A river runs through it, sort of

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?

I really wish we had more of this…

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!

Stupid things we’ve all done

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?

And you wonder why I’m paranoid

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?

Are yours real or fake?

No, get your mind out of the gutter.  I meant plants and flowers.  Walking and driving around my town, I had noticed a smattering of frilly, bright greenery.  Not that that in itself is strange, but the occasion I’m thinking of was in January and the snow was about three feet deep.  That time of year, green things do arouse my suspicions.  Green hanging baskets and forsythia bonsai are almost unheard of in summer, so a sighting in January was special.  Too bad it was fabric and plastic.  To preserve the dignity of my fellow Alaskans, all identifying characteristics in the photos below have been edited out or blurred.  I know, I know, that’s no fun at all.

Take the beauty pictured above.  If you just blur your eyes, it might not seem too out of the ordinary.  Back in focus, I’m wondering where the stem connects to the ground and why is so blooming healthy when there is snow on the ground.  We have no, I repeat, no blooming vines that are that early to start growth.  So subtle is perhaps not the effect this “gardener” was going for.  I’m not the only one pondering this propensity for plastic.  Kelly at Life Out Of Doors was hoodwinked recently by some man-made beauties, blue hydrangeas to be precise.  She was oohing and aahing and snapping away on the old camera and leaned in for a touch.  Yes, you all can guess what happened next.  After the shock (and horror?), a funny post on plastic plants.

For a real live researched post on fakies try Gardening Tips ‘n’ Ideas from the godfather at Blotanical (a garden blog community), Stuart B.  He even mentions the economy: wow, no such meticulous background info here at LFG.  You know if it was on his mind in Australia (and mine in Alaska) it’s at least a phenomenon in the Pacific area.  But wait, Mr_Subjunctive in Iowa has a (more edgy, PG-13 rated) take on fakies at Plants are the Strangest People and even discourses on their care, maintenance, and common pests.  They get the deluxe treatment, complete with Latin names.  Very posh. 

Liza in New Mexico at Good to Grow gets a bit ranty (scroll to bottom of post) about fakies and has a firm philosophy about their disposal.  Speaking of philosophy, here’s one for Socrates: if you plant a plastic plant, does that make you a gardener?  Or a decorator?  The one fakie I saw that didn’t cause immediate scorn, revulsion, or imminent vomiting can be found at Nestmaker in Oregon, where Megan writes about a designer (grandpa’s quote about “more money than brains” comes to mind) having a fake boxwood hedge made to cover an eyesore.  Not too shabby.  And probably more costly than my car.  At Go Away, I’m Gardening, Amy in Texas rejects the I Love Lucy method of fakie gardening and decides to stick with the real thing.  I think we have represented the US pretty well in the imitation plant department.  I’m wondering if fakies are also an international outrage…please weigh in on this if you feel the need.

What do a persons plastic blooms say about them?  I can see a theme in the arrangement above.  These folks are obviously patriots, with their red, white, and blue mailbox and matching ersatz flowers.  Quite cheering, especially for April (yes, that is snow in the background).  And always timely as Independence Day (July 4th for for Americans) comes around every year after all…they’re just ahead of the game for six months and woefully behind for another six.  A bit like leaving the Christmas lights up year ‘round.

Pictured above you can see the aforementioned forsythia bonsai.  It is an incredibly hardy variety capable of withstanding –30F with no protection.  I have seen the yard in four feet of snow and the cheerful yellow blooms just shrug the cold off.  (Simply amazing or simply synthetic?)  Here it is keeping company with another strangely hardy creature, the rare, shy, and very slow moving Porch Swan, Cygnus polyvinylchloridus porchus.  Maybe the little documented porch swan nests only in synthetic plants…there could be a graduate degree in this for some dedicated soul.

My one word answer to the above: really?  That ficus doesn’t even look real.  The forsythia, you could drive by and not give it another look.  This doesn’t even pass the drive by test.  Maybe the Porch Swan has some distant mock songbird cousin that could roost here.  This person is trying…there are lots of perennials in the front yard, however I just can’t in good conscience give an ‘A’ for effort here.  Even in the reproduction plant market, there is better than this.  I’ll just think positive: maybe they are going to clean it and it’s just resting there for now.  And the past month.

