The Passionate Gardener

Japan Arrives in Michigan

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 24 Jun 2015 20:49:00 +0000

When you visit the new Japanese garden at Frederik Meijer Garden & Sculpture Park, please do not be in a hurry.

Walk slowly along the curving paths. Stop often to observe and reflect. Study shapes and forms. Consider the still pond as a mirror and wonder, why do I assume that that earth and sky are opposites?

Think about scale: What am I compared to a boulder or a Bonsai? In what ways am I larger, smaller or equal to the elements in this landscape?

Dylan scales a boulder. What does he seek...?

Think about permanence: The delicate lace of a Japanese maple leaf may be fleeting when compared to an ancient boulder standing behind it, yet how long did it take evolution to bring forth the first seed-bearing plants on earth? Will the boulder always remain a boulder, forever solid and unmoving?

Think about movement: Waterfalls, tree branches, foliage, breeze, ripples, animals and insects, the beating of your heart.

Think about stillness: Wood, stone, water, a turtle, the voices in your head. Become aware of your breath.

Think about time: Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter. The moment you are living in, today, tomorrow, next year, 100 years from now, 5000 years before you were born.

Feel: Feel the different textures, the liquids and solids, the warm and the cool. Now, feel what your senses feel without the words your mind searches to give them.

Haiku poems are inscribed throughout the garden.

Young trees planted along the jetty will one day
cast big reflections.

A single pine will be gradually shaped
and pruned to traditional form.

Stone paths direct you to quiet places.

Water trickles so softly it barely disturbs the surface.

A tiny leaf beautifully contrasts the dark and gentle ripples.

Curving waterfalls seem to appear and then vanish.

Be sure to observe this sculpture from its opposite side.
The differences are telling. Artist: Anish Kapoor.

Mineral formations in the rock look just like...clouds?
A river?

Bonsai collection, displayed honorably.

The roots of any good Bonsai deserve a close look.

Asymmetry stirs the mind, does it not?

If you only seek answers, you will forget the purpose
of asking questions.

Don't you want to sit there and let the time pass? I do!

There is no need to hurry down these steps.

From a great height, everything changes.

Everything that needs to be, is.

The mighty Lotus rises above the water.

I love the way this Buddha seems to be melting into (or growing out of?)
the earth. Look how happy and calm he is. Artist: Zhang Huan.

These three mysterious forms...are nothing
short of mystical.

Rectangular forms irregularly placed.
How do they impact your perception?

I used a fast shutter speed to freeze the water droplets.
Modern technology reveals hidden secrets unavailable
to 17th Century Japan.

The circle symbolizes infinity.

Susan meditates, soulfully of course.

You can't have a Japanese garden without Wisteria.
In ten years from now it will be a showstopper.

Small stones tied like gifts indicate areas
that are still off limits.

Of course, there is sculpture! Is the trunk holding the hand,
or is the hand holding the trunk? Artist: Giuseppe Penone.

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Beautiful Iris reticulata

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 07 Apr 2015 16:41:00 +0000

Iris reticulata is a small wonder in early spring time. The colors are intensely rich and quite a revelation when nothing else is blooming in the garden. This miniature iris species is native to Russia, the Caucasus and northern Iran. The bulbs thrive best in a loose soil that dries out in summer. Think rock gardens or any spot where the soil is not heavy and water drains very quickly. Because they are about 4 inches tall, be sure to place Iris reticulata where you will see them up close when walking by. Plant bulbs in fall, a dozen or so in a single hole. Their early blooms provide a food source for honey bees. I took these photos in early April.

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The Symphony of Water - A Video

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 02 Apr 2015 21:24:00 +0000

Water! Where we live the land is low and marshy. Cattails spring up almost everywhere. Wetland sedges grow in flowing masses. Even during the coldest winters there are places where water silently moves beneath snow and ice, snaking across the soil, refusing to freeze. When the snow melts there comes a great unstoppable rushing of liquid, a joyful symphony of sound and motion. We address it with high waterproof boots, warm dry clothing and a good attitude. After all water is precious, inspiring, and always something to be grateful for.

Watch:

Water - A Video by Shane VanOosterhout

Luminous November Light

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 06 Nov 2014 20:10:00 +0000

Late fall brings beautiful light. I wanted to capture a few shots of my property in the late afternoon when the sun strikes the dying foliage. My goal here was to "catch" the light and reveal it in the photos as as I saw it with my eyes, as realistically as possible. When editing the images in Lightroom and Photoshop, I made only minor changes in order to improve the image files for optimum web viewing. (Click on photos to enlarge image size.)

Physocarpus opufolius (Ninebark) 'Summer Wine'

Sambucus canadensis (American Elderberry)

Miscanthus sinensis 'Zebrinus' - Zebra Grass

All photos were taken in Michigan on November 1st, 2014,

by Shane VanOosterhout.

Shane VanOosterhout is The Passionate Gardener.

For more garden inspiration, you can follow him on Facebook.

Where You Be, Bee?

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 06 Aug 2014 17:40:00 +0000

Landing Board of Top-Bar Hive

This year I decided to try my skills at hiving Carnolian honeybees. Carnolians are not as popular in the US with commercial beekeepers because of their reputation for swarming. Preventing swarms requires a lot of effort and input, which costs commercial beekeepers time and money.

I was primarily interested in keeping Carnolian bees for their mellow temperament and their genetic adaptation to cold. For beekeepers in the Great Lakes region, winter is rough. At least 1/2 of all hives won't make it through to spring. This is why most large-scale beekeepers truck their bees to warmer states during winter.

The first thing I noticed about my Carnolian bees is how productive they are. My top-bar hive was crowded to capacity by July first. I tried to keep ahead of them by removing comb but they swarmed in mid-July. A new queen immediately took over and the colony got back to business foraging and making honey.

Bee Smoker

Because honeybees prefer a bit of open space in the front of their hive it's best to take out the first wax comb before it reaches full size. I rarely use my smoker (I'm impatient getting it to work) but this time I set my mind to it. I used dry needles from the nearby white pine trees and after nearly half an hour of fiddling around, the smoker produced a pale aromatic plume that quieted the bees while I disturbed their hive.

Removing the First Bar

Honeycomb on the First Bar

After removing the protective roof from the hive, comb bars are carefully lifted out. Here, the front comb is about 80% complete. Towards the top where it's attached to the bar there is honey, about 1/2 cup, which I kept for myself. Broken bits of comb are returned to the bees for them to recycle.

The Viewing Window

The yellow blob shapes seen above are brace comb. As the wax comb is built to its maximum size and filled with brood and honey, it becomes quite heavy. Honeybees ingeniously engineer lateral brace comb to strengthen it, which prevents the comb from collapsing under its own weight. I use my old art school drafting brush to gently brush the bees aside as I work.

Beekeeper Selfie!

My hood is hacked with Gorilla Tape because I stupidly ran it through the washing machine. Oops...that's why it's detachable.

Honey from My Bees

Check out my short video to see and hear the wonderful movements and sounds that honeybees make while they work. My Bantam rooster, not to be upstaged, lets loose a mighty crow just after the :30 mark.

Shane VanOosterhout is The Passionate Gardener.

For more garden inspiration, you can follow him on Facebook.

My Passion for Trees, Part One

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 20 Dec 2013 18:31:00 +0000

"I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do." Willa Cather

Before the leaves were off the branches this fall, I photographed some of the trees and shrubs on my property. I've included labels and some description of each. There are also links to additional sources if you care to learn more detailed information about the specific species I mention in this article.

Northern Catalpa (L); Poplar (R).

(L) Northern Catalpa (Catalpa speciosa). Catalpa has large, heart-shaped leaves and distinctive flowers that resemble orchids. Because of its long, dark seed pods, Catalpa has been commonly referred to as the "Cigar Tree." Catalpa grows rapidly, one foot per year, and reaches a height of 60 feet. You will never see it in a shady spot, nor in soils that are sometimes waterlogged. It's native to much of North America, although it doesn't survive beyond eastern Utah to the west, and isn't found in Florida.

(R) Eastern Cottonwood (Populus deltoides). Cottonwood can reach 80 feet in 20 years' time, but for all the instant gratification, their lifespan is brief. A sugar maple at 40 years is just entering maturity, whereas Cottonwoods are bedraggled old geezers at that age. But their twirling, chattering leaves are wonderful to behold, and there is something remarkable about the speed at which they grow. One of my neighbors planted a thick row of Cottonwoods under his electric lines along the road. Then the power company came by and slashed them to the ground, leaving only stumps. The stumps re-sprouted, and three years later the Cottonwoods are nearly touching the wires again.

Tuliptree.

Tulip Tree (Liriodendron tulipifera) is one of my favorite trees, but I have a lot of favorites. Although Tulip Tree is commonly known as a Yellow Poplar, it is not related to Poplars. In fact, Tulip Tree is a species of Magnolia (Liriodendron is a genus within the Magnolia family). The colonists were rendered speechless at the sight of Appalachian forests filled with majestic Tulip Trees, soaring over 150'. They immediately set to cutting down all the trees to be used for the British navy's ship's masts. Thomas Jefferson planted two Tulip Trees behind Monticello, his estate in Vermont. I own a couple of vases that were turned from the wood of these trees when they were felled not too long ago.

Red Oak (L); Black Willow (R)

(L) Red Oak (Quercus rubrum) adapts to loam, sand, and clay soils; pH from 4.3 (acidic) to 7.3 (alkaline). If you study my photo you'll notice two things in the background: cattails and a tall Black Willow, two obvious signs of wetter soil. This Red Oak is planted in a transitional plane where the soil is sometimes damp, sometimes dry, and the pH leans toward alkaline. Allowed to grow in an open field, Red Oak can reach grand proportions--50' high by 50' wide. Some day, this tree will provide valuable food for local wildlife--acorns rich in fat and carbohydrates.

(R) Black Willow (Salix nigra) is native to eastern North America. It does not display the ornamental "weeping" growth habit of its Asian cousin (Salix babylonica), but what it lacks in garden appeal, Black Willow makes up for in other ways. It flowers very early in the spring, providing pollen and nectar to bees, and is a host plant to various lovely, native butterflies including Mourning Cloak, Viceroy, Red-spotted Purple, and Tiger Swallowtail. Branches from Black Willow are abundantly useful for weaving baskets and rustic furniture. Its roots thrive in wet soil and help prevent erosion along stream banks.

