. Too many more to list. Astute movie buffs will notice these are all rather silly and absurd examples. And those astute (and faithful) LFG readers will not be too surprised.

9. Trees. Not too old, mind you. Anything leaning at a precarious angle toward the house is deemed “too old.” I have a grove of spruce trees at the new place and I’m not going to lie: I wouldn’t have picked that many of the species to plant here, but the privacy they provide is outstanding. I don’t have to have blinds on any of my windows. (Hurrah, no dusting of blinds, one of the most dreaded and tedious tasks ever, outranking filing taxes even.)

10. Antiques. With the plethora of programming on TV about finding, repurposing, and/or selling old furniture, jewelry, cars, homes and other odds and ends, this one is a no brainer. (No unkind comments from the gallery, now!) Frankly I’m ready to sell my old Haviland Limoges china set. The kids have broken one half and chipped the other. Do they sell galvanized steel plates? Surely those are kid-proof.

And for a bonus, the LFG hubby recommends 11. trophy animals. He points out the animals are bigger with age. (And yes, I do have carcasses hanging in the hallway. Not by choice, mind you, but one has to make compromises. I came home from vacation and animal silhouettes had appeared in the hallway. Surprise, honey!)

What is best with (a bit or a lot of) age?

Things that are best new

2011-01-11T07:00:00.000-08:00

Having no wish to draw the ire of the reuse/recycle crowd, but lacking in the common sense department, I will forge on ahead and just say it: some things are better new. We have an entire holiday devoted to the newness of a year, so don’t tell me it’s not true. Is it the novelty, possibilities, satisfaction, usefulness, or condition of a new thing that makes it so great? I don’t profess to know, but here’s my list of things I like new:

1. Books. Yes, I know, I’m single-handedly bringing down a good portion of the rainforest. But there is something to be said for reading a book that doesn’t smell stuffy and of which you can be sure hasn’t visited the toilet with anyone (but you, if you must). Or you can bypass it all together and get an electronic reader like I did.

2. Computers. Good grief, I think my desktop gets about three minutes slower loading pages every month. While my shiny new iPad sings along at a brisk rate. It’s really quite fascinating how a reasonable person can go from calm to tense to upset to frothy rage while waiting for a computer to do its thing. I think I’ll skip the in between stages and just prepare for frothy rage when I turn on the computer.

3. Underwear. I refuse to explain this one.

4. Hand pruners. No matter how I try to sharpen them, it’s never as good as when I busted the package open for the first time. I think they can sense when you take them outside and start to develop dull blades and rust immediately.

5. Food. Some people finish what their kids/partners/dogs/etc. leave on the plate. Something about a burger that’s been previously mouthed and is now coated in someone else’s saliva…blech.

6. Appliances. We had an old (it was even old when it was new) fridge for ten or eleven years. It was like being in an episode of Star Trek shopping for a new one. “Refrigerators make ice now?? No way!” I’m not absolutely sure, but the dishwasher that came with our home might not actually wash dishes. At least that’s what the evidence tells me.

7. Cars. This is my opinion, which was formed (malformed, some may say) at a tender young age. My folks loved used cars. Which broke down rather often. My car as a teenager, I was thrilled to have one you understand, literally broke down every other month. Once it broke down on Halloween. I was parked on the side of a major road and had to dash (I won’t tell you what my costume was, but it wasn’t cute) to my viola teacher’s house to use the phone and get dad to come out and tow the car. Again. Scarred, I tell you. I need a reliable car.

8. Hats. I had lice once as a kid, so back to the scarred thing. I still recall sitting in the bathtub with my sister with our scalps on fire with a toxic sludge “cure” for the better part of a day. I think they used kerosene for a cure back in the 80’s. At least it felt like kerosene.

9. Relationships with politicians. At the end of them, you’re quite ready to throw the bums out. Or worse. At least at the beginning, you have a hope of a moral compass or a shred of ethics. Unless you’re an old cynic like me.

10. Soap. Trying to grasp the last little bit of the bar and having it squirt out of your hands and down to the drain is frustrating. And I adore the crisp writing on a brand new bar. Simple minds, simple pleasures.

And a bonus for all of you because I’m feeling particularly creative but more likely a bit tired. Number 11. Jokes. I’m sure everyone has a joke they’ve heard three dozen times and which their great-uncle persists on telling every family gathering. Maybe after that many times it’s more of a tradition than a joke.

What do you prefer new? Or do you like the oldies but goodies?

Bunny Boots: the choice of champions (in Alaska)

2011-01-03T13:09:00.000-08:00

Or at least, the choice of those that want to keep all ten toes during cold weather. And no, they aren’t made of bunnies, though they could resemble two obese ones if you squint your eyes. I was a skeptic too, until last winter (and my first road test). My laugh of derision would echo through the house every time I saw the LFG hubby’s bunny boots, otherwise known as Extreme Cold Vapor Barrier Boots. He has three pairs, two the standard white (Type 2), and one black (Type 1). All ugly, real ugly.

Yet it seemed determined by fate that my laugh would not be the last one heard around the house. Until very recently, my boot collection consisted of several stylish boots from different outdoor clothing merchants. They looked cool. They also, most unfortunately, felt cool after a time. I am not a hardcore outdoorswoman in winter or summer. Venturing outside in 10 degrees Fahrenheit to ride a snowmachine at x mph (I can’t say just how fast, you’d never believe I was in my right mind) is not the high point of the year, but I’m married to someone that thinks it is, so I step outside on occasion and join him in my subpar non-bunnies.

Now some facts I picked up while doing ACTUAL RESEARCH, SORT OF. Take a deep breath, I amazed even myself with the depth of scholarship in this post. The Type 1 bunny boot, the black Mickey Mouse boot, is rated to –20F. I can’t conceive of an instance that I would need a lower rating than that, but this is Alaska, so it’s possible. For those more adventurous/stupid, Type 2, the white boot, is rated for –64F. And if you need colder than that, you are either mental or a polar bear.

Bunny boots make one feel like quite the nitwit. They have instructions written on the outside of the boot in several places. It’s as if the manufacturer couldn’t be sure wearers weren’t of the litigious ilk of that woman that sued McDonald’s for millions because she spilled hot coffee in her lap. Hot coffee, imagine that. So I imagine the lot that produce these boots are thinking along those lines. “We can’t be sure some stupid fool won’t __________.” You fill in the blank.

I think the corporate lawyers (in conjunction with a preschool teacher) designed such printed basics as: keep double laced to hold firmly. And I refuse to consider why it would read “Keep closed unless airborne” unless they are thinking of a body hurtling over the snowmachine handlebars. “Oh, I am going to hit that tree and go flying. Best I open up that little air valve thing-y right now!” Can you imagine trying to get through airport security wearing these babies? And don’t even think of folding the gusset the wrong way because wearers are commanded to “fold gusset this side only.”

An article about the history of bunny boots explains all: they were originally meant for the United States military, hence all the directions and great fashion forward style. I note the article reads, “Bunny boots are very popular in Alaska.” I looked in vain for a footnote that read “Amongst rabid snowmachiners and those individuals possessing a Y chromosome,” but that seems to be an omission in an otherwise quite scholarly article. The above picture is an action shot of a snowmachiner wearing the black bunnies. Exciting, no?

If I had to categorize ugly boots, bunny boots would definitely be in the top ten, along with Ugg boots (aka “Make your foot look like a big duck foot for under two hundred dollars”) and moon boots, which for those of us that remember their heyday in the eighties, laugh at the resurgence in popularity. Or at least, I hope we do. I still haven’t forgiven mother for buying me a navy pair in grade school. And now I have Santa to blame for my new black Mickey Mouse bunny boots.

Any bunny boots in your closet? What are the ugliest boots you’ve ever owned or seen?

Travelling to warmer climes this Christmas?

2010-12-20T07:11:00.000-08:00

How does maroon and purple carpet grab you? I feel the same way, perhaps even more strongly, but alas, maroon and purple carpet is my fate. At least until it gets replaced. Priority one: getting the ceilings and walls in the bedrooms painted before we move in, which has been slightly more labor intensive and time consuming than I had supposed. Also, I had forgotten just how much paint a person can acquire on one’s body in the space of three days. The magnetic paint (don’t ask) was the absolute worst. I’m still picking off traces of it on my wrist. Maybe it will help with any iron deficiencies I have.

Translation of above excuses, whimpering, and whining: I am out of time and energy, so relying on that old trick of picture=thousand words seems the logical move, even for me. For those lucky enough to be heading south this holiday season:

This charming little display was part of a temporary reptile exhibit in no less a place than Palmer, Alaska. Which I assure you has no native vultures, reptiles, or desert succulents. More’s the pity.

Any painting counsel for me? Times you ran out of water in the desert?

Oh, Alaska! The Twelve Tarps of Christmas….

2010-12-13T08:54:00.000-08:00

Never one to content myself with writing about a local quirk/pet peeve just once, I have canvassed the sprawling metropolis of Anchorage, Alaska and surrounding areas for the most glorious use of blue tarps, bound to induce feelings of civic pride within any resident of this 49th state. Now knowing I couldn’t possibly do this on my own, I enlisted tarp scouts to track down this brightly hued but sometimes elusive polyethylene beast. (First, do yourself a favor and brush up on my fascinating account of the magnetism blue tarps exert upon those carrying a Y chromosome.)