We live in a world were fake is often desirable, maybe even better than the real thing.  I myself just had some silk wrap fingernails removed.  They were gorgeous and high maintenance and impossible to garden with.  There is artificial hair, hair/eye/skin/nail color, and implants of all kinds for our bodies, inside and out.  The garden has seen it’s share of synthetic: rocks, dead end wishing wells, grass, beehives, all manner of plastic statuary meant to look like animal/vegetable/mineral/gnome, faux (which is a nicer sounding French word for fake) terra cotta, and even sham gardeners.  You know the one’s I mean: the painted, wooden silhouette of the gardener (usually rather large in the beam) bending over.  If all that and more can be counterfeited, it was only a matter of time before the plastic and silk moved out to the garden in place of the plants.    

Where do plastic plants belong?

Wanted Dead or Alive

Preferably dead.  [Remember those FBI Most Wanted lists at the Post Office?  Next time you’re in line for twenty minutes, leave your small child as a place holder and go and snoop through the small ream of paper that includes some of the worst criminals in the world, pictures included.]  After hours of weed pulling on Saturday, inspiration hit.  Why not write about my top five most hated/dangerous weeds?  Which posed a dilemma.  Now that I had weeded, where could I find an intact specimen of said weeds for a picture?  My imperfection (or laziness) saved me.  There were indeed weeds left in the yard.  I just had to crawl into some tight spots to get a decent shot of them.  So without further ado, the top five weeds in my Alaska yard this year are:

1. Taraxacum officinale or the old standby dandelion.  Kids and bees love it.  The dandies in the turf grass I have occasionally gone to battle with, but it’s the one’s in the gravel and the beds that drive me nuts.  And it’s not as if there are two seeds per plant.

2. Prunus padus commutata, or the ever popular (OK, in zone 3) May Day tree, whose white flower petals are currently blowing off the tree and around my yard like a summer snow.  It’s a quick grower, quicker than birch even.  In our cold, dry climate (and with our cool soils) there aren’t too many trees that make fast growth.  On a blank lot (which so many new houses are after the builder scrapes off all the vegetation and trees) the need for shade trees (or any trees for that matter) is paramount.  And this one works great with one teeny, tiny, little caveat.  It seeds like the great plant Apocalypse is happening tomorrow.  And it’s seedlings are rather tenacious for their size.  You have been warned.

 

3. Campanula rapunculoides and you’d think with a common name like creeping bellflower, people would be wary.  Or not.  I admit the purple flower is attractive, but is that any reason to invite this plant thug into the garden?  This is the hardest weed to pull and grows back the fastest.  I hate, loathe, detest, and abhor it.  And where did I acquire it?

 

That’s right, next door.  It is posing with some turf grass and about ten thousand of it’s cohorts in the background.  Short of secretly squirting Roundup along the fence line, what can you do?

4. Campanula persicifolia, the peach-leaved bellflower, and what a beauty it was in it’s first years in my garden.  I had both the blue and the white colored plants.  Though the white is almost completely gone with diligent weeding, the blue has staying power.  It hides amongst the blueberry bushes, Geranium ‘Johnson’s Blue,’ and under Pinus aristata.  It grows back if you just rip the top part and don’t remove the roots, but not as quickly as Campanula number 3.  It spreads more slowly as well.  I know when I’ve missed a patch because it sends up two or three foot spikes of blue, bell-shaped flowers in summer.  Can’t hide those under the Geraniums now, can they?

5. Linaria vulgaris, also known by the rather fattening name of butter-and-eggs.  You pull it and it comes back.  Forever.  Well, perhaps I exaggerate, but just.  As a kid I used to love picking the yellow flowers and biting the end of the spur off to suck out the miniscule bit of nectar.  Well, like so many tastes, it has changed as I have become an adult.  Hate it.  Please do your neighborhood a favor if you have it and mow or pull it.  In a sad bit of irony, I have seen tended beds of this in town…it is in fact NOT a yellow snapdragon, despite the resemblance.  A terrible seeder and not bad at creeping around by rhizomes, too.  Check out the USDA website for a better picture that includes the yellow flower.

That was my top five for this year, mind you.  Just like the FBI list, next year there might be other (garden) low-life criminals in the running.  Oh joy.

What are your worst weeds?

An Empty Veggie Garden is Good For…

Still too wet and cold for me to be planting my veggies out.  This is a good thing, and I’ll tell you why in a minute.  First, ask yourself: ever been surprised in your garden?  I mean really, truly surprised.  This was an experience I had to savor, like drinking orange juice after brushing my teeth, in the garden this week.