"To be poor and without trees, is to be the most starved human being in the world. To be poor and have trees, is to be completely rich in ways that money can't buy." Clarissa Pinkola Estes.

Japanese Angelica Tree

Japanese Angelica Tree (Aralia elata) is better defined as a large shrub. It's a rather horrible beast (thorny, spreads aggressively) yet has a few strangely charming features, such as its profuse white flower clusters that appear very late in summer. Bees arrive by the hundreds to plunder the flowers' pollen and nectar, filling the air with musical buzzing. Once the flowers have been fertilized, they quickly produce dark purple berries that last only a few days until the birds devour every last one. Unfortunately, Angelica Tree is non-native, and can be invasive in the north-east U.S. Therefore I recommend planting its native cousin, Devil's Walking Stick (Aralia spinosa) if you (as I do) have a fondness for menacing plants.

Shagbark Hickory

Shagbark Hickory (Carya ovata) produces both male and female flowers on the same tree (moneocious). Shagbark is related to walnuts, and similarly produces a large green fruit that squirrels find irresistible. The bark becomes "shaggy" as the tree ages, as if peeling away from the trunk. Although slow growing, Shagbark Hickory eventually reaches 100 feet in optimum growing conditions. On my property, I'm clearing out the nearby weakling Ashes and Elms so that this Shagbark can grow a fuller canopy.

"In nature, nothing is perfect and everything is perfect. Trees can be contorted, bent in weird ways, and they're still beautiful."
Alice Walker

Maple 'Red Sunset'

Red Maple (Acer rubrum) is far and away one of the most popular (and planted) landscape trees in the U.S. It grows in about 85% of the lower states. Horticulturists have produced a number of cultivated varieties that are sold in nurseries. 'Red Sunset' is favored for its symmetrical growth habit and intense fall color. Admittedly, I was in a hurry to get a decent-sized tree on this spot, so I purchased this clone. Closer to the edge of the woods, I've planted a dozen or more wild (uncultivated) Red Maples to increase genetic diversity. Eventually they'll begin throwing off hoards of seed pods, and I'll have wild volunteers.

I'll be back soon with more trees...and shrubs!

Shane VanOosterhout is The Passionate Gardener.

For more garden inspiration, you can follow him on Facebook.

Lost and Found in Barcelona

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 21 Jul 2013 18:50:00 +0000

Somewhere beyond this hilltop...lies the mysterious
Jardí Botànic.

My parents and I visited the Catalonian city of Barcelona during the first two weeks of May. We were excited to see the Jardí Botànic de Barcelona (Botanical Garden of Barcelona) but we did not yet understand that Barcelona also possesses another botanical garden known as the Jardí Botànic Històric. Because Barcelona funds and manages these gardens, along with their museums, as part of their municipality, things get confusing for the foreigner who speaks no Catalan, the regional language. And even more confusing are the guidebooks and street signs that point the visitor to many gardens labeled Jardí Botànic.

Jardí Botànic Històric.

A restive spot for dog-walking.

View from the elevated promenade.

Workers discuss pruning a monolithic cedar.

A sturdy, conical trug holds clippings and weeds.

Fortunately, we had almost two full weeks in Barcelona, plenty of time to tour the city. On route to Jardí Botànic we discovered some of the city's most beautiful spots.

Placa de Sant Just, Gothic Quarter

Friends gather to say hello, while local vendors sell their flowers for pots and window boxes.

Placa de Sant Just, located in the Gothic Quarter, is one of the highlights of Barcelona. It possesses a magnetic charm that sets it apart from the rest of the city, which was modernized during the 19th century. We found ourselves returning again and again to this medieval neighborhood to walk the narrow streets and dine in the good cafés. Our favorite place for nourishment was the aptly named Bliss, where we drank chilled Catalan cava with our tapas...why not?

Making beautiful racket.

One afternoon we were swept into a convergence of a hundred high school drummers marching from the hidden streets into Placa de Sant Just. The drummers were led by teams of enthusiastic whistle-blowers. It was electrifying! If you'd like to watch & listen, see my YouTube video.

A potted palm glows in the courtyard light of the
Picasso Museum.

Parc Güell

The winding gardens of Parc Güell.

Around 1900, the brilliant architect Antoni Gaudí designed a Utopian, commercial housing development on the outskirts of Barcelona. Parc Güell failed to catch on but it is now open to the public. Gaudí's house was turned into a museum.

Gaudí's stone columns lean like massive tree trunks. Who wouldn't have wanted this in their backyard?

An exterior wall of Gaudí's private residence.

A view from Parc Güell

Girona

Girona's famous Onyar river.

Girona, 62 miles northeast of Barcelona, is a dream-like place dating back more than 1,000 years. We took the high-speed train (a massive installation of these trains is currently underway in Spain; I am envious) and spent the afternoon soaking in the culture.

Girona residents prepare for the Festival of Flowers by hanging straw baskets from overhead wires.

A man takes a contemplative stroll down ancient stone steps. Girona was first settled by the Iberians and later became a Roman citadel.

The Romanesque church Santa Maria de Girona.

After the Romans left, the Visigoths took over until the Moors stormed in. Charlemagne reconquered Girona in 785. Wilfred the Hairy officially made Girona part of Barcelona's countships in 1878. Alfonso I of Aragón declared Girona to be a city in the 11th century.

Montjuic

Finding the "right" Jardí Botànic nearly became our foil. I began to feel like the maniacal British surveyor Percy Harrison Fawcett, searching for the Lost City of Z. Again and again, we were stymied by mysterious signs, vague guide books, curving streets that doubled back on themselves, endless stairs, and a taxi driver who dropped us off miles away from where we wanted to be (I had even circled Jardí Botànic on a map for him, albeit fruitlessly).

Hillside stairs in the Montjuic neighborhood.

More hillside stairs.

A cat siestas on the hillside near the Greek Theatre.
We so wanted to join him.

Sr gat va triar un lloc pintoresc per fer la migdiada.
(Mr. cat chose a scenic spot to nap.)

Until we had walked, and walked, and walked, it finally occurred to us that the trail had gone cold once more. Stranded on a quiet street at the rear side of the Olympic stadium (Barcelona was preparing for X Games at the time, bulldozers and backhoes roaring away) a friendly security officer called us a cab. He congratulated us for stopping to ask, for we had ended up in the one spot in Barcelona where taxis rarely tread. By now it appeared that Montjuic, where Jardí Botànic allegedly exists, was proving to be an inexorable and very large hill.

This sign for Jardí Botànic pointed directly at the public entrance to the Olympic stadium, only a few yards behind me.

Another sign! We we so close...
but still managed to get lost that day.

But which Botanic Garden? Turns out this is another part of the "Historic" Jardín. The sign reads (my translation) "Garden House by the Atlantic."

Artichoke spills onto the terra cotta tiles.

My parents take a bench break in the Historic Gardens. The Palau Nacional sits in the background.

We walked so high onto Montjuic that day that we were too exhausted to hike back down. We took the funicular instead and went directly to a tapas bar for Pan con Tomate and Patatas Bravas, two of Barcelona's classic, and our most favorite, tapas. And of course we drank Estrella Damm, a popular pilsner brewed in Barcelona since 1876.

Descending from the top of Montjuic.

Jardí Botànic

Then, in a small park, I noticed boys in bright orange jerseys boisterously playing soccer (futbol). Oh, why didn't I take a photo? They stood out like Mediterranean flowers against the green backdrop. I took this as a welcoming sign: we had arrived.

At last we find the Jardí Botànic!

Jardí Botànic is twenty years old, young for a botanical garden (whereas Jardí Botànic Històric was originally founded in 1930) and is laid out according to a bold modern design completely free of the sort of romantic ornamentation that dominated most public and private horticulture gardens well into the 20th century. There are no allegorical references here, no Roman statues of goddesses, no grottoes.

Jardí Botànic houses a fascinating collection of Mediterranean plant material, grouped according to region such as South Africa, California, Canary Islands, etc. The wide, recessed walking paths severely slash the landscape; concrete and oxidized metal berms literally hold back the voracious plants, thrusting aside the vegetation for the curious pedestrian as he makes his way through the impressive collection.

Plants of Sud (South) Africa

My dad leans against a rustic wattle fence.
Behind him is a glimpse of the city.

The sloping walkways and high berms create canyons within the vegetation.

A glimpse of prehistoric earth...?

Here, a minor sculptural element literally interacts with a spreading vine, allowing it to crest the wall and breach the walking space.

Absolutely stunning. Look closely and you'll see a bumblebee hovering in the flowers.

Exotic evergreens with tightly compressed foliage.

I was too lazy that day to take notes on what I photographed, but I know that this is a type of bottle brush.

A small tree in the legume family. Just look at those rosy pink seed pods!

Xile (Chile).

A colorful bed of perennials. (However if you live in the northern hemisphere they're called annuals.)

A beautifully designed habitat for wild, solitary bees. I want one!

Notice the harmonious colors of the flowers and the toothy-looking succulent in the lower right corner.

A cluster of aloes, waving their tentacles.

No skateboards allowed!

Institut Botanical.

The structure barely rises from the hilltop.

Currently on exhibit at the Institute Botanical are the photographs of Paul den Hollander. In the building's lower galleries, Hollander's work is divided into three areas: Voyage botany, Metamorphosis, and The Luminous Garden, where he captures the haunting electromagnetic fields that emanate from living plants.

A burst of green and red, like fireworks in the sky.

My most favorite collection at Jardí Botànic: plants of the Illes Canàries (Canary Islands).

A stand of majestic Pinus canariensis, Canary Island Pines.

Palms and evergreens grow side by side.

The towering jungle.

Spines and spikes.

Mediterranean plants have evolved to conserve moisture in their stems and leaves.

A splash of bright orange.

An arresting combination of purple, silver, green.

A refreshing water scape bids you comiat as you exit the gardens.

Shane VanOosterhout is The Passionate Gardener.

For more garden inspiration, you can follow him on Facebook.

Grow Your Own Carrots!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 24 Apr 2013 16:31:00 +0000

FACTS.

A: Carrot is a big fat tap root.

B: Tap roots plow straight down through the soil.

C: Wild carrot, Daucus carota, is commonly known as Queen Anne's Lace. (Anne was decapitated by her malicious husband, thus the red 'drop of blood' in the flower's ivory colored umbelliform center.)

D: Domesticated carrots are cultivars of a subspecies, Daucus carota subsp. sativus.