So look on, if you dare, but don’t blame me for various diseases of the eye and mind that may occur as a result….

There’s A Partridge wintering in there, And A Pear Tree, too, I just know it. I’m half expecting an astronaut to walk out the door: “Houston, we have a problem….” (There is a Houston, Alaska, and this ponderosa wasn’t ten miles down the road from that fair town. I call that irony.)

Two Turtle Doves. Or maybe one RV and one woodpile?

Three Feet Over the Property Line.

Four Lolling Boats. The nicest one gets a tarp?

Five Ashen Cinderblocks. (My imagination seems to be running out of steam here, but they’re not golden now, are they?)

Six Tarps A-Laying?

Seven Swans A-Swimming, but not ‘till spring and the (rare and shy) brown tarp is removed.

Eight Frayed Neighborly Relations.

Maybe they have Nine Ladies Dancing in there. A little privacy, please….

Ten (thousand) Boards A-Sleeping.

Eleven Pipes Crumbling. OK, it’s a column. Our city is in a bit of a budget crunch, so those much needed repairs are camouflaged Alaska style. Fancy, isn’t it?

Twelve Summers Sitting (there.)

So you see, no matter how bad it is, any situation can be made even worse with the addition of a blue tarp. I’d like to thank my unsuspecting neighbors here in Anchorage and a few choice residents of the Mat-Su valley for their inspiration (and unwitting participation) in my Tarp Roundup this year. Keep buying those blue tarps and spreading that blue tarp love around!

Is there anything more noticeable than a blue tarp? I just want to know why blue?

This just in: Last Frontier Gardener finds home!

2010-12-07T06:23:00.000-08:00

And perhaps just as important, a garden. Some of you may recall that we recently sold our home (and my garden) of ten years. For a refresher on my angst click here. I have been gardenless (and homeless) for over a month. Not homeless in the street person sense, but shoehorning four people into a one bedroom apartment doesn’t make me feel like calling this itty bitty place “home”.

On the upside, our little rental does have a few perks. I have the city bus schedule for a stop by our window memorized. And for those looking to rent or buy in the area, the police response time is fantastic. Three sirens a day is typical, but all bets are off on Friday or Saturday nights. My record is eight in a row, but that included the ambulance and fire trucks, too. I won’t mention the incident of the inebriated pedestrian falling into the road and getting hit across the street, but you get the idea by now.

Another perk, for some: we’ve got built-in babysitters. My sister lives next door. My brother lives upstairs. And my mother’s office is two doors down. We’re like the Clampett version of the Kennedys and their family compound in Massachusetts. I’m trying to convince my other sister to move in, but strangely, inexplicably, she has resisted the idea so far. Maybe she doesn’t want to babysit my kids.

And finally, the best perk of all, my vehicle now has a remote auto-start function. So on those cold days (like the miserable, single digit weather we had last week) I can press a button in my apartment and my car starts, warms up, and manages not to get stolen before I get in it. This delightful feature would never have been installed without the on-street parking we now enjoy. A few weeks of the cold temps and the LFG hubby broke down and took the cars in for the old fixeroo. Thank you, bitterly cold weather, thank you!

So I’ll be really sad to leave all this, as you can see. But we are to sign our lives away (otherwise known as closing on a house) this week. Wish me luck, or at least, a well with no arsenic in the water.

Any good reasons for living next to family? On a busy street?

“Have a snarly, gnarly Christmas” & other classics

2010-12-02T07:43:00.000-08:00

Surely the tone of this piece is clear right from the start. If not, for those perhaps half asleep or jet-lagged, let me be understood. After enduring the traffic, the icy roads, the brown snow, and the single digit temperatures, the one thing I’m not is jolly. Sensible folk would do something to effect a cure, perhaps drink a mug of hot cocoa adorned with whipped cream and sprinkles, buy a pair of warm boots, or get on the next plane to Hawaii. Me? I am sliding deeper into my “winter funk” and strangely, perversely almost, enjoying it.

I notice the Christmas songs are now on twenty four hour rotation. The oldie but goodie category (Frank Sinatra, Eartha Kitt, etc.) seems to escape my snide observations, but the more modern recordings are easy pickings. Some of the singers actually sound deranged about the thought of the upcoming holidays. This seems like a good place to mention the synthesizer, an instrument waaaay overdone in Christmas songs from a certain decade. And the station gets changed immediately if there is a solo more than two octaves above how the music is written. I prefer to keep the windshield intact, thanks.

What’s the point of all this grumpiness? I want to share the coping mechanism that gets me through “all Christmas songs, all the time”, plus a heavy dose of “winter funk.” My breakthrough came when I began to substitute alternate lyrics and titles. Suddenly, life was bearable, or at least, the twentieth Mariah Carey holiday tune in one hour, less inclined to tip me over some psychopathic boundary.

Can you guess what these used to be?

1. Mocking Aloud the Christmas Letter

2. Sarah Got Run Over by a Hater (In A Volvo)

3. Congress Fighting in an Open Mire

4. All I Want For Christmas is j.crew

You see, it doesn’t have to be clever or make sense, just fun!

Here are some for you to try:

1. Do You Hear What I Hear?

2. It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

3. Over the River and Through the Woods

4. Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!

5. (and my new favorite…) Please Daddy, Don’t Get Drunk This Christmas

Care to share a coping mechanism? Christmas song spoof?

The off season: hooray?

2010-11-22T10:45:00.000-08:00

Alternatively entitled, “What to write about when there’s nothing to write about”, or possibly, “Winter blahs: yet again”. There comes a time every year when I mentally scroll through blog posting ideas and come up with nada. Zilch, zero, nothing. With the temperatures hovering in the twenties (Fahrenheit), and the gravel encrusted snow as my muse, how could I come up short, you ask.

Some of you preparedness nuts out there may remember I wrote about having a few posts on the back burner for situations just like this. A glance at my rough drafts reveals that none are quite ready. You’ll just have to wait for my soon-to-be-famous treatises on bunny boots, ice fishing, and snow shoes. Some much needed research has to happen first. I say that with heavy heart and a large dose of trepidation. Just who looks forward to spending the day on a frozen lake with a fishing pole? Perhaps my impending research will reveal the answer.

I have no inspiration to catalogue, no tours to sing the praises of, and no to-do tasks to share. If it hasn’t been done by now, it’s frozen and not getting done until spring. We’re not even in a “pretty” phase of winter, with a landscape looking as if it were dusted by white frosting. No, no. Imagine more of a blighted look, with a dash of grayish, dirty snow and complete with a repressed looking populace, clad in large coats and bad attitudes. So I ask you, what do I write about? I’ve got nothing….

What do you write about (or like to read about) in the off-season?

I’m going to beat the rush…for once.

2010-11-15T10:11:00.000-08:00

You know…that impending onslaught of postings in the very near future on the general topic of thankfulness (not that there’s anything wrong with that!), and instead post a few bits about gratitude in the garden. A cooking class last weekend whet my appetite for that grand American holiday approaching in a mere fortnight. That would be “Thanksgiving”, or as it’s known in more sophisticated circles, “Turkey Day”.

Now it’s more than a mere holiday celebrating a large and top-heavy bird: there are potatoes, dressings, gravy, and homemade rolls to be feted as well. If, in the midst of all this artery busting fare, one finds the strength to count blessings, so much the better. All whilst watching your team lose the big game on the telly.

I prefer to sidestep the stomachache, this week at least, and sing the praises of a few of my favorite gardening things. Not out loud, you’ll be relieved to hear (my alto isn’t that impressive, just ask the church choir director). I’ll keep it short, you have a Thanksgiving menu to plan.

I am thankful for:

1. felcos (I have number 10). Thank goodness for the Swiss and their national fetish for precision. If you haven’t tried a pair of quality pruners like these, you’re probably missing the tips of a few fingers, like me. I finally made the investment and haven’t regretted it.

2. compost. If you don’t understand the science behind it, just think of it as a magic soil additive. Improves silt, clay, sand, and everything in between. Improved a soil so infertile, it blew around like an Oklahoma dust bowl under a spruce tree at my house. Now the “dust bowl” is home to a small sun and drought tolerant garden. Thank you decomposed clippings, thank you!!

3. ornamental grasses, bergenias, and viburnums. Easy, gorgeous all-arounders at my (former) place. Not glamorous enough to win the crown, but gets the Miss Congeniality award. I planted them everywhere, all around the yard. No regrets. I do have to spray the bergenias and viburnums with,

4. plantskydd. Keeps those pesky, gigantic deer cousins at bay. If you garden in Alaska, moose damage is a fact of life.

5. other gardeners. The wit and wisdom of my fellow gardeners is inspiring! The local Master Gardeners have been having some great programs and tours the last few years. A great way for me to meet new people that know their stuff.

What garden products/plants/resources make you grateful?

Five ways to know it’s winter in Alaska

2010-11-09T09:57:00.000-08:00

Other than lots of snow and cold, yeah. My springtime version of this list was such fun, I couldn’t resist trotting this idea out once again. Whiny excuse alert: Though my post idea isn’t thought provoking, witty, useful, or original…in my defense I’m closing on my house of ten years tomorrow, I’ve been cleaning said house all day, and my dinosaur of a computer is acting up at my temporary, one-bedroom apartment housing. Four of us are living there together. Cozy!