Yes, James, there was a tarp involved.  My first thought upon glancing at the apocalypse in my garden (in the shape of shovels, trenches, gravel heaps, caulking, and foam board insulation) was “curses on the Y chromosome” as my teeth were being ground down to powder.  Mostly, I was just frozen into place, part of me not wanting to believe what I was seeing.  But I blinked and the carnage was still there.  It has been mentioned briefly, everyday, for the last three months, to everyone under our roof, that we have a garden tour this summer.  People are paying to look at our yard and a certain responsibility (and perhaps a touch of anxiety) goes with that.  I want everything to look dynamite: gravel heaps and tarps are not dynamite, not even in Alaska.

   My zombie-like demeanor (the raging, lightning quick reflexes zombie, not the slow, dull-witted, and knee-less zombie) must have tipped off the offender as to my state of mind, for their was a hurried explanation all while backing slowly away from me.  The few words that penetrated my consciousness included something about the home energy rebate program, which we have been working on for our home.  Basically, depending on how much more energy efficient you make your home, you can be reimbursed for your costs up to a certain amount.  So we’ve been insulating, replacing old appliances, installing a new garage door, furnace, etc.  The last thing to be done was to “slip” some rigid foam board insulation under the fireplace chase, accessed from outside the house.  Apparently “slipping” the three-inch board under the fireplace frame involves massive earth moving.  And even worse things, for a gardener….

 

Yes, take a deep breath or avert your eyes if you need to: you are looking at a fresh footprint in a garden bed, one of many.  I have decided not to show the pictures of the crushed crocuses et al: too graphic.  Mister Energy, as we shall hereafter refer to him, had the gall to stomp through the garden while I was watching.  Shocking!  I treated him to my best soil lecture, complete with references to the convenient rocks placed throughout the bed for any access needs.  Mister Energy struggled with the reasons for hopping from rock to rock.  I started in on pore spaces, oxygen, soil structure, compression of wet and silty spring soils, etc.  Watching a 6’4” man leaping about the garden from rock to rock like Mikhail Baryshnikov was almost worth the previously caused damage.  My only regret, no video camera.  Any YouTube ballet dreams shall remain unfulfilled for now. 

So moving on to alternate reasons for having a veggie garden.  “Are those green things weeds, or what?”  Some ornamental onions were growing (happily) in the gravel and had to be moved during the big dig.  But where to move them?  Most of the garden is still frozen any deeper than about three inches down.  Enter the raised bed in the form of an empty vegetable garden.

  

As if there were another option.  My holding bed for example, designed for those impulse purchases, has been filled for two years now.  At this juncture, keeping a small corner of the veggie garden free for any other “emergencies” sounds like sensible insurance.  The insulation was installed, the dirt was replaced (well most of it, Mister Energy forgot the three laundry soap buckets full of “bad” dirt in the wheelbarrow…you don’t want to know what he did with them), and the gravel re-laid.  Project accomplished. 

Then he hits me with: “do you think we need to repaint the house?  We’ll have to put a ladder in the middle of this garden bed.” 

Any surprises in your garden?

Ever been thwarted by nature?

If the answer is "no", then I must conclude you either live in a biodome or are homebound.  I had prepared a post on "The Five Ways to Know It's Spring in Alaska," to be completed with a picture or two, a short numbered list, and a question to get the comment juices flowing.  With a self-satisfied smile, I arranged for the post to be published on Monday (two Mondays ago, that is), and pressed the "publish" button.  And then it snowed.  And snowed.  And snowed.  The post was up for four hours before I realized my error.  Fill in your favorite exclamation here (I favor "whoopsie" for a family friendly blog, but to each their own).

Spring is not quite here yet.

For those that have never visited our great state, snow is the official state of oxygen accompanied by two hydrogen molecules here.  Liquid water enjoys but a four-month repast, and then it's straight on to solid ice and the lovely crystalline structure of snow.  We're used to getting foiled and frustrated so this isn't the first time the weather and its fickle nature have laid to waste my best-formed plans (and even the scatter-brained or spur of the moment ones, too). 

I've taken to playing the leafy version of Russian roulette: hardening off annuals before the last frost date, or even (gasp) planting my containers before that special day.  For Alaskans, it has traditionally been Memorial Day weekend, the last weekend in May.  These days I push the envelope by two weeks at least.  I once had a candidate for public office stop during her spiel at my doorstep, and tell me I had planted my annuals too early.  And yet, I felt no guilt.  Can you blame me, I mean, the last weekend in May?  Calendar, or "official", spring is more than half over by then!