E: Garden carrots (domesticated) are wimps.

You might wonder, when domesticated carrots are related to Queen Anne's Lace, a weed with a tap root that can lance solid rock, why are domesticated carrots so wimpy? Because like most food plants cultivated from the wild, we've bred out their most rugged characteristics, selecting only the tenderest, sweetest hybrids.
Which means if you want to grow carrots in your garden you'll need deep, loose, pliable soil that has excellent drainage (no standing water) yet retains moisture. This soil must have little clay and no stones, weeds, or roots from other plants obstructing the carrot's downward growth. Sandy loam soils are the most ideal because they have a nice balance of large mineral particles and tilthy organic matter.
Carrots also hate acidic soil. 6.5 to 7.5 is the target. If you don't know your garden soil's pH, test it. Where I live in Michigan the soils are often extremely high in phosphorous and potassium is sometimes low. Generally the rule for nitrogen is one pound of per 1,000 square feet. Do not over fertilize. Excess nitrogen causes carrots to have hairy, branching roots. I mostly use slow-release fertilizers in my vegetable beds and of course lots and lots of compost mixed into the soil.

Soil Thermometer

Around planting time in spring, monitor garden soil temperatures using a soil thermometer. 50°F is the best for carrot germination. The warmer it gets the less successful germination will be, plus carrots grow janky in hot weather so always get seeds in while the soil's still on the cooler side but not chilly to the touch.
Place the seed on the ground, press it against the moist soil and barely cover. Plant seeds six inches apart or thin to six inches after germination. Crowded Carrots (also the name of my ukelele rock band) are skinny, crooked and malnourished. Keep the soil consistently moist (damp sponge level) for even germination. Carrots need precisely 0.787402 inches per week (not all at once!) but you can round this up to one inch without deleterious effect. Drip hoses work exceptionally well for controlling moisture in the vegetable garden.
(Just kidding about the mathematical exactitude, by the way, aim for about 1 inch or water per week, including rainfall.)
Unfortunately the medium-heavy soil on my property is not ideal for growing carrots. I've loosened and amended with compost over 15 years but the native clay is sticky and holds water. I've tried growing mini varieties like Round Romeo but washing and peeling marble-sized carrots is hardly worth the effort unless you have small-fingered children who enjoy prepping food. I prefer growing long carrots like Nantes varieties, which you can purchase from Renee's Garden.
So I use raised beds for growing my carrots. I've found that fire pit rings work nicely for root crops. I buy them at a nearby hardware store and bring them home in the trunk of my car. It's less work and hassle than building another raised bed from lumber and hardware, and fire pit rings are easily portable.
Whatever you use for a raised bed be sure that it is deep enough for carrots to form long straight roots. Fill the container with the best possible bagged garden soil and mix in compost and/or aged manure.
Pests of carrots are Aster leafhoppers, wireworms and carrot weevils. The very best way to control these bugs is covering the carrots with Agribon at planting time. In combination, responsible use of organic pesticides like horticultural soaps and bacillus also work well. Last summer I started using this technique for broccoli, lettuce and cabbage. It worked beautifully.
And remember to rotate! Never grow plants in the same family in one place for more than two years in a row. Cover crops such as alfalfa, rye, and clover are also extremely beneficial for controlling pests in the garden.
Good luck with growing carrots this year and I hope you have great success.

Shane VanOosterhout is The Passionate Gardener.

For more garden inspiration, you can follow him on Facebook.

The Perfect Tree (a fairy tale).

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 03 Mar 2013 23:00:00 +0000

Mrs. Daylily's daughter will be getting married in her backyard next summer. Mrs. Daylily thinks, "I must block the view of my neighbor's ugly above ground swimming pool." She drives to the nursery and says to Mr. Spade, the salesperson, "I need a tree that grows extremely fast. I'm in hurry."

"Extremely fast, you say?" Mr. Spade replies. "How about any of these: Poplar, Willow, Tree of Heaven, Silver Maple, Mulberry, Honey Locust, Black Walnut."

"I hate those trees! Why would you even suggest them?" Mrs. Daylily retorts.

"Ma'am, I'm confused, you asked for "extremely fast" growing trees."

"OK, what's the fastest growing tree you have that's not messy."

"Messy?"

"You know, trees that have seeds, or nuts, or berries or any fruit that falls on my driveway or attracts birds. Oh, and trees that drop a lot of twigs and branches or too many leaves during the summer, none of that."

"Anything else?"

"Yes, bugs. Some trees attract bugs, anything that crawls or flies. I can't deal with bugs in my trees."

"I see," says Mr. Spade, wishing he could help, but his hands are tied. "Perhaps you have come to the wrong store?

Mrs. Daylily, glancing over her shoulder, says, "You do sell trees here, right?"

"We do."

"How about that one? How fast does it grow?" Mrs. Daylily points to a handsome white oak.

"Maybe 12" or less per year, after it's been in the ground for about three years."

"Forget it. Tell me about that one over there."

"Sugar maple? Beautiful tree. Grows maybe 13" - 24" inches per year once it gets going."

"Meh," Mrs. Daylily shrugs. "Can't we do better?"

"How about white pine, our native state tree. Can put on 25" in a good season."

"Bingo! That's what I'm talking about! I'll plant it right on the property line."

"Oh. Are there utility lines overhead?"

"Yes but white pines won't grow that tall, right?"

"Wrong. In less than ten years the power company will come by and cut down your tree."

"They can't do that! It's my property!"

"They have legal domain."

"I'll sue them."

"You'll lose. Many before you have tried. All have failed. It's a matter of public safety."

"Fine. Now what do you suggest?"

"How about some nice shrubs?"

"Oh I don't have time for all that work."

"Work?"

"Trimming, shaping, you know."

"Ma'am, shrubs are very low maintenance, unless you're shaping them into elephants and ballerinas."

"But my neighbor has yews and she's out there all summer with her hedge clippers. She said they'll grow out of control if she doesn't clip them once a month."

"It's not as if her yews are going to grow through her bedroom window and strangle her while she sleeps. She could do a light pruning every few years or none at all if she chooses."

"Oh. Well I do rather like those arbor-vy-tee-AHS."

"You mean arborVYTEES? Also known as Thuja."

"Those. How fast do they grow?"

"We have a very nice cultivar of Thuja occidentalis called 'Smaragd'. It grows about 6" to 9" per year, and not more than 15' tall. Think of it as a small tree if you like."

Mrs. Daylily sighs. "I suppose I can live with that. I'll take three."

"Very good, ma'am, I'm glad you've made a decision."

Mr. Spade assists Mrs. Daylily in selecting three healthy specimens. They load them into wagons and wheel them to the cashier.

"Thank you so much for your help, Mr. Spade," Mrs. Daylily says.

"You're welcome," replies Mr. Spade.

"I do have one more question."

"Yes?"

"What time of year does this little tree flower?"

Mr. Spade gives Mrs. Daylily a curious look. "When did you say your daughter's wedding is?"

"Next June 25th."

"Then I'm sure your trees will begin blooming on June 24th."

"Perfect," Mrs. Daylily replies. "And will the flowers be pink? My daughter's having a pink wedding, you see."

"Oh, the most beautiful shade of pink, like nothing you've ever seen."

"And the smell? Sweet but not too sweet I hope. I get a headache otherwise."

"The odor is a delicate balance of light vanilla and lemon. Just the right scent to the most delicate of noses."

"This is wonderful," Mrs. Daylily says, grinning from ear to ear. "It's almost as if I've invented the perfect tree."

"Yes," Mr. Spade says before returning to his work, "It's exactly like that."

Stop Wasting Paper and Become a Better Gardener

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 17 Feb 2013 19:12:00 +0000

River Birch (Betula nigra)

This winter:

A couple of weeks ago some architectural stuff was torn from the roof of my house by cascading ice. Said stuff (dangerously heavy) rocketed through a kitchen window, unleashing an explosion of broken glass. Everywhere.

I discovered a twenty-foot section of rain gutter dangling by a thread after heavy snow had pulled the gutter's support screws from the overhang.

The door to the chicken pen was frozen shut. I had to take the whole thing off its hinges to let the hens out that morning.

Etc.

Cattail Flower in Winter

But it is nearing the end of February, when our hopes stir again for what we will make of the 2013 gardening season. Or more accurately what the 2013 gardening season will make of us.

First, seed companies unleash truckloads of paper catalogues beginning the day after Christmas. I've mostly gotten off their mailing lists. If I need pictures the internet works fine, and that's where I order my seeds anyway. Honestly when Saturday mail deliveries cease this summer I'll rejoice in one less day of junk.

Next comes the deluge of emails and invites offering gardening classes, workshops, symposiums, conferences and lectures. The best of these presentations bring together urgent environmental concerns, aesthetics and practical knowledge (Doug Tallamy and William Collina come to mind); the worst of them show a slide set of 50 new varieties of annuals and read aloud from their handout. No intelligent gardener should have to pay a $65.00 fee for a list she can get for free, and then read it quietly to herself.

Ice Crystals in Little Deer Creek

Sidebar:

Speaking of handouts, what is it with audiences and piles of paper? Historically, when exactly did the handout become a binding agreement between the speaker and the listener? For twelve years I've been fighting this assumption, that a lecturer owes his audience a handout.

Most handouts are glanced at and then tossed in the trash. This is an area of waste that garden speakers (and their audiences) ought to be more responsible about. I purposefully limit my presentations to a page or two whenever I can. If I'm feeling radical I'll forgo supplying a handout to my audience, but I'm guaranteed to receive a few complaints.

(Please don't be one of those types. You can easily get these things called pens, which you can write on with something called paper, both of which can be conveniently carried into the presentation in something called a purse or a pocket.)

Red Twig Dogwood (Cornus sericea)

Anyway.

Another opportunity for restless gardeners in mid to late winter is volunteering. Many nature centers and botanical gardens are in great need of help at this time of year. I belong to an organization called CFI. Last spring our service committee helped Blandford Nature Center plant hundreds of native shrubs. This March we'll be assisting Blandford with its annual Sugarbush Festival--tapping the Sugar Maples and making syrup.

It's too early to dig, but there's plenty of time before planting season begins to teach yourself, and others, new ways to think about gardening.

2012: A Year in Gardening

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 16 Dec 2012 22:18:00 +0000

Sunflower photo by Shane Vano

Before my thoughts shift into 2013, I thought I'd reflect on some of the memorable items of this past year's gardening adventures. I tried new things and kept in mind Albert Einstein's famous quote: "The distinction between the past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion."