1. The only vehicles on the road busier than the snowplows are the tow trucks (see number 3). Scads of medium-sized snowplows, great big snowplows, and itty bitty snowplows in evidence today. Those last mentioned are called “snow blowers” and can be used to clear driveways. No such luck, we have a shovel.

2. Cars have a marshmallow-like covering in the mornings. It’s a courtesy to scrape it off before you hop on the freeway, so it doesn’t blow off into the car behind you, obscuring their view. At least scrape the windshield clean…you’d be surprised at how many don’t even get that part done.

3. Traffic is slow because people are rubbernecking at all the cars in the ditch. I saw a dozen today, four within about 100 feet, amazingly none had hit any of the others. Two upside down and one balanced perfectly on it’s side. My city’s motto isn’t “Big Wild Life” for nothing.

4. Everyone looks about forty pounds heavier with all the puffer coats, big boots, hats, and gloves. No, it’s not a good thing but it’s warm and sensible and what choice do we have? At least boots are fashionable these days….

5. You won’t see or speak to your neighbor for the next five months. A former neighbor was expecting, gave birth, and had a boy in a stroller in spring. I said, “And who is this little critter with your son, X?” “Oh, that’s my son Y, he’s four months old.” Yes, an embarrassing little episode in the life of the Last Frontier Gardener. I had no idea because it all occurred during the winter. No, we don’t linger outside and visit. A quick dash to the mailbox or grudging bout of shoveling about covers it.

Don’t worry. Twenty years experience driving in this mess served me well today. Only one close (very close) call with a blue minivan. She had a cell phone and was drifting into my lane (and my car). A friendly little toot with the horn took care of that.

Is it winter? How do you know it’s winter where you live?

We all want this plant

2010-11-01T09:26:00.000-07:00

The holy grail of the plant world, the most desired, coveted, and beloved in all the Kingdom Plantae is __________. What was that? You thought I would tell you? I wouldn’t presume to know what your favorite is and surely every gardener has a different one!

After moaning about my upcoming move last week, and the accompanying feelings of desolation, isolation, and consternation that go with leaving a garden behind, I have decided to look ahead. Momentarily at least. The houses we’ve considered are what I like to term “garden challenged,” meaning no garden. I don’t count a lilac bush and a few scrawny looking pansies as a garden. So what would be the first thing I would plant?

“First” sort of implies essential, does it not? Something you cannot live without another day…like the internet, Velcro, Pepper Jack cheese, or supportive undergarments. Since installing an entire garden in one season is not in the time/funds budget, I’ll have to settle for just one selection. No doubt the rest of my time will be spent painting walls, tiling floors, or ripping out a Mary Kay pink Jacuzzi tub.

What are the qualities of something essential? Useful, beautiful, sturdy, hardy, low-maintenance…well, you get the idea. And so, with much thought and no further ado, the first plant to transform my new lawn (this is Alaska, yards are almost always a lawn) to a garden will be: Pinus aristata, the bristlecone pine. It’s a small specimen tree, not very romantic but useful as a diversion or focal point if there are lots of blue tarps, garbage cans, or junk vehicles around. I’m thinking with a skirting of Alopecurus pratensis ‘Variegatus’, golden foxtail grass, it would be simple, eye-catching, and satisfying even in winter. And if I am to be removing a giant pink tub and ripping up carpet, I won’t have time for much else.

What would be the first/essential plant you would put in a new garden with a blank slate?

Saying goodbye to my garden of ten years

2010-10-25T07:53:00.000-07:00

Be sure you have your tissues handy, I intend to force feelings of fervency, dish dollops of dispossession, and insult the intellect. Surely I do that last one every time I post. Let it be known then, that my family and I are moving. And, just like the afterlife, the rumors are true. We can’t take the it (the garden) with us.

Lest I be accused of inciting a riot on the streets of the garden blogosphere, I assure you all I will still be posting about the wacky, unique, and challenging topics concerning gardening (and living) in Alaska. Though we haven’t actually chosen a new house yet, we plan on moving close by our current abode. I tell people who ask me whether we’ve found a place to go, “We’re planning on moving into a tent in your backyard.” My surliness is getting the better of me.

It’s official: we’re out on November 9th. Now the sensible gardener would have lifted and transplanted all favorites to an obliging friend’s garden for safe keeping before the temperature outside plunged to a balmy 40 Fahrenheit. Never one to shy away from new frontiers in poor planning, the LFG rammed all her treasures into two holding beds and a smallish finished compost pile and put some very legal-sounding mumbo jumbo about “coming back in the spring for the designated garden goodies” into the sale contract.

I don’t want to come back. I want a clean break like ripping a bandage off in one quick swipe. I love this garden but I don’t want to see it ever again. I feel like it’s at it’s peak now and couldn’t bear to see it decline. How’s that for thinking positive?

Ten years of pondering the garden’s layout. Ten years of digging, deeply. (Or at least as far as the combination of silt and construction backfill will allow.) Ten years of anticipation in spring, appreciation in summer, and fond adieus in autumn. Ten years of study and planning during the long winter months.

Lots of sweat, some blood (adventures with sharp Felcos), and tears (hammers involved). To say nothing of the money…oh, I can’t keep quiet about that! Lots of money no doubt better spend elsewhere. Preferably on something I could take with me when I move. I’ll have to take the altruistic point of view and think of the joy and beauty it provides my neighborhood. It’ll have to do.

I guess that means I have about two weeks to pack. Not to mention the idea of living out of plastic bins and rubber tubs for the next two months. I hate moving….

Ever moved? Left a garden you loved/loathed?

I really wish we had more of this…

2010-10-18T09:25:00.000-07:00

Every area has it’s indigenous garden themes, whether they be fabulous, frightening, or faux pas. Surely I’m not the only gardener to lament, “If only we had more ______.” You fill in the blank.

For us in the far, far, far north, I would fill in that blank with (take your choice): style, gardens, gardeners, summer, hardy specimen trees, or heat. You have to say the sentence with a really wistful voice and then add a sigh at the end. Try it, it’s fun. (I thought of a dozen more alternatives, but have exercised uncharacteristic restraint here.)

And the alternative is even more fun to ponder, or outrageous, depending on your temperament or eyesight. Tell me you’re not filling in the next sentence for your city as you read it. “If only we had fewer ______.” I would submit for your review: blue tarps (above picture), junk vehicles (wow, the above fits OK for this, too), yellow- flowering Potentillas, large, gluttonous, plant-eating ungulates, weeds, or turf grass (see above picture). Yes, those are all things found in some gardens here. Residents, and those who have visited my state, can back me up on this. I love Alaska, but every place has its warts, no?

So what does your area need more of? Less of? Please share!

Gardening disease identified: beware!

2010-10-11T06:55:00.000-07:00

Don’t worry, this is another fluff piece. I’ve been around the gardening block a few times, but thankfully I still get pleasantly surprised by a plant here, a concept there. You can only be cynical about so many things in life before it becomes a bit toxic. So imagine my glee when I read about “Gardening Withdrawal Syndrome.” I can thank our dear and charming President…no not him! I mean Jane B., of the Anchorage chapter of the Alaska Master Gardeners for this nugget of info.

She warned via email one of the symptoms of this malady is the old “rage against the dying of the light” approach for climates that have a winter dormancy period. For her, onset begins when she takes cuttings of many perennials and annuals and attempts to winter them over by rooting them in water in the garage. So what if you lose half of them to rot, she says, you still have a bunch more ready and waiting for next spring.

Maybe I’ve seen too many TV dramas, but aren’t withdrawal syndromes characterized by shakes or seizure of some kind? Or is it vomiting and frothing at the mouth? I’ll count shivering through winter as shakes, if you don’t mind. My Gardening Withdrawal Syndrome symptoms are not as useful, productive, or as thrifty as Jane’s. Yes, I know, another big surprise for the readership. I’ll rank them, as I seem to be on a list fetish lately.

1. Looking out the window…a lot and with an accompanying frown. “Yup, the snow is still there” or “Look, the moose ate the trees again.”

2. Reading and rereading nursery mail order catalogs. Morphine for those amidst a long winter’s gardening hiatus.

3. Ordering plants I don’t need, aren’t hardy, and/or are unaffordable. If they are located across the country with an absurdly high shipping charge, so much the better.

I realize the symptoms will vary from individual to individual. But I’m wondering if they also vary by geography, country, gardening zone, etc. I can just barely fathom there are those unaffected by this syndrome, such as those that garden in a very mild climate. Or maybe they just have lots of hobbies….

Are you having symptoms of GWS?

Plant of the Month: September 2010

2010-10-05T05:53:00.000-07:00

The containers have been hauled away, the garden art removed, and the tools duct-taped and trucked off. If the prospect of moving had been a mere germ of an idea, tucked safely away in the back of my mind (under the rug in a spare room there), having a garden empty of ornamentation and tools has made me think seriously about it. Well, as seriously as the Last Frontier Gardener thinks about gardening and moving, which sadly isn’t very.