  A couple of flats of annuals, waiting for me to plant them (too early).

My early push has resulted in the demise of many a good annual.  Some frequent casualties include Coleus, Impatiens, Helichrysum, and Heliotropium.  You'd think I would figure this out.  Instead I just throw my "emergency cover", a painting drop cloth, over the lot at night in (very early) spring when temperatures get too cold.  They sell real products that probably do a better job at this, but hey, I'm cheap.  The Coleus in particular doesn't care for this brutal treatment/low temperature and inevitably I kill all, or nearly all, of my precious, colorful acquisitions.  Well, as grandpa says, "You can't fix stupid." 

Do I get thwarted in summer, you ask?  Our summer reversals are usually of two types: too wet or too hot.  Just as the petunias are opening in their full glory, releasing their scent to great anticipation, we get rain.  We are quite dry here in Anchorage, with only 16 inches of precipitation annually (that makes us a desert sans cactus), so the rains in late summer, though welcome, are always a bit of a surprise.  I never plant petunias in-ground, and the better drainage in containers seems to help with too much water, but when it rains for an entire day, the blossoms do get damaged.  Actually, damaged is too kind.  They turn into a putrid, slimy mess.  The white-flowering varieties seem to fare the worst. 

                                             Petunias just waiting to be spoiled by the rain.

If it's not raining, it's the odd over 75 degree Fahrenheit day that toasts all the container plants and even stresses the in-ground plantings.  (Stop that laughing, 75 is a scorcher here.)  Two years ago, we had no days over that temperature, so I get lulled into thinking it can't happen.  And when it does, I want to be at the lake, not running around with the hose or watering can doing plant triage.

Before the snow, Scabiosa 'Butterfly Blue', looking good.

Fall has the same trick every year.  Firstly, I should explain "fall" or "autumn" if you're English, is a newer concept to most Alaskans.  Traditionally, it's the time between September and the first snow.  So about three hours or so.  Recently, gardeners here have taken to planting more annuals and perennials that thrive in cooler temperatures.  But it's a losing battle.  Around the first part of October we have our first real snow of the year.  The one that sticks, which means end game for annuals.  A couple of stalwart perennials can truck through a few light snows; Scabiosa 'Butterfly Blue' comes to mind.  I've taken to planting ornamental grasses, which look great in autumn and (many of them) into winter as well.

An Alaskan winter has many hidden tricks and traps to thwart even wily gardeners.  Ice, freeze-thaw cycles, rodent damage, moose damage...well, I'll end there, lest my list get too depressing.  Even after enduring many winters and their reversals, I still get snookered.  Hope springs eternal in the gardener's heart.  Read on for one example of this involving the hulking, steroid enhanced version of Bambi, pictured below.  

Snap!  There goes two hundred dollars.

I am an acolyte (as are all Alaskans who plant young, deciduous trees) of moose-repelling products.  My go-to choice is Plantskyyd, which might be Swedish.  (Don't they love of the vowel "y"?  Or is it the Russians that love "y"?  Perhaps a reader will clue us in.)  I know it can't be American because our vowels are: a, e, i, o, u and sometimes y.  A sometimes rating doesn't get you two "y's" in a row.  [Just realized my razor sharp editorial skills have served me well, once again.  The product is actually spelled Plantskydd.  That's right.  Two d's, not two y's.  My apologies to Sweden and other "y" loving countries.] 

This product, touted to repel rabbits, elk, and deer, has worked pretty well for me when applied monthly in the winter.  (Who is that disciplined?)  Any gardener who has had the good fortune of using this animal blood-based product also knows the stench that goes with it.  I'll try to paint a fair picture for the uninitiated: mind numbing, stomach turning, dry heave-inducing stench.  It also has a tricky nozzle that seems to get clogged after the first squirt and thereafter, somehow, sprays backward onto the human applicator, a bit like the magic bullet that shot JFK.  So the point of this is: application is messy and I don't like doing it.  I apply and expect the stuff to work for a month at least.  Here's the obstacle: it snows, or the snow melts, or a windstorm blows the snow away and I should reapply but I don't.  The moose know this: they have an ungulate version of The Force and can sense a disturbance.  One unprotected night and voila: where once a young tree proudly stood lies an homage to Marilyn Manson, the Addams family, and Nightmare on Elm Street.  Yes, quite shocking.  It's the only known case of the Last Frontier Gardener thinking dark, malicious, assault rifle-laden thoughts having to do with a four-legged animal.  For the calendar year at least.