Here are a few highlights from my 2012 gardening season.

The 80 degree March days followed by freezing cold nights destroyed every flower bud on my five pear trees and seven apple trees. Nearly all of Michigan's tree fruit crops were also ruined by climate change.

I bought a tiller. Not a wimpy little tiller, but a big one that actually works. It has an 8 HP engine and cultivates my heavy soil beautifully, backwards or forwards.

Before I tilled my vegetable garden in May, I asked my dad to move the drip irrigation tubes to one side. When I went back to check on him I discovered, to my horror, that he had ripped up the entire drip system and tossed it in a broken, tangled heap. My dad does not follow directions well.

I covered one row in my vegetable garden with Agribon cloth. Beneath the "floating row" I grew pest-free lettuce, cabbage and broccoli. Once or twice I applied the organic insecticide Spinosad, a naturally occurring bacterium that kills soft-bodied insects. I have never had such beautiful, pest-free lettuce and cole crops. I planted a second crop of lettuce in August, which I harvested through November.

I tilled up a small section of field and put in a pumpkin patch, far enough away from the vegetable garden so that the vines could not creep in and strangle everything. (Overturning un-tilled sod always yields an explosion of weeds the first couple of years.) If you're lucky you'll get something benign, maybe clover and golden rod. I got poison ivy, a truckload of it. Thankfully I'm not allergic to urushiol, the plant's volatile oil that brings affliction to many a soul.

In August, a weasel infiltrated the chicken pen and stole some eggs. (Seriously angry birds.) I trapped the weasel inside the hen's roost box. It escaped, because weasels are shape-shifting demon spirits. Then I put out a weasel trap for several weeks. No luck. In October, the weasel returned and this time, four of my hens died from heart failure. Two survived, along with my brave lady duck, although she held a grudge against me until I hired a friend to come out and re-screen the entire pen with 1/4" hardware cloth. I also buried a trench of wire in the soil around the perimeter to prevent weasels from tunneling. The hens are now truly safe. It cost me a small fortune.

Art by Claudia Pimentel http://strangeteethillustration.tumblr.com/

My friend Kevin's old dog Sydney died the same week I lost my hens. We buried her on my property, out by Shed 2, together with the birds. We fondly remember Sydney as "Flower Crusher" for her joy of charging into the large border of Coreopsis blooming along the driveway, and sitting on them.

My dad and I installed 150' drainage pipe to move standing water away from the backyard (cat-tails were actually sprouting in the lawn). We rented a trencher. After our neighbor and his son helped us pull the trencher out of the mud where I had gotten stuck, the results were uneven, literally. The trench became deeper the closer it got toward the water source. Fortunately we got smart on that project and hired two hunky college dudes to finish the job with long-handled shovels.

I introduced a couple of friends to the Top-Bar beekeeping method. It was nice to have some bee buddies on hand to bounce things off of. Top-Bar is a small but growing method for hobby apiarists. We need to help each other out. Right now my hive is jammed with honeycomb, workers and a healthy queen. I sure hope they make it through the winter.

For the first time, my potatoes were invaded by Colorado Potato beetle larvae. I spent a few early evenings picking them off by hand. Problem solved.

Finally, I gave a handful of garden lectures. At one lecture I discussed things a gardener can do in the fall. A woman brought me a three-page list (double-sided), an A-Z of every perennial in her garden. She hoped I'd tell her specifically what to do with each plant. My answer? "Cut it down if you want, or don't cut it down if you don't want." That's the same advice I give everyone who asks this question, because there's no profound secret to cutting back perennials at the end of the year. (I leave most of mine up for insect habitat and to feed the birds.)

Another couple at this same presentation complained to the event coordinator, "All he did was show pictures of his garden."

I apologized for not showing pictures of other people's gardens.

See you next year.

A Trip to The Chicago Botanic Garden

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 03 Oct 2012 17:49:00 +0000

The bank of the Skokie waterway seen from the pedestrian bridge.

This August I visited the Chicago Botanic Garden, located in Glencoe, Illinois. It's a remarkable place, not to be missed. The garden showcases twenty-five display gardens and four natural areas within the 385 acre park. Its parent organization, The Chicago Horticulture Society, began in 1890; however, construction of the Chicago Botanic Garden did not begin until 1968. It opened to the public in 1972. I took a lot of photos. Here's a peek.

The Rose Garden

Exploding pink petals.

An unexpected dab of blue in a river of red roses.

My mom admiring warm colors next to cool greens.

A number of things about the Rose Garden struck me as ingenious. Evergreen shrubs are used extensively, especially arborvitae and juniper; the darker and lighter green foliage hues provide an arresting backdrop for the deep drifts of flowers, mostly pinks and reds. The wide, herringbone brick walk surrounding the rose garden's perimeter is all graceful curves, much like the Skokie Lagoons that wind through the garden's acreage.

Luscious curves.

A resting spot.

Vertical forms punctuate.

A visually cleansing courtyard.

The Esplanade

These impressively large Linden (Tilia) trees hem in the rose garden from a slightly raised elevation. The trees are pruned geometrically in a double row, creating a dramatic one-point perspective that directs pedestrian traffic through a leafy corridor. The esplanade also immediately divides the space between the Rose Garden and it's neighbor, the English Walled Garden.

The English Walled Garden

Romance, antiquity, nature.

A few graceful limbs curve toward the entrance.

Everything radiates from the center.

A stone urn echoes the Classical Age.

Positive and negative space with yellow accents.

Weeping Beech pours into the courtyard.

Native prairie docks surround a Juneberry.

Flowers tumble over the gravel.

Naturally, the English Garden is hidden within ivy-covered brick walls. But inside, kabam! it's a blast of yellows and oranges. Even more unexpectedly, instead of being stocked with familiar English plant selections, the stars are mostly North American natives--Helenium, Helianthus, and Heliopsis, to name a few. Species are planted in shrubby mounds and beg to be touched.

An apple tree (center) heavy with fruit.

The Fruit & Vegetable Garden

A proper brambles trellis.

Apple tree espalier.

A handsome rain barrel with copper downspout.

The fruit and vegetable garden is enviable, especially the trellised brambles and the espaliered fruit trees. Wouldn't you love to have a gorgeous red brick wall surrounding your fruits and vegetables garden? I would! There is also a "living kitchen" area that includes a cozy, outdoor lecture theater where cooking classes are held, and an indoor herbarium for growing and drying culinary plants. I was delighted to discover the uniquely designed beehive called "The Beeline." Honeybees enter and exit through two holes drilled in the roof (see photo below) to reach the hive, which is inside a tall plexi box. You can see a whole honeybee colony fast at work.

Honeybees enter and exit through the holes.

Horizontal herbs.

Langstroth honeybee hives.

Willow wattle herb bed.

Cinderella Pumpkin.

The Japanese Garden

Form is everything in a Japanese garden.

Traditional Japanese gardens alter the viewer's perception of the landscape primarily through the process of extreme pruning and training of selected plants. Trees and shrubs are shaped over decades (even hundreds) of years to achieve the desired look--often curving limbs with dense clouds of foliage at their tips. The goal is to remind the visitor of eternity; our time on earth is brief, therefore flowers are minimal in Japanese gardens. Boulders are artfully placed. Contemplation and quiet are expected--listen to the wind, study the clouds, observe the ants marching across the earth.

A hidden walkway

Elevated view of The Island of Pure, Clear Breezes. If you look very closely at the center
of the Willow tree, you'll see a Heron perched atop the Pine.

An handsome old Willow slants toward the water.

Fascinating play of shadow and light on the ground.

Cross the Arched Bridge to enter and exit.

]

A stone lantern, used by Japanese monks.

Waterfall Garden

Pink flowering water lily and lotus.

Robustissima Grape Leaf Anenome. Round pink blooms on erect stems.

When you reach the pool at the top of the waterfall by way of a winding path you feel as if you are high in the clouds, looking down at the forest. The falls cannot be seen--only heard, imparting a sense of mystery.

The falls sparkle in the dappled sunlight. Water is recirculated to the top,
where it pools in a calm reservoir.

The runoff from the waterfall slows to a trickling stream.

Highlights Along the Way

A perfectly shaped Magnolia. I'll bet she steals the show in springtime.

Late-blooming Lavender Globe Lily (Alium.)

A black reflecting pool with a tropical theme.

The long arm of a Locust tree stretches over a sea of undulating evergreen shrubs.

Gorgeously shaped hedges, like billowing green clouds.

A stunning English Beech, thankfully spared the awful hacking off of bottom limbs.

A stunning mixture of foliage, texture and form.

Perennial borders burst with color.

Waterways lead to the Great Basin. The Chicago Botanic Gardens recently restored
all of its aquatic shorelines. Not only is this far more environmentally sound,
it adds yet anotherlayer of beauty to the landscape.

Prairie & Natural Areas

Rattlesnake Master (foreground left and right).

There is so much to say regarding the Chicago Botanic Garden's approach to native plants. Natives are used everywhere within the entire park. Everywhere. By the time you enter the "natural" areas you realize that you've been looking at many of these plants all along, because they're artfully used in every garden and throughout transitional walking paths. This is design genius. For gardeners who are unfamiliar with using natives, or assume that they are not as beautiful as exotic ornamentals, all they need is to look at the view.

Blending natives with non-natives.

Ironweed and Russian Sage.

Red Japanese Fleece Flower in front of Calamagrostis.

Ironweed, Calamagrostis grass (Karl Foerster), and annual sunflower: mixed together!

The Trellis Bridge

The Trellis Bridge by Oehme, van Sweden & Associates.

The bridge spans 12' wide by 300' long, rising 9' above the water.

A view from the Trellis Bridge.

The visual energy of the design is all about motion. Fabulous.

Guara and Dropseed planted within stones that reiterate the Trellis Bridge.

Plant Conservation Science Center

Plants are studied and evaluated for their adaptiveness to Midwestern climates.

A corner of the science center.

The Chicago Botanic Garden has made a deep commitment to the scientific study and conservation of native Midwestern plants. Visitors at the Plant Conservation Science Center can actually see scientists at work in their labs through the glass walls of the central corridor. There are also excellent interactive displays. Watch videos of how native seeds are collected from the gardens, separated, cleaned and stored. I learned about some remarkable new technology that's providing science incredible insight into plant DNA. And of course, the building has a Gold LEED rating.