With this new minimalist palette sans junk (see photo below for a visual of a bit of the junk packed off) I have, choosing a favorite for month number 9 should be simpler than usual. No more being influenced by my favorite garden decor in the vicinity. Scrolling through months past here, here, and here, I notice almost all of my choices for “favorite” are in the immediate vicinity of the rusty salmon. Rather than think I’m shallow enough to be swayed by fish made of an old bathtub, I’ll just content myself with thinking all my favorites have been repeated throughout the backyard therefore I can’t help but choose one near the three groups of fish. There, that sounds better.

Now that my conscience is assuaged, I can finally get to the point: the most useful plant for September in my garden. For those further south (which is pretty much everybody, right?), September is sometimes known affectionately as “early winter” here in Alaska. The plant palette is, how shall I put this…subdued. Many plants touted to transform into bright reds or oranges freeze just as they are showing their beautiful color, become brown, and hang in the tree or shrub until the gale force fall winds take them. And perennials, don’t get me started on “selections for autumn”. Sedums do all right. The salvias and veronicas are iffy. I kill Asters by the score (including the orange one in my first photo), so don’t even think of recommending one to me. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve planted ‘Alma Potschke’, I’d be able to bankroll a political candidate. (No, not really, but I can’t help but have politics on the brain. Every news website has ads for them, every street has signs for them, and every radio station projects their voices. Thank heavens for democracy and the ol’ republic and all, but I am so sick of the political ads! Some wise soul remarked they’d rather be governed by 300 people randomly chosen from the phone book, than by the choices we have now. Amen brother!)

OK, now I am really getting to the point after a lengthy ramble. For those that stuck it out, my choice for September is Alopecurus pratensis ‘Variegatus’, or golden foxtail grass. And just to be difficult, you can also find this one under ‘Aureovariegatus’ or ‘Aureus’. Locally this grass is unusual, so check the Alaska Botanical Garden nursery first: it’s where I got mine, as divisions of display garden specimens. No one else wanted them, if you can believe it. Or check out Fritz Creek Nursery in Homer, which does mail order in Alaska.

What: a cool-season grass, one of the first perennials to show it’s face in spring, mostly clumping and not invasive/cheeky/seeding around for me

Where: full sun (more upright) to shade (floppier, in my experience); tolerant of many soil types, moisture levels (the more moisture, the floppier, also in my experience)

When: early spring emergence almost electric chartreuse, yellowish (in sun) in summer, yellow to dull yellow/green in autumn, under snow in winter so no clue as to winter performance other than it survives zone 3/4

Why:

1. smashing leaf color, excellent with blues, violets, reds, oranges, anything with an electric hued flower;

2. as with other grasses, the contrast of linear leaf shape with the bigger leaves of other perennials/shrubbery is a textural delight (no flowers necessary);

3. low maintenance (I do remove the inflorescences as they are rather sparse), no bugs, staking, or fertilizing necessary at my garden

4. looks good in a mass or by itself

And an autumnal boost for those of you that stayed with me: it’s 46 degrees Fahrenheit in my back yard right now. Makes you feel better, doesn’t it? (Except you poor lot in Fairbanks and beyond…so sorry.)

Any favorites for the month of September? Any political ads driving you up the wall?

Stupid things we’ve all done

2010-09-28T06:20:00.000-07:00

OK, fine. Stupid things only I would dream of doing. Have you ever pondered a current or recently taken avenue in life and decided, upon reflection, you should have turned left rather than right? Or better yet, exited the vehicle all together and ridden your bicycle? And maybe, just maybe, your wrong turn becomes another and then another. No, this post isn’t going to turn into an episode of Lost or Guiding Light, but sometimes I can’t believe the dumb things I do.

Exhibit A:

Surely the most damning of the evidence, I put my house up for sale on the same day I hosted a benefit garden tour for the botanical garden this summer.

The Last Frontier Gardener was merely trying to hit her target market for a home sale but ended up having to turn people away at the door that wanted to walk through. To be fair, my sign did say “By appointment only.” Did that stop them? Said my sister in law apologetically at the door, “Uh, she’s kinda busy right now in the garden. Sorry. But give her a call later.” I can’t blame them. If you did a drive-by of a home for sale and saw scads of people flocking towards it (for the garden tour) you might be forgiven for mistaking it for the biggest Open House of all time. Dumb.

I’m not even going to mention the difficulty of getting the house and garden into shape by the same day. I will say a few primal screams and silent inner screams were involved. That and a lot of Windex.

Exhibit B:

Not entering the garden for a month and expecting to harvest vegetables that aren’t supporting three generations of pests or have gone to seed.

After above mentioned tour, I abandoned the garden (was it resentment?) for a month. Be merciful, readers, it was raining (see above pic). Every day. In fact, we have had a record breaking streak of rainy days this summer, so I hope to be forgiven for not being thrilled about the outdoors for the month of August.

It was just as bad as you’d expect. Everything was riddled in holes and slug poo. My celery had turned into a high rise slug tenement. It was rather unsavory washing so many slimy bodies off and having to scrub the celery so hard to get all slug digestion remnants off for dinner. Stew anyone? I’ve abandoned the remaining two celery plants to their fate. The beans are goners and the cabbages are barely salvageable.

Exhibit C:

I agreed to let a photographer/horticulturist come out to the garden for some shots this month for a future presentation on fall interest, (an obscure, if not dubious subject in the minds of many Alaskan gardeners). You think I would be able to plan ahead by this time in my life. Nope. About thirty minutes before she came, a whirlwind of raking, weeding, pruning, and snarling in the back yard. I hope she didn’t notice that giant dandelion in the front yard. Ho hum.

Did I mention the slugs have had free reign the last month? The Hosta, Ligularia, and veggies are Swiss cheese. The only thing looking particularly good is the aforementioned dandelion. The weather has transitioned from rainy to threat of snowy. Apathy has me in a chokehold. And I still have to clean the house for a prospective buyer tonight. Which means I’d better think about getting that Windex out again. Sheesh.

Done anything stupid?

Games garden bloggers play

2010-09-20T07:46:00.000-07:00

There comes a time in every Alaskan’s year when the transition from outside pursuits to inside pursuits takes place. Depending on the weather, it can be in October, September, or in the case of this year, June. We’ve had a record year of consecutive rainy days (I feel your pain Seattle, Brazil, England). Then cloudy. Now cold. So I feel cheated about the whole summer gardening season. Since I have transitioned to the inside stuff (whether I want to or not) it seems appropriate to mark the occasion with something I can do indoors.

Bangchik, a garden blogger growing all kinds of unheard of vegetables (in the cold, frozen north of Alaska at least) in Malaysia, has kindly asked me to stop shivering long enough to list 10 Things I Love. I don’t usually take time for online games, but what else is there to do? Certainly nothing outside at the moment. The containerized Phormium in residence agreed with my assessment of the now cold nights outside and was dropped off at the nursery’s balmy greenhouse for the winter on Friday. I asked if they had room for me but the price was too exorbitant, so here I am. Batten down your tarps and put on your quiviut hats because we’re off:

1. Italian leather shoes. It all started with one pair, justified because of the sale price and an upcoming wedding in the family. Now I have to move into a home with a bigger closet. And the LFG hubby is talking about getting a side job at the gas station. I may be wearing rubber boots or flip flops six days of the week in summer, but watch out on Sunday when I get the peep toed heels out. Ka-zam!

2. Chubby kid cheeks, preferably clean ones.

3. Sunshine on the couch, warming it to the perfect temperature for napping. Do I ever get a chance for that nap? Usually the first five minutes, then “ring, ring” or “mommy!” Someday my nap will come.

4. Crunchy dill pickles. Absolutely no sweet or squishy ones.

5. A good hair day. I think possibly this falls in with numero uno in being mostly a woman thing. Men, am I wrong?

6. Ornamental grasses like Nassella tenuissima, backlit in the autumn sun.

7. Hearing people I love laugh, most likely at me. They say they’re laughing with me, of course.

8. Front yard gardens: unique, funky, vegetable, jungle-like, anything goes as long as it’s not just lawn and one shrub. (Though I must say, I don’t care for the broken down cars or blue tarps adorning some front yard “gardens” here in Alaska.)

9. Being done with housework…for the moment anyway. I can hear the dust settling as I type.

10. To my shame, cheesy music like ABBA, Bee Gees, etc. “If you change your mind, I’m the first in line. Honey, I’m still free. Take a chance on meeeee.”

Am I the only one who loves having a good hair day? Maybe the infrequency of such a thing makes it that much more precious, sort of like a non-rainy day this summer. My hair often has twigs or a stray bug in it during the gardening season, so the bar is set pretty low. Pathetic or empowering, you decide.

What do you love/hate on my list? Please don’t tell me I’m the only one with a few cheesy CD’s lying around….

Flowers, food, and freaks

2010-09-13T06:58:00.000-07:00

Or as the LFG hubby says, the three “f”’s of the state fair. I might also add “full parking lot.” For those that checked out the giant veggies last week on the blog, this week’s lowdown is not super-sized, but quite a bit more fattening, I’m afraid.

One thing about our State Fair in Palmer, the flowers are always stupendous. And they’re everywhere, even hanging near the restroom doors. Something I noticed new this year (meaning it’s the first time I noticed it, not that it’s new) was the All-American Selections just inside the gate.

Do you realize what this means? This implies no less than that someone has conceded Alaska is indeed part of America. I still struggle with some mail-order companies that just don’t believe it. Also sighted in this area, selections of fruiting trees and shrubs like mountain ash (Sorbus spp.) and currants (Ribes spp.).