I guess the point is (wow, there's a point here?) we can get lulled into whatever the weather (or fauna) status quo is, and then are surprised, dare I say outraged, when there is a change.  Doesn't some Harry Potter character keep barking "constant vigilance!!" or some such thing?  Reflection on my past behavior has led me to conclude that I don't think I can maintain the proper watchful, attuned attitude for more than one month, but a little more preparation and awareness would be good.  And if that fails me, I'll just have to find that door-to-door politician cum horticulturist to advise me on my next move.

      

I'm convinced Mother Nature is a temptress.

How are you and your plans frustrated or foiled by nature?

Do you need Dr.Quinn?

Remember watching those old "Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman" re-runs?  (As I recall, this was a phase in my life that came just after the "Little House on the Prairie" re-runs and just before my "A-Team" days.  Or was it "Magnum P.I."?)  That plucky city gal always seemed to find a cure for what ailed the townsfolk on the frontier.  Now how badly do I need a garden version of this character?

Dr. Quinn can save the day!

I can see it now: dress swishing and held high to avoid dirtying the lavender hem, she tramps single-minded through the entrance and pauses a moment.  "Oh dear, did you know your Veronica has a terrible case of mildew?"  This would be said in a most kind and regretful manner, for Dr. Q is nothing if not classy and compassionate.  And I would bow my head in acknowledgement and a bit of shame.  If I was feeling bold I might add, "And it's been mildewed for two years in a row."  Then she would spontaneously convey that my lilac is very unhappy in it's current place (no flowering) and the grasses are getting crowded and dying out in the middle.

The funny part about this scenario is that I know exactly which plants are not thrilled with their place in my yard, as evidenced by disease, pests, or poor growth.  I don't need "Dr. Quinn" to sashay through and point out what is to me obvious.  What I need is the guts to do something about it.  Some guts and some initiative.  But sometimes the thought of the work involved in removal or transplanting seems nothing short of colossal and I find it too intimidating to start.  "I'll just wait 'til next year."

Woman, divide us, please!

I have five specimens of Calamagrostis x acutiflora 'Karl Foerster' that have been needing division now for two or three years. By procrastinating I have just made the job more enormous. So my thought process goes something like: Let's see, last time I dug and divided a Calamagrostis it took about an hour (just the "lift, divide, and avoid tramping other plants" part) for one large plant, not counting the re-planting of divisions. Applying some fuzzy math, that would be a months' worth of free time in the garden down the drain. Oh joy, when do I start!?

Martha says: Get motivated...it's a good thing.

This procrastination thing might need more of a Martha Stewart approach (sorry, Dr. Quinn).  No doubt there is a special notepad adorned with scrolls and ribbon that would help me find the desire and the time to do the deed.  Hmm, maybe not.  I'm sure that her calendar has a day blocked out for transplanting tasks.  Someday I'll be that organized.  Today is not that day.   

I do find fearless authority figures to be very motivating: labor and delivery nurses are especially good.  They might make the best of what I like to call, in a highly specialized (and entirely made-up) niche of garden professional: the garden sergeant.  "It's six a.m., stop being lazy and get moving!  Dig, dig, you little nitwit!!  And none of that lip or you'll drop and give me twenty!"  I'm losing weight just thinking of it.  Just what I need to get me going...unfortunately, I haven't seen any listed in my area. 

In our consumer culture, it's too bad I can't find guts/motivation/initiative on the shelf at Target: I'd drop by and pick some up.  (I'd even settle for the generic brand.)  This reflection is rather ironic because some of my plants are moved so often they never get comfortable.  I guess it's those others that I'm thinking of, the too large or the unwieldy, those that cannot be pried out by one or two scoops of the trowel.  I have a few months to think of a solution to my mental inertia/physical reluctance on the subject.  It may crumble if spring is long coming. 

What does it take to overcome dividing and transplanting resistance?  And where can I get some? 

Jerry Springer in the garden!

For those blog newbies (such as myself) out there, collaborations and shared topic days are pretty common amongst garden bloggers.  Recently, I ran across one idea that sounded too good to pass up.