So Long, I'll Be Back

Puffy pink Tamarix flowers behind a friendlier-than-usual Poseidon.

For more information on the Chicago Botanic Garden, and planning your visit, click on the link above or point your browser to http://www.chicagobotanic.org

Shane VanOosterhout is The Passionate Gardener.

For more garden inspiration, you can follow him on Facebook.

Your Daughter is So Tomato

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 09 Aug 2012 18:06:00 +0000

When I took my first bite of this summer's tomato crop I remembered myself as a young boy, watching my father devour a homegrown Beefstake. Although at that age I was not yet vegetarian, I was disappointed that a thing as lovely as a tomato would be named after a chunk of dead cow. Was this a trick, I wondered, to encourage Americans to eat more tomatoes?

Tomato 'Big Beefstake'.

But who doesn't like tomatoes? OK, children, although they are only refusing to eat tomatoes on the grounds that it's a vegetable. They are wrong. It's a fruit because it arises from successfully pollinated flowers. Feel free to try this argument on your kids: "Tomatoes are virtually the same as bananas, so get over it, Cody."
Nature also makes edible roots and tubers; plant parts we today call "vegetables"--carrots, beets, potatoes, yams, turnips, etc. Five centuries ago, the word "vegetable" was used as an adjective. A thing that was "strong and lively" was described as being vegetable. For example you might have said, "How proud you must be of your vegetable daughter; she won the marathon!"
Eventually the word "vegetable" morphed into a noun, giving way to its modern usage: "A plant cultivated for food, edible herb, or root."
It wasn't until the Twentieth Century that the word took on additional meaning; in other words, "I'm sorry to inform you that your daughter was struck in the head by a flying kettle bell, but sadly she will be a vegetable for the rest of her life."
(Perhaps if she had eaten more tomatoes, she would have had the strength to dodge that kettle bell?)

Roma Tomato 'Pompeii'.

Tomatoes are one of nature's food miracles, which means that science must ruin it. I recently read that a researcher has determined why commercially grown tomatoes (the awful ones sold in grocery stores) have no flavor, because the "flavor gene" is missing. But not to worry, Mr. Scientist has promised to fix the problem by breeding the flavor gene back into these crummy tomatoes. That is, as long as he can find the exact, missing gene, because--oops--it may be extinct!
Meanwhile, I suggest eating home grown tomatoes, the ones with the flavor genes already in them. Tomato plants are fairly easy to cultivate but they can pick up a lot of crud: Septoria Leaf Spot, Early Blight, Anthracnose, Verticillium Wilt, and Late Blight. I guarantee, if you've grown tomatoes in your garden, you've seen at least half of these, and as for the one's you haven't seen, you will, sooner or later.
Several seasons ago, after the U.S. was hit with a massive outbreak of Late Blight (a disease that liquefies whole tomato plants into a foul goo within days), I began adding a fungicide spray to my IPM strategies. I apply it three to five times between June and July to prevent disease spores from reproducing and infecting the plants. Once disease becomes systemic, it's too late for sprays. The best you can hope for is to slow the pathogen's progression by employing a combination of aggressive pruning and fungicide application, but most often it's too late--the tomato plants quickly wither and die.

Keep tomato vines upright and allow them plenty of room to spread.

As beloved as tomatoes are today, the juicy critters have a dark history--they were once believed to be poisonous and cause evil. The Germans named them the "wolf peach" due to their alleged lycanthropic properties. (Hey, why is it we never see the Wolfman eating a plate of tomatoes in the movies?)
Historically, old fashioned tomato paranoia arises from the fact tomatoes belong in the Nightshade family, including the notorious Atropa Belladonna, from which the highly useful alkaloid drug, Atropine, is extracted. Small amounts of Atropine in the eyes will dilate the pupils (yes, these are the drops you get at the opthalmologist's office); a little Atropine beneath the tongue will stop excessive drooling (sometimes a symptom of Parkinson's disease); in the bloodstream it will enter the brain and induce hallucinations (no comment); and finally, a large enough dose will interrupt the parasympathetic nervous system and stop the heart cold (useful for murder mystery authors and melodramatic Romans.)
Luckily, tomatoes are not poisonous, unless you make a deadly stir fry of their leaves and stems. So please grow tomatoes at home and eat their fruit by the bucketful. And be sure to make tomatoes the center of the meal, surrounding it with sides of fresh basil and some olive oil, a fat slice of whole grain bread, and a mellow glass of South American Malbec.

A reminder from my mom.

As for kids, I don't have any (more tomatoes for me, thank you) but if I had fathered kids who refused to eat tomatoes, I wouldn't yell at them or force them to sit at the table until they tried a bite, launching a cold war that could last for days. My mom never pulled any of that crap on me, thank goodness, and how could I not be impressed by the smile on my dad's face while he made a meal of that voluptuous Beefstake?
But it's good to be prepared, so I case I ever find myself dining with obstinate kids who are bemoaning the "total grossness" of tomatoes, I'll sneak out of the room and return with thick wads of dog fur glued to my face.

Beware the full tomato.

Shane VanOosterhout is The Passionate Gardener.

For more garden inspiration, you can follow him on Facebook.

The Greenest Man - A Short Story

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 20 Jun 2012 18:46:00 +0000

By Shane VanOosterhout

Peter Small stood at the edge of his power-washed driveway, arms outstretched. “A man’s lawn is an investment and a matter of personal pride. It’s a shame when people don’t respect that.” He gestured dismissively at his neighbor’s yard. “It’s ruined--sparse, full of weeds, and they don’t give a damn. Disgusting.”

The FedEx man nodded. “I hear you. Sign please.”

Peter sliced open the box and removed the bright green container of Milt’s Miracle Mychorrizea. Minutes later he paced behind his Agri-Spreader, dropping white powder in meticulous rows.

Elaine slipped through the sliding door and stood on the deck, watching her husband from above. Peter glanced up and waved. “The fertilizer I ordered finally came.”

“That’s nice. The beef is ready to grill.”

After dinner they sat under the fringed blue porch umbrella, drinking Chardonnay. Elaine was in the middle of a sentence when Peter sprang from his chair and ran down the steps, causing her to spill cold wine on her bare thigh. “Peter! What on earth!” She limped to the railing.

Peter was on all fours, his head turned sideways, listening to the grass. After a moment he rounded his back and stood up. “I thought there was something. I had to check.”

“You startled me,” Elaine said sharply. “What something? Moles?”

“I had to check, that’s all.”

She squinted, bunching the soft skin at the corners of her eyes. “Not again.”

“It doesn’t concern you, Elaine.”

Pouting, she returned to her chair.

At four o’clock in the morning Peter woke and stepped onto the deck to stare at the glossy polish of his lawn, flat as a gemstone beneath a white moon.

He descended to the grass, where his John Deere X749 had surgically sliced every blade. A dull noise—thrup-thrup-thrup—came from the backside of his cedar fence: the neighbors had forgotten to shut off their oscillating sprinkler. “Damn them, if I get fungus, I swear to God I’ll sue.”

In the back corner the Small’s yard grew Elaine’s beloved purple Rose of Sharon. Peter hated it. Twice he had threatened to chop the thing down because it cast shade, depriving the surrounding turf of sunlight and nutrients. Elaine did not see the difference between A and B. “The grass looks fine to me. Why can’t I have one thing to myself in this yard? No, you’re not cutting it down.”

He wondered, seriously, how could she not see the difference between the sickly color of the grass that grew in the shadow of that damned shrub, and the rest of the lawn, which was so flawlessly green? Besides, Rose of Sharon was a calling card for the Japanese Beetles that came to feast on the flowers and stayed for the filthy sex. Even now, in the grey shadows of the moon, he swore he could see their libidinous, quivering antennae. He crossed the yard, entered the garage from the side door, and lifted the long-handled loppers from their hook.

In the morning Elaine’s face was wet with tears. “Why would you do this? Why?”

He remained silent, listening to her sniffles. “It had to be done. That’s all.”

“Do you want breakfast?”

“I ate early.”

She went to find a tissue.

“I’ll be outside. The lawn needs coring.”

“What? I thought you did that last month.”

“Now it’s this month.”

When he finished aerating, he gathered the slender grey soil plugs and covertly tossed them into his neighbor’s yard where they landed, undiscovered and leaking excess fertilizers, beneath an arborvitae. Minutes later Jason flung his muscular arms over the fence. “Hey, Mr. Small, how are ya? Can you believe how fast that bush is growing?” He gestured to the arborvitae. “I don’t do anything to it and it’s getting huge. Isn’t that awesome?”

“Yes, it’s awesome. Blocks my view of your house.” Peter irrigated for twenty-five minutes then checked his watch. Elaine appeared on the deck. "I made sandwiches, aren't you hungry?"

“I have to keep my eye on how these heads are working. Might have corrosion."

She uncrossed her arms and went indoors, then returned with a plate. “I’m putting a chicken sandwich on the table. It can’t sit out, so come and eat.”

He briefly glanced away from the hissing sprinkler heads. “O.K.”

Leaving a fourth of his sandwich unfinished, Peter returned to the yard, kneeled and lowered his nose to the flat tips of Kentucky Bluegrass. He inhaled. The odor was mostly correct, but something was not right. He stood up and dug his phone out of his pants pocket.

A woman answered. “Milt’s Miracle Products the place for a greener life this is Joan may I have your name sir?”

“Peter.”

“Very good Mr. Peter and how may I assist you today?”

“I’m calling about your Miracle Mychorrizae.”

“O.K. sir and is that the Regular or Super Blast?”

“Regular.”

“O.K. sir please hold while I transfer your call to a customer service representative.”

(Clicking, music, clicking.) “Hello this is Thomas may I have your first name please?”

“Peter Small.”

“And how may I assist you today Mr. Small?”

“I put down some of your Mychorrizae product. But I’m not…”

“Regular or Super Blast?”

“Regular. I already told Joan.”

“I am sorry about that sir. Now what can I help you with?”

“It doesn’t work.”

“And when did you apply our product?”

“Two days ago.”

Pause. “OK sir? You do realize that all of Milt’s Miracle Products are guaranteed to show noticeable results after thirty days of application?”

“Listen, I want a refund.”

“Sir may I suggest that you wait until thirty days have passed and if you are still not satisfied you give us a call back? And I’d like to remind you that Milt’s Miracle Products have been certified by the American Lawn Association to be highly effective when properly applied to the average lawn?”