If herbs and vegetables are more your thing, there is a delightful gated garden that, correct me if I’m stating the impossible, seemed to be growing okra.

There is always a theme to the fair, and this year is no different. I’m not saying the themes are always catchy, clever, or creative. 2010 was the “Imagine if…” year. One of the most fun horticultural sightings is always the south side theme display. This year they were inspired by the carousel ride just around the corner.

If carousel rides aren’t your thing, try some of the fun booths, a few of which sported antiques, jewelry, pottery, clothing of all kinds and decades, garden themed items, and even bona fide living plants.

And this wouldn’t be the Alaska State Fair without a few vendors displaying outdoor wares of another variety. The Y chromosomes were hovering like bees. I was actually knocked aside in a small stampede of teenaged boys on their way to view the 2011 model snow machines (or snowmobiles for you non-Alaskans).

No fair is complete without the flower show. Even this (rainy, miserable) summer, at least a few people managed to grow show quality flowers. For anyone that’s wondering, no, I have nothing show quality. Congrats to the winners (who must have sheltered each blossom with its own miniature umbrella from our month and a half of rain).

One more garden item and then I’ll move on. A spectacular perennial garden, with the romantic name “The Perennial Garden” is tucked between two large exhibit halls. For the best use of new, unusual, and little known plants in a public garden, this is the place in south-central Alaska, and the Last Frontier Gardener is not one to gush. Unfortunately, my skills with the camera are not a sight to behold and it was the one sunny day of the fair, which I’m not about to complain about. I find wearing my sunglasses helps when viewing these washed out pictures, but to each their own.

What is a fair without the artery clogging food? They dip everything in hot oil here, from corn dogs and halibut to donuts and Twinkies. (I went for the halibut, if you must know.) My doctor needn’t worry, I starved myself so as to have all available calories for this jaunt. Jokes about the grease aside, there really is a lot of different food choices and types of cuisine. Next year I have made a mental note to try the cream puffs and the cheese curds, and will someone please tell me where the booth that was selling chocolate covered bacon was?

After eating said grease, I wasn’t in the mood to defy gravity or tempt physics, so the kids did the rides sans me. I risk sounding elderly mentioning this, but the music at each ride was deafening and a bit, uh, edgy. Why do the little kiddie rides need heavy metal playing at louder decibels than a plane taking off? “Mom, what does ‘shout to the devil’ mean?”

And I can’t wrap it up without tipping my hat to the guys who have probably broken more bones and whose mothers are some of the most worried (or heavily sedated) in the world.

Just to be clear, the guy sitting down is on top of a ramp about seven feet off the ground. The other guy back flipped over him on a bike. Probably the best entertainment at the fair and no one died that I’m aware of…. Ok, ok, just one more of these fun pictures.

I didn’t manage to capture photographic evidence of many freaks, though it made a handy title for the post. What captured my notice was the fact that nearly every smoker in our state seemed to have showed up on the day I was there. For some reason, I thought the fair had designated smoking areas. I’ll go ahead and give this kid with crazy hair the freaky title for this post though I’m sure she’s as normal as can be.

After four hours of trudging around and taking more than three hundred subpar photos, it was time to head home. Now just where did I park? Maybe I’ll take the train next year instead since they have a depot right at the fair. Who doesn’t love a train ride?

Had any greasy fair food lately? How are the gardens at your fair?

Cinderella’s pumpkin carriage discovered!

2010-09-06T17:33:00.001-07:00

At the Alaska State Fair, of course. What, you were thinking it would be parked at Disneyland? (That one is a stand-in to fool the tourists. For the real deal, visit Alaska.) The carriage is in its original condition, that is to say, it looks like a pumpkin before the “bibbety bobbety boo” and wand waving magic.

I just can’t fathom how much TLC it takes to produce an eleven hundred pound behemoth like this. In my neglected vegetable garden, at this moment, there are celery quietly going to seed, two mournful cabbages, three slug-ridden lettuces, and some zucchini plants that decided not to do anything aka produce zucchinis. So I’m guessing actual care is required. The water demands of such a thirsty giant would probably tax Eklutna Lake (one of our city’s water sources). Really, how does a pumpkin top 1000 pounds? Since I’m not big into actual research, I may never know, but check this article in our local paper for some bona fide information.

Cinderella’s carriage was grown by Mr. Dale Marshall of Anchorage, and weighed in at 1101 pounds, a new Alaska State record. Other contenders for chauffeuring the future princess tipped the scales at 757 and 902 pounds. If she ever tires of the pumpkin mode of transportation, she might recommend her fairy godmother put a spell on some of the other giant vegetables seen in the fair town of Palmer, like the enormous 24.9 pound rutabaga. And was that a 16 pound zucchini I spotted? Honestly, some people have all the luck (because it couldn’t possibly be effort and skill)!

Any mice to pull the pumpkin coach, you ask? No mice (that won ribbons, at least) but just about every domesticated animal was there to vie for honors. Cinderella could have her pick of cows, goats, sheep, ducks, chickens, rabbits, pigs, a turkey, or geese instead. I’m voting for the bunnies. Is there anything cuter than a bunny?

As a kid, the geese and turkeys at the Fair always freaked me out (obviously I wasn’t raised on or near a farm), and I see I haven’t much changed. One loud honk or hiss and I’m moving on to the next cage. I’ve heard you can tell a lot about people by what they are afraid of but I’m not quite sure what fear of large barnyard fowl says about me. Perhaps that’s why I eat turkey with such zest.

If Cinderella decides to take a break from choosing her next set of wheels, she could wander over to the show ring. I well remember the year of The Great Pig Fight in center ring. A handful of 4-H kids showing their pigs for the judges, nothing out of the ordinary, then BAM! Angry, squealing, lunging, open-mouthed, and sharp-toothed drama. My eyes grew wide as I thought nervously, '”Will they shoot the pigs? Shut the barn doors? Get the tranquilizer gun? Do pigs eat children? Are lassos involved here?” My city-kid self was in fight or flight mode.

Thankfully, the pint-sized handlers didn’t even bat an eye. Crisis was averted with pig boards, handy barriers the children carry for separating the pigs (see picture below for some multihued samples). I guess if you can’t see your deadly pig enemy, you can regain your pig manners and resume the walking circuit. And get some much needed rest after all the excitement.

There is a bit more to the Fair beyond the livestock and Cinderella-sized vegetables, including an unexpected and stunning perennial garden with some of the most unusual plants to be found in the 49th state, but that’s for next time. Tune in for rides, food, exhibits, and a flower contest extravaganza. See you in Palmer!

What barnyard animals are you afraid of? Any giant veggies in your area?

Hello from Kenai, Alaska

2010-08-30T10:49:00.000-07:00

Twice a year or so, I avail myself of the lazy garden chronicler’s privelege and post a picture worth a thousand words. This is one of those times. Some photo ops are too unique to pass up and this pub in Kenai had a stunning bit of artwork painted right outside the door. The stunning part is no one has filed a complaint. If this doesn’t capture the spirit of that fair fishing town, I’m open to suggestions.

Would you try to sneak into this bar if you were underage? What memorable “artwork” have you seen lately?

To give (a tour) is better than to receive…

2010-08-23T08:37:00.000-07:00

…a kick in the shins, a quarantine notice, or an IRS audit. This bit on how to gracefully give a garden tour might strike some of you as a stretch, at least for me. Having survived another stampede at my place, I am beginning to consider myself a garden tour veteran. (See any quote about pride and falling.) For an entertaining tour aftermath read, check out Margaret at A Way To Garden. And don’t try calling her Marge.

My last post on attending garden tours only cleansed half my tour demons. The other half are to be found here, in some coping strategies for making the big day doable. Please excuse the huffy (crabby even) tone…I’ll be back to my absurd self shortly.

1. Enlist the help of friends and relatives for the big day, if you have no servants, or “helpers” as Martha Stewart calls them.

At my last gig, mom and sister made the desserts and sister-in-law kept the outdoor table well stocked. She was also an excellent runner. Why do I need a runner for my garden tour, you ask? In no particular order, here’s what she had to run into the house for: writing implement and paper, garbage sack (for used paper cups, plates, etc.), master yard list (yes, I have one, and yes, it’s a miracle), napkins, and more brownies.

2. Lock the door to your house. Unless you want to have the garden tour extend to the house or more especially the nearest bathroom.

3. Make whatever deals you deem necessary with Higher Authority to ensure the weather is fine. I believe I promised my next born child if the rain stopped. Then make your peace with whatever weather happens. This is very important. Despair is not pretty.

4. Try to stand in one central area in your garden so people can find you if they have a question.

It’s like a wedding line, you’ve got to be in a certain place for attendees to know who you are. Also, if you are standing in a narrow walkway or corner, you will clog the flow of people. Sometimes you will be asked the name of an obscurely described plant and you will have to go look at it to be sure you are both thinking of the same thing. Return to your central spot after you’ve checked it out (and hopefully answered the question).

5. Find a good line to tell long winded “garden gabbers” to wrap things up so you can greet/answer questions of the others that are waiting to talk to you. “I’d love to continue this conversation, but…” I sometimes give out my email or number to those I would like to renew a garden gabfest with later.