                                 

Cover from the DVD collection ( I kid you not, there is such a thing!).  Buy it here, if you must.

"Garden oops moments", or GOOPS, as they are known from originator Joene's Garden, are posts containing a full disclosure of garden mistakes, Jerry Springer style, sans beat downs, screaming, and DNA reports. "You did WHAT in your garden?? You little fool...." OK, maybe I'm exaggerating a wee bit, but it should be fun nonetheless. My only problem is where to start. I don't want to overwhelm, so I'll just start with one.

My first choice must be the acquisition of creeping buttercup, Rununculus repens, about seven years ago.  I don't know quite how I came to have the beastie, pictured below, but one day I looked up as I was weeding and there it was, prostrate with gold-yellow flowers.  If I could hop in my time-travelling Delorean with Michael J. Fox, I would have pulled the darn thing out.  Alas, I spared the unknown (at the time) plant and continued on my way.

The dreaded (in my yard) R. repens, Jim Stasz USDA-NRCS PLANTS Database

Apparently, I don't weed nearly as often as I should because the next time I spied the creeper, it had done just that and claimed some more gardening real estate.  "I'm not sure that's a weed," I said as I walked by intent on some other task.  Famous last words.

The third year started out innocently enough.  But dark forces were at work in the shade garden.  I had plans for an overhaul so I decided to scope things out and make an inventory.  Holy weeds, Batman!  Creeping buttercup was everywhere.  I took immediate action.  Unfortunately, the plant had tenacious roots.  Silty soil didn't help, either.  I finished the last of the overhaul in summer of 2009.  I am still, after four or five years, pulling the occasional plant out.

Wishing I could do this with so many weeds. (seen the movie?)

Conclusion: I now give unknown plants a much shorter time to prove they are not a weed.  About two months sounds right.  Now if I can just be true to that rule....  If you are having a chuckle at my expense, how long do you give your mystery plants to prove themselves "not a weed"?

"MacGyver" moments in gardening

Ever rolled out dough with a sparkling cider bottle?  I had a "MacGyver" moment at the cabin on Christmas Day.  For those unfamiliar with the name/TV show, the guy was a physicist that could get out of any jamb with such mundane things as commonly found in a pocket or drawer.  Need to pry open an elevator door before you run out of air?  No problem, let's see what MacGyver has in his jacket pocket...toothpick, an old piece of floss, and two pennies.  He's out in three minutes flat.  He's just that good.  Anyway, back to my moment. 

MacGyver can do anything!

I realized that I had forgotten to bring the rolling pin, a handy item when homemade crescent rolls are on the menu.  What would MacGyver do?  No doubt it would involve a book of matches and an old receipt, but my father-in-law saved the day for me this time.  Apparently I wasn't the first person not to have the right tool for this job.  He said his wife had the same situation happen to her.  "Just use that old bottle of Coors Light in the fridge like she did."  It was gone, but luckily we had a stash of sparkling cider and I scrubbed the label off and it worked just fine. 

 Moral:  Sometimes you just have to "make do, or do without."

All manure puns aside, does "making do" happen in the garden?  Of course.  Case in point: In the beginning of my gardening adventure, I had no idea there was a special tool for lifting or dividing perennials.  What would MacGyver do?  I'm sure it involved an old rope and a wristwatch, but I came up with something that sent the Last Frontier husband into fits.  I grabbed what I thought was a small, curved, and rusty child's-size shovel (that came with the house), and was going to town with some Geraniums.  I looked up to find the guy taking my picture whilst laughing.

 "What?" I demanded.  "What are you doing?" he asked curiously, trying in vain to stifle a grin.  I explained all the biological and technical aspects of lifting and dividing perennials.  He looked pretty relieved and then hit me with, "Oh, that's okay then.  I thought you were digging for clams."  Yes, LFG reader, I admit I was using a clamming shovel.  And we live nowhere near the beach.

The notorious clam shovel

Now somewhere along the line I did feel like I should purchase a specialized tool for the purpose, and indeed it did work better than my "make do" tool.  But my clamming shovel cost me nothing and did an adequate job.  (And MacGyver would have been proud.)

I can't be the only gardener making do with what's on hand...can I?!

P.S. I learned that great quote, part of which I included in the above post, from a former roommate's grandfather.  It was verbally trotted out on many occasions and cross-stitched, framed, and hung on the wall at his home, as well.  I had never heard it before: "Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without."  Grand, isn't it!