Peter snorted. “Average? I do not have an average lawn, Thomas. I have the finest lawn in this neighborhood!”

“Yes sir I’m sure you do.”

“You people are worthless.” Peter disconnected. He lifted a foot to check his clean white sneakers. Red thread could be a serious problem at this time of the year. “Elaine!” he shouted. “I’m taking the truck over to my storage locker. I’ll be back in an hour or so!”

She came outside. “Did you say something? I had water running in the sink.”

“I saw ants.”

“All right.” She eyed her pots of orange geraniums, surprised at how they drooped.

Upon learning in 2005 that the pesticide Diazinon would be phased out, Peter had made a retaliatory sweep of all the garden retailers within ninety miles, purchasing five hundred bags of Diazinon. He stacked the bags, warehouse style, in a rental. Elaine knew, because she had nagged the truth from him when she saw the credit card bill. He promised that if they ever needed the money, he could sell off the remaining inventory on Craig’s list and “probably double” what he’d paid.

The storage unit was hot and reeked of vaguely dangerous chemicals, like Elaine’s automatic room fresheners. He wiped the sweat from his lip and loaded two bags into the truck’s cab.

After sundown there were a few rumblings of thunder, but the sky did not break. They sat in the TV room while Peter watched tennis with the sound dialed down to a murmur. Elaine, curled on the sofa, read The Alphabet Murders—M is for Maim. When the tennis match ended Peter turned his head and saw that she had nodded off, her exposed cheek bathed in light from the brass reading lamp. He left the room.

Elaine woke at midnight. Her ankle throbbed. She limped to the kitchen for two ibuprofen and a glass of water. Gazing through the window she noticed Peter’s silhouette hovering in the center of the yard. She struggled to push open the window—it always resisted—but finally decided to give up.

Peter remained still, watching and listening. He saw only one cricket, and laughed at it, knowing that it would soon be dead. During the first seconds of dawn he grew hopeful, thinking he had heard a sound coming from the grass—not quite a whisper, but then the crows began cawing, and it slipped away. Suddenly he noticed the heat, and went indoors to start the central air.

The house smelled of eggs and tea. Elaine looked at him broadly. “You were out there all night for heaven’s sake.”

“Yes.”

“I hope you’re going to take it easy today. Forecast is for extreme heat.”

“Still got a couple of things I need to do.”

“Peter …” She handed him a glass of cranberry juice.

“I’ll get some rest first.”

He napped, showered and returned to his lawn, wearing only bathing trunks. Gripping a magnifying glass he crawled across the grass, peering down. Sometimes he stopped, wrinkled his brow and plucked a single blade, which he studied with the nervous concentration of a forensics detective. Then he would toss it aside and continue crawling, searching for damning clues.

Elaine stayed indoors, hovering at the windows, wishing that Peter would quit. She pounded on the glass to get his attention, and then called his phone and begged him to come in, but he said he had to finish. At 9:30 AM the yard was in full sun. Peter lay chest down on the lawn with his arms neatly at his sides. Elaine yanked open the door and sprinted into the crushing heat, ignoring the awful pain in her ankle.

Peter’s mouth moved slowly. His eyes were half open.

“Can you hear me?” She rubbed his shoulder.

“Yes…it’s OK. Yes, I can hear you. I understand now.”

“It’s me, it’s Elaine. I called 911.”

By the time the two paramedics arrived Peter had roused and was leaning against his wife. “I’m OK guys,” he said. “Sorry you had to come here for nothing.”

“He fainted,” Elaine said angrily, moving away from him. She was soaked in sweat. “Don’t you boys dare leave without checking my husband over from head to toe.”

“Mr. Small we need to get you inside. Can you walk?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s take it slow now, OK?”

Elaine instructed them to put Peter on the sofa. She brought cold towels for his burning skin while they took his blood pressure and asked him if he knew the president of the United States. “Not personally,” he joked.

“You’ll be fine,” the paramedics reassured, “as long as you hydrate and get your body temperature back to normal. You over-heated like crazy.”

Elaine was on the verge of tears. “I kept telling him to come inside.”

“Don’t blame yourself, ma’am, this happens a lot around this time of year. Your husband’s a little stubborn, am I right?”

She wept, nodding in relief. “Yes. He never listens to me.”

“Just make sure he drinks a lot of liquids. Anything he likes. Except alcohol, of course. Soda, juice, water—it’s all good.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Boy you sure do have a nice lawn, by the way.”

“I’ll be sure to tell my husband you said so.”

Peter slept for three hours. When he woke he was in good spirits. He ate three turkey sandwiches that Elaine had made for him and he gulped four cans of Pepsi. “I feel good,” he told her. “Really good.”

“I put the thermostat at 65,” she informed him. “Is that too cold? I was so worried. The paramedics said that if your temperature had been just three degrees higher they would’ve taken you to the hospital. But once I got those wet towels on you it seemed to come down pretty fast.”

“Feels good in here.”

“Look at me Peter. No more going out in this heat, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been thinking, maybe we should hire a lawn service.”

He stared at the sliding door and bit down. “Let’s not get into that right now.”

That night when they crawled into bed, Peter apologized for causing a scene with the paramedics, as if he had perpetrated a hoax. In the cold, dry bedroom Elaine applied moisturizer to her arms and legs, accepted her husband’s apology, and switched off the lights. He lay awake, listening for her breath to change to its familiar sigh, and then slipped out of bed to answer the whispers that called from the yard.

The heat engulfed him.

Elaine woke hours later, pushed her pillow aside and screamed. Peter’s body was twisted, his neck exposed and his head flung back. She reared from the bed, damp sheets clinging to her legs, and tore open the blinds, flooding the room with light. Then she saw what was really there: a knoll of dark green stuff, rising from the mattress like a heaving mound of turf. The lampshade, carpet, walls and ceiling, the framed photograph of seashells, they were tinted as pretty as chlorophyll.

Sobbing, she hobbled along the edge of the room toward the door. “Peter?”

A whisper.

“Where are you? What are you saying?”

But the whisper did not come again. She left the room and shut the door tightly.

For the next two days Elaine did not open the door. Finally she knocked, called Peter’s name, and entered when he did not answer. The swollen mound of green was still heaped on their bed. “You look dry,” she said to it. “I’m going to give you a drink.” She got her watering can from under the kitchen sink and gave the mound a generous sprinkle.

After a few days the mattress sagged and reeked of algae, an odor that crept through the rest of the house. She installed air fresheners in every room—Vanilla Summer, Lavender Morning, Strawberry Sunset. Then a grotesque, yellowish slime appeared and spread into the carpet, which was the last straw. Besides, she was sick of sleeping on the couch. There was nothing left to do but call a service. “Can you take a look at my yard?” She inquired.

When a man named Tony arrived she led him through the house to the bedroom and paused before opening the door. She had been rehearsing this: “You might think this is weird. I’d rather not explain.”

He nodded.

They stood at the edge of the expanding wet stain oozing across the floor.

“Here it is,” Elaine said. “Can you move it to the backyard?”

“I could get some guys over this afternoon. We could shovel it into some pails and dump it outside.”

She shook her head. “It has to be moved in one piece. You know…transplanted.”

“No way we can get it outside in one piece unless we cut a hole clean through the side of the house.”

She looked him earnestly. “Then that’s what we’ll do. Do you know a good contractor?”

A week later Tony returned with his three taciturn sons. They heaved the soggy mattress and its green passenger through the bashed bedroom wall, onto a hydraulic platform, and lowered it to the ground. Next they moved it to the corner of the yard, where her purple Rose of Sharon had once grown, and they slashed away the ruined mattress with box cutters, leaving only the strange dark lump of stuff that was once Peter Small. Elaine put the hose on it, but only after first refreshing her geraniums.

The carpenters tore out the bedroom carpet and set out heaters to dry the damp from the sub-floor. The wall was reframed for a large picture window that provided a wider view of the yard. Elaine bought herself a fancy chair with deep cushions—a bright floral print, and a generous matching ottoman, so she could sit and look out whenever she pleased.

The mound faded to dull green. But after a few weeks in the sun and a twenty-minute soak every morning, its color improved. In early fall Elaine dialed down the irrigation system from once per day to once per week. Chickweed crept in but she didn’t bother to spray it. Ants marched through and crickets sang at night.

In October the Flower Haus ran a fifty percent discount on all remaining flowering shrubs and trees. Elaine purchased eight Rose of Sharon and set them in the backyard, abutting the fence. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a loosely buttoned shirt, she retrieved the long-handled shovel from its hook, and began digging.

“Hello Mrs. Small.” Jason leaned over the fence.

“Hi Jason.”

“How’ve you been?”

“Oh, much better, thank you.”

“Was something the matter?”

She stuck out her foot and wiggled it. “Had a terrible sprain when my husband left the string trimmer lying on the ground this spring—didn’t see it there. But now, good as new.”

“Cool.” He grinned. “So where is Mr. S. these days? Weird not to see him mowing and stuff. You guys have such an awesome lawn.”

“He’s away.” She smiled politely. “So I’m tending the yard now.”

“Ah, I see.” His eyes scanned the yard. “Looks like you’re more the natural type.”

Elaine struck the earth with the tip of the shovel, forcing it through the turf’s roots with swift shove from her foot. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Sounded like shouting.” And then she laughed, mysteriously, with her eyes closed.

Jason shrugged. “Eh, maybe that couple next to us--they argue a lot.”

“How is your wife, Jason? That baby must be due any time now.”

“Charlotte? She’s terrific, thanks for asking. Although she can’t stand being outside since the pregnancy—makes her feel sick. But now that it’s cooled off I keep trying to get her to at least walk around the block. Problem is she’s so darned huge!”

“She’ll be back to normal soon, I know I was.”

“I’ll tell her you said that. Hey! Looks like you just did some remodeling.” He pointed at Elaine’s bedroom window. “Charlotte and I were just talking about adding on.”

“I’ll give you their number.”

“Thanks. So, you need some help with those plants?”

She glanced at the row of shrubs in black plastic containers. “Rose of Sharon—my favorite. I thought I’d do a whole hedge of ‘em, right here by this lump.”

He stared. “Funny. I don’t remember that being there.”

“Moles, probably.”

Jason climbed over the fence. “Just tell me where to dig.”

The End

Shane VanOosterhout is The Passionate Gardener.