Though difficult at times, you should try to be firm. It is not “mean” to excuse yourself from a twenty minute discourse of the history of Echinacea use by the pioneers or the subtle and artistic shadings of various kinds of eggplant. A garden host/hostess has duties, including the distribution of time as equally to the attendees as possible, should they wish to approach. Some people are shy and won’t come near if you are in midst of a long chat and show no signs of stopping. I know I’ve walked away after waiting for a couple of minutes for the owner to notice/acknowledge me.

6. Even if the garden tour sponsor (garden club, botanical garden, etc.) has not requested it and it is not expected, food and drink are a nice touch. The table should be covered somehow (I had a big patio umbrella opened over it) if there is a possibility or rain or it’s very hot. Wet or spoiled food is generally considered unappetizing, even by garden tour standards.

Beluga caviar and champagne are not necessarily your only options. My spread was simple: two types of brownies, fresh cut-up fruits and sliced cheeses, lemonade, and ice water. That’s it. And they were raving. Of course, my mom and sister make superb brownies from scratch. And we Alaskans are used to roughing it, so any signs of civilized behavior, like sharing food, are very welcome.

7. If you can, convince some friends or family to take pictures of the tour. Sounds dull, but they are rather nice after all and you’ll probably be too busy answering questions to do it yourself. I use a picture the LFG hubby took on the tour last year for my picture on the blog/Google/blotanical/etc. I look dopey (see above photo), but at least it’s authentic.

8. If you have little ones (or big ones that are inclined to be troublesome), might I suggest getting a sitter to keep an eye on them in the house? I found that letting them ride bikes in the street is not a good strategy with all the garden traffic coming and going. I include large, loud, or badly behaved domestic pets in this category, too. Ninety pound Labrador retrievers that like to jump up on people and little old ladies touring are not a good mix.

9. If possible, have a separate entrance and exit. On many smaller properties (like mine), if people are entering and leaving by the same pathway, things can get hairy. Friends, sponsors, or signage can help with directing the flow of people, as you will probably be too busy yakking with guests to help.

10. Take any meds you are on. A family member recommends Paxil, but I’ve also heard valium is effective. If medication is not your style, I suggest multiple deep breaths and a big smile. It will all be over in a few hours anyway.

The demons are officially cleansed, I’ll be back to my ridiculous self for next time. At least until the next tour….

Tips for giving a tour? Reasons you never will?

Ten ways not to lose your sanity

2010-08-16T09:40:00.000-07:00

I had thought of alternate titles for this bit on garden tours, such as “Don’t Go to These” or “Agony and Ecstasy”, but the title I settled on seemed to be more diplomatic or at least, more practical. Long years of touring, and the last few years giving tours at my garden, have guided my perspective of that delightful, boring, unexpected, tedious, disappointing, charming, frustrating, joyful, or tiring experience that is the garden tour.

But I am just a grasshopper to some of the great senseis of the garden tour to be found online. Charlotte, who must be the Queen Bee of tours(or perhaps the Grand Doyenne) at The Galloping Gardener muses on how many gardens on tour is too many here. We don’t quite have that problem in our state…I”m still trying to convince the neighbors that the desire to garden isn’t a mental defect. Pam at Digging has taken more tours than are residents of my state, check out the “garden tours” category in her sidebar.

My ~~humble~~ ranty attempt at a guaranteed, no-fail list of how to enjoy (or at least survive in good condition) an Alaskan tour follows. (Don’t be too shocked at the departure in tone, even the silly LFG gardener gets huffy sometimes.) I realize I’m preaching to the choir here, and you are all experts at touring already, but this exercise has been cathartic for me, so here goes:

1. Don’t forget your camera, stupid. (This reminder is for myself. I would never be so curt with my readers. Twice this summer I have neglected to bring it to my regret.)

You never know which garden will be your Shangri-La of inspiration. Or maybe you collect pictures of garden horrors. Check your batteries and make sure you have space on your film card, too.

2. Pack for the Apocalypse: Mother Nature is a temptress. Umbrellas, coats, boots, bear spray, bug spray, sunscreen, etc. Alright, I was kidding about the bear spray.

3. Bring your own food if you're going to be hungry. Bring your own drink if you will be thirsty. Some tours will have food and drink, some will not.

4. Use the bathroom beforehand so as not to put yourself in the unenviable position of racing through the tour, leaping into your vehicle, and screeching off with pealing tires. Please, please do not ask the owner of a private residence to use the facilities. They probably haven’t swirled the toilet out.

True story: After dashing into the house to scrub some dirt from my hands fifteen minutes before a tour at my garden last year, I saw a strange woman leave my downstairs bathroom. “She said she got here early and had to go before the tour. What was I supposed to say?” said the LFG hubby. What a rotten butler. His instructions for this years’ ABG benefit tour: don’t answer the door.

5. Don’t show up early (and expect the guided tour). The owner of a private garden, anyway, is probably out working on finishing touches. That or trying very hard to relax i.e. taking a valium/having a primal scream. So refreshing.

6. Carpool when possible and be careful not to block anyone’s driveway. Some homes and neighborhoods are short on parking spaces and who wants to walk a mile from car to garden? Also, carpooling has the added benefit of companionship during the tour. Now you have someone with which to snidely remark “I would never grow that,” which is half the fun of a tour.

7. If the owner is on hand, thank them for sharing their garden. Compliment them if you enjoyed something in particular. If another person or persons approaches to speak to the owner, make your comments brief and move on. If your conversation is mutually fascinating, leave an email or a number to reach you (see number 8).

At so many of the tours, a “garden gabber” would regale the shell-shocked owner with a long history of everything they’ve ever grown (“…and my Uncle Davy used to grow that same rutabaga in northern Flagstaff, except he…”). All while others wishing to approach become weary of waiting and give up. It’s hardly fair to the owner and the other attendees to be a conversation hog.

8. Bring paper and a writing implement, or a gadget that makes lists.

I have watched people write plant names or nursery names on body parts, cups, and napkins. If you forget, you are sure to discover a plant or plant source you can’t do without that is unpronounceable or unspellable. “The nursery is just after the prison, a right turn, then straight until the rock that looks like a ladybug, then another right, then straight ahead until….”

9. Assuming the role of the host/hostess, when you are in fact, not, is most likely to annoy the real host/ess. I’m not making this one up: demerits for those that hold court in part of the garden, telling onlookers in a loud voice how invasive a plant is and irresponsible to grow it. (Just whisper it to your neighbor, if you must.)

I’m rather fond of grumpy old ladies, and hope to be one some day, but a grumpy old lady tried to usurp my hostess crown. Too bad the plant she was abusing loudly was not invasive, did not run by rhizomes, and was sterile, so no seedlings. She had no clue what she was talking about. I blithely moved to were she was mesmerizing a captive audience and denounced, in a most civil way, everything she said. She grumped off, dragging her husband behind her. Good riddance.

10. Leave things as you found them. Including berries, vegetables, flowers, garden art, tools, and if you have children with you (and I sometimes take mine on tours when appropriate), remind them about not pulling up the plant tags, if present. Plant tags seem to have the same magnetism for kiddy mitts that priceless crystal, irreplaceable artwork, and anything with frosting has.

Luckily, the birds eat my berries, the slugs eat my veggies, the garden art is deeply planted or too weird to steal, the tools are rusty, and the plant tags are non-existent or buried.

Thanks for letting me blow off some steam. I shall truly be cleansed from my garden tour demons once the post I’m writing about ways to survive giving a garden tour is finished, coming soon….

What makes taking a garden tour delightful/dreadful? Observed (or participated in) any faux pas on tour?

Plant of the Month: July 2010

2010-08-09T08:44:00.000-07:00

Lime, chartreuse, viridian, Paris green, or golden green. Call it what you will, this color (or range of colors) calls my garden home in many places and many types of plants. For this month, I seem to have chosen Physocarpus opulifolius 'Dart's Gold' for the prize. Shrubbery doesn’t usually cheer me for more than a week (or the flowering period), but how can one not love a golden plant that shields (partially) a most hideous, bright yellow play slide. I would love anything that distracted my eye from that slide. Yes, even a blue tarp.

Another reason to love Dart’s Gold: it grows in Alaska. The number of golden shrubs that can stand it up here must be hovering around four, unless there has been some new breakthrough in hardiness I haven’t heard about. (Do let me know if this is the case….)

How: Water until established, after which drought tolerant. Seems to tolerate the silty soil.

Where: In sun, please.

When:

Early spring: bright leaves in late spring, almost resembling a forsythia when unfurling. You’ll have to imagine it; my picture stinks.

Summer: whitish flowers

Fall: leaves turn brown at edges and senesce a golden yellow (so pretty much the same color as summer). Stunning when backlit.

Winter: Mature bark exfoliating in long, shaggy strips holds winter interest (in Alaska at least. Not much going on except white and dark green here in the cold months.)

Why: see above. Also of easy culture, hardy in Alaska, and available in Alaska. That last one is rather important. It is a good mingler, too. I partner it up with it’s big burly cousin, Physocarpus ‘Diabolo’, Bergenia, Calamagrostis ‘Overdam’, some dark purple Clematis I’ve forgotten the name of, and Picea ‘Ohlendorffii’.

What is your favorite gold-leaved plant? Or if you dislike chartreuse, what was your favorite plant for July?

A hard act to follow….