For more garden inspiration, you can follow him on Facebook.

Deer and Man, a Reflection

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 23 May 2012 23:05:00 +0000

The Goddess Diana.

Deer have long been a symbol of nature's brighter side: peaceful, idyllic, prosperous and mystical. The ancient Greeks and Romans worshipped their virginal goddess Artemis/Diana, who chit-chatted with wild animals and especially enjoyed the company of deer. The Medieval Roman Catholics had St. Giles, a monk who lived alone in the woods with a red deer as his sole companion, perhaps surviving off her milk. During the horrors of the Black Death, plague victims prayed to St. Giles for relief.

St. Giles and the Hind c. 1500

Deer were also a recurring motif in the decorative arts of Old World European royalty. Majestic, masculine and swift, the stag is an ideal symbol for the king's public image, assuring his subjects that when the kingdom was not at war (during which the ruler posed as the lion), he was attending to his subject's prosperity--the land on which he allowed them to live and work.

King John hunting in Sherwood Forest.

While the seeds of democracy were being sown during the Age of Enlightenment (18th Century), man's view of nature veered in a new direction. The wild became less a place of monarchical/religious symbolism and more a place to be observed and pondered with a rational, scientific mind. In the image below, the landowner seen in the left of the canvas seems insignificant, and in fact it is the male deer on the right that watches down on him, not the other way around.

Joseph Constantine Stadler (German, fl.1780 - 1822), after William Hodges,
A View of Windsor and Eton from St. Leonards,
with deer in the foreground and Windsor Castle beyond

In the 20th Century, sharp-witted painter Frieda Kahlo further redefined deer symbolism for a clever self-portrait: her body is riddled with arrows, and the surrounding forest is filled with leafless, rotting trunks. Beneath her hooves is a single, broken bough. She stares at the viewer calmly and defiantly as if to say, "I may be frail and disfigured (Ms. Kahlo in real life suffered greatly from a violent accident that ruined her spine), but I will not be your martyr." The image is shocking because we are accustomed to images of slain deer lying gracefully at the feet of their Noble hunters, not wounded ones that pierce our voyeuristic stare. By turning her (wounded) self into a deer she confronts our infantile belief that nature should please and serve us but never interfere with our selfish goals.

The Little Deer by Frieda Kahlo 1946

Today, it seems the deer is simply vilified. A modern retelling of Little Red Riding Hood would have virtuous Red devoured by the Big Bad Deer. The predator-wolf still terrifies but deer are now at least equally loathed for their affront to suburban idealism. Yet, try as we may to eradicate deer because they no longer please us, animism cannot simply be waved away--deer are firmly embedded in our imagination. We proudly build our miniature castles on lush landscapes and along comes the ravaging deer to ridicule our fantasies, reducing us to our naked, mortal selves: creatures who are too impotent to stop the wild from being wild, or at least from being uninvited.

Bleeding Deer, Original Art by L-Dopa

This new conflict between deer and humans is one caused mainly by economy and politics. Democratically speaking, anyone can purchase his own (infinitely smaller) Windsor Castle, but deer are no longer a symbol of the landowner's potency. Landscapes are costly to install and demand fiscal input: mowing, weeding, fertilizing and pruning all take from our pocketbooks and our free time, which we earn from our jobs. Vegetable beds and fruit trees honestly don't save anyone much money--we do it for pleasure and romance--and the stakes are high. Deer, although only one of many assaults every garden will endure, can be an especially grave insult to the gardener. The anger is real but misplaced. Citizens cry foul, demanding government intervention, and somewhere above the shouts for vengeance is the sound of Diana's mellifluous voice, begging to be heard: she would only like a moment of our time to remind us that sadly, we have forgotten, she has never cared one wit for politics.

Shane VanOosterhout is The Passionate Gardener.

For more garden inspiration, you can follow him on Facebook.

Sowing the Seeds of Love

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 04 May 2012 19:06:00 +0000

Sunflower photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

I love a Sunflower, and I believe in love power,

Love Power, Love Power!

(Lyrics from the song Sowing the Seeds of Love

by the big 80's pop band Tears for Fears).

I use coin envelopes for seed collecting and saving.

Every spring on the second weekend of April I get out my seed starting equipment and convert the basement into a greenhouse. Some years I start only flowers and other years both vegetables and flowers. A couple of seasons ago I grew hundreds of wild Bee Balm seedlings indoors, and that was good enough. Because I also have two small outdoor nurseries where I cultivate many trees and native perennials from seeds, what I grow indoors are mostly annuals that are transplanted to summer vegetable and flower beds.

This year I'm revved up about starting veggies because I have more control over which varieties I can grow. Retail nurseries have gotten better about selling a slightly larger sampling of unique varieties but it's nothing compared to what a gardener can find in a packet of seeds, and I love any adventure involving plants.

The potted geraniums and herbs have been
relocated to the screened porch
to make way for seedlings.

I begin the day before by cleaning the seed trays and pots with bleach and water. I also moisten the planting media so that it is ready to work with. There are many different brands of soil-less seed starting mixes on the market, and I've tried most of them. Here's my review of four brands you'll find at retail stores: the two I especially dislike are Hoffman and Black Gold--both are extremely dusty and take forever to wet (absorb moisture). The Hoffman bag contained vermiculite, which I despise because it is a known lung irritant and carcinogen--hello, asbestos is made with vermiculite.

Black Gold is so finely ground it reminds me of Dutch cocoa, but not nearly as delicious. It's overly hydrophobic and therefore takes too long to moisten, and after a few days in the seed trays it readily grows green mold.

The winner.

Miracle Gro makes a very good seed starter mix--it wets quickly but isn't soggy, and when you open the bag it doesn't fly up your nostrils, but the best yet is Espoma Organic, which I tried for the first time this year. It's the highest priced of the four because it's organic and because they added several strains of mycorrhizae. (Yes, that magic fungi that grows naturally and for free, wherever plants grow, like in your yard!) Thing is, seed starting mixes and potting soils are sterilized, for good reason, and this process kills fungi and bacteria--see where I'm going here? That's right, mycorrhizae is of no use to seedlings when it's stone cold dead. Nevertheless, Espoma brand wins hands down because it has the best texture, is not the least bit dusty, and it wets perfectly, and that's worth paying for.

Wetting the soil-less seed starting mix.

Before you plant, pour the starting mix into a large, clean bucket--be sure to sterilize the container with bleach and water first--and add just enough water to evenly moisten the media. It should just barely hold together in your palm when you squeeze it. Next fill every 1" cell in the tray to the top with moistened mix, and then tap the tray to settle. You can even the media with very light finger pressure, but whatever you do, don't pack it down in the cells. Now you are ready to sow!

Seed dial.

A seed dial is helpful for dispersing one seed at a time, especially the tinier ones. Place the seeds inside the device and then rotate the dome to change the size of the opening so that it's just large enough to allow the seeds to pass through. With a little practice you'll get good at rotating and carefully tapping out a single seed, which rolls down the shoot and lands directly in the seed tray where you want it to go. Keep an excellent pair of pointy tweezers on hand to pick up any stray seeds that are too small for your meaty fingertips.

Seed trays planted, marked, and set beneath
full spectrum grow lamps.

Now, let's take a peek at at some of the plants I've started for 2012. Hint: if you've read my blog you already know how much I love Renee's Seeds. As usual, I placed a big order with her company this spring, and I am in her media database (that's right, Shane VanO is now "The Media") which means I got a few free packets to trial in my garden so I can blog about it. Sweet.

Shortly after the seeds germinate they will produce their first set of true leaves, growing at the apex of the stem. In case you don't know, the first thing that emerges is the cotyledon, those lobed-shaped things. Begin adding a diluted all-purpose fertilizer to the water as soon as the actual leaves appear, just as you see in the photo below.

Napa cabbage seedlings.

In about two-to-three weeks the seedlings must be removed from their starting cells and placed in four inch pots filled with fresh potting soil. Give each seedling cell a gentle squeeze from below to loosen the roots, and then firmly grasp the stem (two fingers) of the plant directly where it meets the mix and carefully remove it.

A healthy root ball.

If you come away with at least 50 percent of the root ball, consider it successful. Transplant into four inch pots immediately, and moisten the soil. Now begin fertilizing at full strength. Snip off most or all of what remains of the cotyledon to reduce transpiration and minimize shock. After a few days I will often remove the lowest (first) set of true leaves on plants like tomatoes, to stimulate top growth.

Pixie Cabbage and French Pumpkins

Felco is the best! I use this model for pruning seedlings.

In another two to three weeks your plants will have grown tremendously but they are not ready to put in the ground until they have transitioned to the real world and the outside soil temperatures are in the 70's. Heat loving vegetables will be stressed and stunted if planted in cold soil. Find a suitable outdoor spot for hardening off, a place that receives partial or indirect sunlight, and is not windy or cold. If necessary, bring the plants back inside at night--they are astoundingly tender and vulnerable after being pampered indoors.

Protect the seedlings from direct sunlight.

One of my techniques is to place my plants in plastic storage tubs (leave off the lids) and then cover the tubs with sections of vinyl screening, or shade cloth. This cuts the intensity of direct sunlight enough to prevent scorching of tender foliage. At the very end of May or the beginning of June, the plants are toughened up and ready to go into the garden!

Sowing The Seeds of Love

Shane VanOosterhout is The Passionate Gardener.

For more garden inspiration, you can follow him on Facebook.