2010-08-02T09:07:00.000-07:00

Don’t you pity the poor sap that has to perform after the prodigy or crowd favorite? I can just imagine the horror welling up inside such a person as the perfect act goes on and on, getting better and better. No, I take it back, I don’t have to imagine it. I have now lived it. Last Thursday, I toured a delightful private oasis on the Anchorage hillside and realized, to my dismay, that I had to follow this act.

This lovely spread was part of the Alaska Botanical Garden’s Secret Garden Series, an annual fundraiser that visits some of the best tended, designed, and beloved gardens in the Anchorage area. (The Last Frontier Gardener is blowing her own horn yet again. My garden is beloved, anyway.) So after taking a virtual stroll with me through some of the vignettes at this ponderosa, see if you don’t feel just a bit sorry for me…onward!

My first groan of affliction was at the sight of this arbor on the front of the house. The wood is as smooth as a baby’s bottom, I checked. My arbor (in the backyard, thankfully, so somewhat hidden) is a claptrap affair: fading stain, splinters, and treated wood posts. For those that do not dwell in our fair state, arbors of this quality are almost never seen. To be truthful, arbors of any quality are pretty unusual. After recovering movement in my limbs, I headed to the side yard where…

I was treated to the sight of the best looking workshop in the whole state. (I know it’s the workshop and not another residence because over the door, a sign reads “workshop.”) I showed this picture to the LFG husband, and he started to tear up and had to reach for the tissues. If we had such a large and lovely place to weld, paint, hammer, tinker with engines, etc., I might never see him again.

The gardener in the family had a more humble working space, but charming none the less. A small shed with an attached greenhouse painted a lovely, cheering shade of red, gladdened up a space usually consigned to utilitarian duties only.

Not only were there outbuildings in abundance, fun and quirky artwork was in evidence throughout as well. Using my finely honed detective skills, I determined that this gardener seemed to have a penchant for ducks, frogs, and rabbits.

Are you feeling sorry for me yet?

My Geranium ‘Johnson’s Blue’ are almost finished flowering, with maybe a dozen blossoms between seven plants. It just isn’t fair how many flowers are left on this one Geranium plant!

Even the vegetable garden had an outbuilding. What do you think: teahouse, outhouse, playhouse, or …?

The owner’s have a real passion for rock gardens, and I was pleased to discover that the rockery (is that a word?) was not ignored in the found object category.

Surely by now, at least the vestiges of pity are welling inside you for me. Any gardener that can include bright yellow dump trucks on tour day with confidence gets a gold star from me. And the local children.

The fire pit was blazing, adding to the ambience as well as smoking the bugs away. Very clever.

A couple of plant shots. I only took a few pictures of just plants. Most were of ensembles like the one below.

That’s a whalebone, folks. If my animal anatomy class serves me well (and it rarely does), it looks like a vertebrae from the whale’s back. Ouch.

I insert this picture because it is the exact shade of blue my toenails are painted. You see how desperate I am? You are indeed hard-hearted if you can’t feel bad for poor little me yet.

I should have a dozen of these clever signs around my garden. “Pending” is so much more hopeful than '”weeds,” which is what my unfinished areas constitute.

A lighthouse? Or just lighting?

Wow, someone in Alaska is growing this grass other than me. That is if it’s Arrhenatherum elatius bulbosum 'Variegatum’. The taxonomist who cobbled that string of epithets together should be horsewhipped with a wet noodle. What gardener is ever going to say it all? I just call it Arrhenatherum and have done with it.

Well, by now you know the tour was a ball to take but a wrecking ball to my psyche. With only a few days until the tour, I am too busy being frantic to feel much self pity. I look at it this way, by Friday it will be all over.
Any tips for the tour? Ways to drown my sorrow sans alcohol?

Only a dip goes dip netting

2010-07-26T09:54:00.000-07:00

Firstly, if gardening was like dip netting, we’d all plan on getting big dividends for relatively little output. That and we’d also have enormous, unwieldy nets at the end of a fifteen foot poles scattered about our garden shed. Happy thought indeed.

I entered the gardening world with the same naivety I first had for this strange subspecies of fishing: short-lived. I have learned that it is just as much art as science, and certainly plenty of hard work to put a net in the rushing river and expect a half dozen fish to swim in. My first seeds tossed into the dirt and watered once over the course of the summer for some strange reason failed to germinate. I was discouraged. (Now, rather too many seeds germinate: dandelion, chickweed, etc.) Disappointment certainly applies to fishing: you get skunked, and drive home for three hours thinking about your wasted day and all the jerks that took your spot on the bank and had success. Or, you catch thirty salmon and wonder how you’re going to be enjoying freezer-burned salmon in six months.

My early experiences with this truly unusual past-time were as a kid and it was so enjoyable I haven’t been back in twenty years. Make that twenty five. Mother keeps telling me I have early onset Alzheimer’s (which is in our family, unfortunately) so I’ll blame the foggy memory for my recent decision to try the grand old Alaskan activity once again.

How could I forget dip nets cost an arm and a leg? Some nets were priced around two hundred dollars! For an aluminum stick with a net attached. My felco pruners were expensive, but are used almost every day in the spring, summer, and fall. The dip nets would be used once a year and then retired to the garage. Not to worry: nets were borrowed, financial crisis was averted, and I don’t have to find a space in the garage to store them. Hooray.

And how could I have forgotten the crowds on the bank? The term “combat fishing” is used here disparagingly, and for good reason. When the fishing runs are good, people beg, borrow, or craft their own dip nets and off they go in droves. Sighted in the hordes: plenty of duct tape on homemade nets. Also a few crutches taped to the end of poles. We’re nothing if not resourceful here in the Great Land.

Never been? No idea what to do? That doesn’t stop the crowds at the river. When the prize is Alaskan salmon, even the jaded are converted. I’m a big fan of salmon, and use it in the garden in various forms. Rusty silhouettes as artwork, processed guts and skin as fertilizer. I’m not making this up: salmon is good for the garden! Oh yes, and the palate, of course.

The spot where we camped is world famous (in Alaska, at least) for it’s salmon fishing: the Kenai River. You can dip net on both banks. The north bank is easily accessible by vehicle and you can pitch a tent right on the beach so as to be ready for action when fishing opens at 6am. The other beach is only accessed by 4-wheel drive vehicles or ATV’s, is a long drive from town through some serious road construction, and allows motorized vehicles on the beach, to everyone’s joy that is trying to sleep when fishing closes at 11pm. Guess which one the Last Frontier Gardener camped at? That’s right…the noisy, insanely busy, diesel engine and ATV plagued south beach. I guess everyone needs a little excitement in their life occasionally.

The idea of wading out into a rapidly moving, deep, and glacial river is daunting. But the idea of falling into the same river is worse. Worst of all, having to wear speckled (or is it blotched?) waders that resemble leprosy and could accommodate another person, wade out into the fast river, and then fling a long, heavy pole out into the murky water and try not to get drug out to sea or lose the pole. Always with one eye out for grizzly bears or Fish and Game agents. I enjoyed myself immensely. Though camouflage is not generally seen on the runway in Paris, you will see more of it here than anywhere else in the world, and worn with pride. I myself had camo waders and hooded jacket, and was even offered a camouflage fanny-pack, but declined. We are far from Paris here but I have to draw the line somewhere. Sunglasses preserved what little shreds of dignity I had left and had the added benefit of keeping sand and water out of my eyes.

And so I conclude gardening is not vastly different than my dip netting experience. There were dangers anticipated, successes hoped for, humorous situations, thrills, specialized equipment, and a big payoff. And I was smelly and wet for hours. Reality hit when the realization of how long it would take to process (read clean, fillet, and package) all those fish set in. Many, many garden dreams have gone from blissful dreaming to seemingly endless back-breaking labor in a similar fashion. Fish on!

Is gardening like fishing? Should it be?

Things I haven’t done

2010-07-19T16:18:00.000-07:00

Now this list could go one of two ways. The full personal revelation, chock full of not-yet-perpetrated scandal, or the dull notation of tasks my schedule has prevented me from attending to as of yet. As this is (ostensibly) a family friendly gardening blog, I should probably opt for the latter as it is more relevant, though less sensational. For the tidy and organized, the following list might be considered shocking, even revolting. You have been warned.

I haven’t:

1. decided on a menu. Yes, the garden tour at my place, occurring on the fifth of August, needs finger foods and beverages. Suggestions welcome. This is supposed to be a posh event (well, as posh as Alaska garden tours go), and a fundraiser for the Alaska Botanical Garden, so the LFG hubby’s suggestion of spray-on cheese and crackers is rejected.

2. weeded the side yard that faces the road. Can you blame me? I never (well hardly ever) even see it. The dandelions and clover are invading the gravel. I should have done this one a month ago. Wait, I did. It needs it again. Ah, gardening….

3. replaced plants that didn’t survive the winter. Yes, I am that lazy. I can think of at least a half a dozen glaring holes in the garden, some with dead foliage still intact. At least perennials are on sale now.

4. tidied up the deck. That spare tank of propane for the grill, snow shovel, bird seed containers, etc. are still cluttering up the back deck. Nothing says “well kept garden” like propane containers littered about.

5. gotten rid of that brush pile. It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t currently lying atop my outdoor table, smack in the middle of the yard. It does look a little casual that way, doesn’t it?

I’m sure there are other things to numerous to mention but if the list gets any longer I will lose all motivation. Some random, more personal things I haven’t done (as a reward for those of you that stuck around): held up a bank, shaved my head, tiptoed through the tulips, or eaten guacamole.

What haven’t you done?

Advertisements for trees…if trees read ads

2010-07-12T07:10:00.000-07:00

Tree wax for that unwanted hair.

Feeling down?

Weight loss…naturally.

Skin feeling dry?

Stop hair loss.

If you’re in the middle of a breakup….

Hair color at home

Get rid of that troublesome dandruff

Chemical peel

Do your trees read ads? Should they?

Plant of the Month: June 2010

2010-07-05T07:15:00.000-07:00

It was a tough choice this month, but the judges determined that Calamagrostis x acutiflora ‘Overdam’ played both the crucial starring and supporting roles in the Last Frontier Garden. One judge was overheard to say, '’Without it, this garden has the structure and dimensional qualities of a Monopoly board,” another: “no point in looking out the window between November and June if it wasn’t there.” And my personal favorite, “it gives the illusion she knows what she’s doing.” Don’t be too hard on those critical judges…this being the age of full disclosure and all, the “judges” are in actual fact, me.

Where: Full sun is ideal, but in my experience, part day shade is acceptable. More upright in full sun.

When: Early spring (that’d be May here) through early to mid winter (December or January but depends on location and how deep the snow is), flowering begins in late June or early July here in Alaska.

How: Enjoys good garden soils that are irrigated, but can handle heavy clay and what the rain brings (we get about 16 inches of precipitation annually, by the way), I never fertilize and they look great. Cut down in early spring to about two or three inches.

Why:

1. Nothing much happening in early spring here except the occasional bulb…and this grass. The first perennial up and growing in my garden. Covers ripening bulb foliage as it leafs out. And honestly, who wants to look at those decaying daffodil or Allium leaves?

2. I’ve never had to treat for pests or diseases and never staked it. Since I”m a low maintenance gardener (code for lazy), I could stop my list right there and be satisfied.

3. It looks good with any color as a neighbor, including toughies (OK, for me at least) like raspberry, scarlet, and orange-y gold.

4. Linear leaf shape compliments coarse leaf shapes like oriental poppies that can be difficult to place.

5. When used in quantity, can provide rhythm.

6. Moves in the lightest breeze, animating the garden.

7. Provides a pleasing rustling sound as it sways, that is if you can hear it over the neighbor’s annoying dog barking. Quiet, Chester, quiet!

8. Seven reasons is all I do…if you’ve had experience with it and can add another reason, please comment.

Had any experience with this grass? What was your favorite plant for June?

And you wonder why I’m paranoid

2010-06-28T08:11:00.000-07:00

File this one under things you don’t want to see in your garden footwear. Ever. Under any circumstances.

No, it’s not mold or a dreadful case of athlete’s foot. Something even worse than that. Thankfully, I had the presence of mind ('”let’s just sell the house” said the LFG hubby fearfully) to fling said shoe across the yard so forcefully it whisked straight through the Viburnum hedge (below) and bounced off the neighbors fence. Which bumped the small yellow jacket nest loose. Yes, that’s right, a most ill tempered member of the wasp family had taken up residence in my muck shoes. Visit the link to find out more, way, way more, than you want to know about wasps, including pictures.

On to part deux. Urban legend says that this (below) is how normal, sensible gardeners store their footwear. Cuts down on finding twigs, stray children (see last pic), rock collections, long forgotten Easter eggs, or water in them. (Don’t worry, I just posed the boots this way. I usually leave mine right side up like a dope.)

And when one leaves the boots right side up, one should not be surprised when things take up residence. As I am beginning to discover to my dismay.

After shaking the boots vigorously to loosen the web and stamping on them for good measure, I ran upstairs to find my thickest wool socks. Thus endowed, I reluctantly, fearfully slid the boots on, felt no bite/wiggle/hiss in response and then went about my chores with a firm resolve to wear my boots more often, to bed even, so no critters had the chance to get cozy.

Thankfully, Alaska is not home to giant man-eating scorpions, tarantulas, gnomes, or the rats of NIMH. Otherwise this would probably be posted from a bed at API (Alaska Psychiatric Institute).

What would be the worst thing to find in your garden footwear?

Tour a Nursery: In the Garden Nursery

2010-06-21T12:30:00.000-07:00

I may have mentioned (once or twice a month, and in comments on the garden blogs of others) how Alaska is the pits when it comes to sourcing interesting, unusual, or newly released plants. This is one of those cases when being proved wrong is a pleasant experience. Lorri Abel is the proprietress of In the Garden Nursery, a small specialty nursery tucked away in a south Anchorage neighborhood, a place where the surprises were both pleasant and frequent.

A very savvy businesswoman and member of the Alaska Master Gardener Association, Ms. Abel not only offers hard-to-find plants for her customers, she has also lined up some of Anchorage’s finest for presentations and demonstrations over the course of the summer. (Why don’t more nurseries do this?) Last weekend, Sally Arant gave a class on concrete in the garden and even had some of her fabulous concrete works of art for sale at the end of class. Check out the nursery website for more upcoming classes as they are added. I see I missed hearing from Annie Nevaldine (a pro with extensive knowledge of plants and a Master Gardener) and Jane Baldwin (Primula queen and Anchorage Master Gardener prez). Drat!

Lori was kind enough to let me stop by shortly after opening week in mid-May for some photos. Shall we go in?

One thing I noticed right away (and will be gratifying to the nearsighted among us) was the plethora of easy to read signage. No endless wandering (that tends to get expensive for me) for that vine or groundcover when you can see right away…

…where to go. I’m very good at snooping around for those new or unusual varieties (my modesty is really shining through here), so imagine my pleasure at discovering Brunnera m. ‘Spring Yellow’, Ligularia ‘Osiris Cafe Noir’, and Dicentra ‘Gold Heart’. And the goodies didn’t stop there.

Looking over my list of pleasant surprises, I note many of them are shade plants, or as we in Alaska call them, full sun plants. Yep, we grow Hostas in sun. Crazy, I know, but it just doesn’t get hot here (75F is a scorcher) and our nights (and soils) are cool so we get away with it. Some other uncommon treasures: Hepatica americana, Athyrium ‘Lady in Red’, Epimedium (at least three types that I saw), Aruncus ‘Guinea Fowl’, Uvularia grandiflora, and about three or four different Cimicifugas. Won’t find this list at the ol’ home improvement store. I know, I’ve checked.

And how many nurseries have a sale table? Off the top of my head: none around here. Many just pitch less than stellar specimens or overstock in the trash. I just saw some lush specimens of Isolepis cernua (fiber optic grass) piled up in the trash at a nursery I won’t name. (At that moment, I contemplated dumpster diving for the first time since my college days.) None of that wasteful pitching here…off to the sale table they go.

I was thrilled to see a section devoted to ornamental grasses, which don’t get much attention in Alaska. And surprise, surprise, I picked up a grass (Calamagrostis x acutiflora ‘Eldorado’) I didn’t have. Actually, as a side note, I thought I had ‘Eldorado’ and was unimpressed with the supposed “gold” tinge. No wonder. My specimens must have been mislabeled and are very likely ‘Avalanche'. I am happy to report ‘Eldorado’ does indeed have a pronounced gold tinge, for those that are wondering.

This isn’t exclusively a perennial nursery. There’s a bit of everything. I found cheerful annuals (like the pansies below) just begging for me to take their picture. I notice I’m having a yellow moment here. Noteworthy because I have heretofore forbidden myself to have any more yellow moments. They draw attention to the dreadful yellow play slide in the back yard…oops, I meant back garden: thanks Noelle. The yellow slide will be covered in a future philosophical rant upon the fascinating subject of children's play equipment.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes. There were also trees and shrubs to be had. Don’t the dapper chaps below look nice? I had to be very firm with myself, “No more room for shrubbery, no matter how small.” But aren’t they cute? Sort of like the horticultural equivalent of puppies or kittens, my eye was just drawn to them. The kids have always wanted a pet, but I don’t think this is what they had in mind. Which is too bad because these will never chew shoes, spray furniture, or develop a barking habit.

Is the non-gardening spouse or companion in a decline over having to troll the nursery for hours and hours? Or even fifteen minutes? Clever Ms. Abel has developed a place here for them. A very inviting and comfortable looking place, too. I didn’t see any sticks for roasting marshmallows over the fire pit, but then I’d never leave if there was.

Wow, a whole section (and bona fide sign) for our humble native plants. Again, a new sighting for me at Alaska nurseries. Usually, our native plants are relegated to some dark, unlabelled corner of retail sales, like Harry Potter shut up in the broom cupboard. They are there, but unacknowledged. Not so, here.

The sly ones amongst the readership are probably wondering how many truckloads of plants were purchased. I stunned even myself and went away with just a flat. Disciplined, that’s me. Of course I won’t promise not to stop by and pick up more bits and pieces for the garden. The selection is too good, and Lorri says she can get wiped out of certain plants after a garden designer stops by and buys the whole lot. You’ve been warned…get over to In the Garden Nursery, pronto.

Do nurseries in your area have seating areas for non-shopping companions? Sections for native plants? Good signage?