The Winter That Wasn't, The Spring That Isn't, and Zombies

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 26 Mar 2012 15:54:00 +0000

Too Soon

    So far this season is a mess.
    After a ridiculously tepid winter, lacking nearly all the icy shimmer and blustery cold snaps that my romantic heart is fond of, we were met with, ahead of the actual equinox, temperatures in the 80's. My cats were on the floor with their tongues lolling out like high it was noon in Death Valley.
     What a disappointment. Spring should unfold gently, revealing hints and clues to its forthcoming splendor, not hammer us like a bomb. In view of this current disaster, I've officially declared 2012 to be the War on Spring. Bill O'Reilly has not returned my emails, but I suppose he's too busy polishing his forthcoming book on climate science, I Only Believe What I Say (Well, Maybe that Foxy Ann Coulter, Sometimes.)
     Maybe it's my age, but I can't remember ever feeling so doomy-gloomy about the state of the environment, and this is from a guy who predicted in grade school that earth would end in smoldering ruins by our own hands, with everyone screaming, "How did this happen? I put a brick in my toilet tank!"
    Our weather ship now sails into unknown waters, raising numerous, unsettling questions. On March 21st the BBC science news reported on a study published in the journal Nature: "Experts warn that the [warmer temperature] changes will lead to a breakdown in symbiotic relationships with ecosystems, such as plants' dependence on pollinators."
Crikey, this scares the dandruff off my scalp. "Pollinators" means the whole massive lot, including bees, beetles, flies, wasps, moths, ants and a slew of vertebrates such as bats and hummingbirds. It's bad enough that these organisms have already been in decline since the mid 20th century, thanks to a host of injurious assaults ranging from habitat loss to pesticide use.
Soil temperatures here are already in the 60's. My roses, which normally begin pushing tender buds in very late April, are flushed with bright green leaves. The elms in the woods are far ahead of schedule, bursting with bronze foliage. My early variety daffodils are already kaput. I've mowed the field, twice.
I once read how important it is for us to slowly transition ourselves through the season changes because it's healthy for our circadian rhythms--wearing shorts on the first warmish day of March gets the brain in a tizzy. Sure, when the first warmish day of March is 60 degrees, it's exhilarating. Even people who don't golf rush out to buy a set of clubs. But when I'm sweating buckets and cursing the heat before I've sowed my first crop of salad greens, it's ominous. I half expect the dead to crawl from their graveyards.
March is the now the new May, and if our future gardens become too hot for peas to germinate, at least we'll have an endless supply of zombies to hand pollinate our banana crops and pick our coffee beans.
Until the apocalypse arrives, here are a handful of pretty, and untimely, things from my garden.

Golden Throated Species Tulip

Deep Purple Species Tulip

Pale Daffodil, Looking Up

Pinky Pink-Pink Hyacinth

Narcissus, Unashamed

Flamin' Species Tulip

They Look Like Lotus!

Hella B.

A Circle of Dainty Dancers

Hortense Hellebore

Red Flash Species Tulip

For. SIGH. Thee. Uh.

Spare. Gus. Tips.

Ari Muscari

MOLES ARE COOL! GET OVER IT!

Shane VanOosterhout is The Passionate Gardener.

For more garden inspiration, you can follow him on Facebook.

All Time Bee Time in the Hive

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 03 Mar 2012 18:49:00 +0000

*Illustration by Fredy Santiago

A hobby beekeeper is a bit lonely during the winter. He sometimes sulks and worries about his bees, and he wakes up shivering on a blustery night fearing that his bees will freeze to death when the temperature dips below 32 F. He routinely visits his hive every day, although there is nothing to see because bees don't fly when it's cold. He asks his chickens, who live alongside the hive, if they know anything. They do not. They only want grapes.

Sometimes the beekeeper gently taps on the side of his hive and shyly inquires, "Hello?" But he is only disappointed by the lack of response, and he wistfully remembers the good times: last summer, when his bees never failed to greet him.
So what exactly do domesticated honeybees do to pass the time during the cold season? Play checkers? Tell ghost stories? Take up knitting?
A for-profit beekeeper tends hundreds or even thousands of hives and ships them someplace warm during the winter, such as Florida, where he leases his bees to citrus and nut farmers for crop pollination. (Sadly, it's not in a bees' contract to receive paid vacations, so there will be no side trips to Disneyworld to see famous animatronic bees reading the Gettysburg Address.)

However, a picayune apiarist has no need to truck a single hive down south, so he is hanging tough with what's left of his hive after the Great Swarm of 2011.

Honeybees stay warm in winter by clustering together in the middle of the hive at the top of the comb, contracting their chest muscles (they have no Pilates instructors in the colony) which keeps the center of the cluster at a constant 93 F.

Inside the cluster the workers all point their heads facing inward. The queen of course luxuriates at the balmy nucleus of this big bee snuggle, pampered by her devoted workers. If she needs an extra pair of socks or someone to bring her a mug of honey, she gets it. The workers continuously rotate their location within the cluster--those in the middle eventually move to the sidelines and vice versa. The division of labor is surprisingly democratic.

My Insulated Hive

When outside temperatures are above freezing, bees can comfortably move about inside the hive. Below freezing, the bees are immobile, with nothing to do except stare at each other's butts. In fact they cannot even walk two inches to eat honey. The longer and colder a winter is, the more a colony is at risk for starvation, especially if they did not have a good supply of pollen and nectar to forage from the previous spring and summer, or if the size of the colony is small.
Any amount of additional insulation helps the hive retain heat, thus boosting the colony's survival rate. In a warmer hive the bees will shiver less and can conveniently access honey reserves without risk of freezing to death.
Apis mellifera are meticulously domestic. They don't poop indoors they and they prefer not to have corpses piling up on the living room floor. On a mild windless day, dead bees are dragged to the landing board and then dumped overboard. This behavior indicates that the colony is alive and organized around their queen.

Bring Out Your Dead

If all goes well and the bees survives until daytime temperatures are consistently over 50 F., the queen begins laying eggs. Lucky surviving workers will by now have reached an uncommonly ripe old age of nearly six months (during the busy season a worker may live only 60 days) and without complaint these old ladies begins to raise brood and nurse them to adulthood. This will be the beginning of the success of the colony for another summer. Only then will the anxious beekeeper breathe a sigh of relief.

A Worker Laid to Rest

*A special thanks to the very talented artist Fredy Santiago for creating the queen bee illustration specially for this post. I love Fredy's drawings for their clever humor and incredible use of line and color. He is for hire! Be sure to check out Fredy's ultra cool website: www.imsugarcoated.com

Shane VanOosterhout is The Passionate Gardener.

For more garden inspiration, you can follow him on Facebook.

Bright Lights Big Basil

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 00:34:00 +0000

"Grow your own wonderful fresh cooking and other herbs indoors all year long, and stop paying grocery store prices! Get started with your own indoor herb garden in minutes and have fresh herbs

within weeks!"

All Photos by Shane VanOosterhout

I lifted the above quote from wheatgrasskits.com, one of the many websites selling indoor herb kits. For their low price of $29.95 you receive 12 different herb seed packets and a growing kit that includes a plastic tray with a lid: "the perfect climate for fast herb growth."

The perfect climate...where? Hawaii? Spain? The South of France? Last time I miniaturized myself and crawled under a moisturized plastic dome I thought of Minneapolis on July 20, 2011 when the heat index hit 119 degrees and the dew point spiked 82%.

Full-spectrum light from T5 florescent bulbs.

Yes, heat and humidity are necessary for seed germination, but so is light--a lot of it, and forget about a bright windowsill because winter's sun in the northern hemisphere is far too feeble. The only way to achieve an adequate growing climate for herbs indoors is to provide an artificial light source. So, let's talk a little about foot candles, or how the strength of light is measured when it strikes a surface.

Today, January 28, more than a month past our winter Solstice, at 1:30 in the afternoon, my light meter reads about 1800 foot candles when I touch it directly on the window glass. At six inches away from the glass, the foot candles drop to 1500.

Herbs need, at the very minimum, 2,000 foot candles of light, which is still on the far end of wimpy when you consider that the bright summer sun delivers 10,000 foot candles, the same time of year when seasonal herbs are at their peak.

When I place a light meter on my growing table it reads about 4,400 foot candles, as you can see in the photo below.

My dad's old light meter from the 1950's. Vintage.

During the first week of January I sowed a handful of herb seeds in four-inch pots. By the way, I've been using the same Basil packet since 2009 and the seeds are still viable. Truth is most garden seeds have a long shelf life if they are kept perfectly dry at room temperature.

Renee's Seeds are excellent, and the packets are very well-designed.

Baby Basil's first set of true leaves rising above its cotyledon.

Indoor seeds should be started in a soil-less mix (literally contains no soil particles), not potting soil. Potting soil holds too much moisture for tender baby plants with tiny root structures. The (non) soil temperature must be warm--70 degrees, and consistently moist (but not wet) or the seeds will not germinate. As for those plastic domed mini greenhouses? Watch out, they quickly become tropical mini rain forests--great for terrariums, terrible for herb seedlings, which are vulnerable to rot.

Second set of true leaves.

Once the new plants have their second set of true leaves, transplant them into a high quality potting mix--light, fluffy, with added perlite, and allow the soil to dry between watering. Notice in the photo above that the stems are thick and strong, not spindly or bending over. Also notice that the distance between the two sets of leaves is compact, not leggy, and the foliage is a lovely, rich green color.

In a few weeks from now I'll be making pesto!

Larger pots can accommodate up to four Basil plants.

Parsley seedlings.

I love Rosemary!

This fine lady is more than a decade old. Her tiny flowers are pure white.

Severe pruning stimulates tender shoots on old wood.

Shane VanOosterhout is The Passionate Gardener.

For more garden inspiration, you can follow him on Facebook.

Reading Green

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 00:28:00 +0000

In January it's time to delve into plant and garden books. Reading is like organic fertilizer for the brain. You don't even have to follow the label to know how to apply it, just find a nice spot with a full-spectrum lamp, preferably near a window, but not too near that you get a bothersome chill. Also be sure to have something soft for your cat, a square pillow will do, because cats greatly appreciate the reading of a book and feel it is necessary to be part of the action.

Once you are comfortable, begin reading. (photo by Shane V.)

This time last winter I was busy researching the world of honeybees in preparation for becoming an apiarist. I was utterly preoccupied with thinking about honeybees and how to care for them. This year I have a grand stack of new plant books, all of them gifts. Aren't I lucky to have such perceptive friends and family?
I started with Richard Horan's Seeds (Harper Perennial). Horan is a lover of American lit, which he also teaches. Bewitched by a vagabond's life of bumming around the U.S. and visiting the homes and birthplaces of famous authors--Mark Twain, Edith Wharton, Jack Kerouac and Henry Miller to name a few, a cotyledon sprouts in his brain. Wouldn't it be cool, man, to collect trees from the estates of great writers?
So far, I am a hundred pages into Seeds and enjoying it immensely. In the prologue, Horan indirectly admits he knows little about how to properly cultivate woody plants, which has me wondering what will happen to all that contraband DNA once he gets home and tries to make them sprout. My ex-coworker Mary Frein gave me this book as a going-away gift. I was deeply touched by her thoughtfulness, plus it helped us avoid a teary scene on my last day at the office.
The Book of Leaves is a new reference from The University of Chicago Press, authored by Allen J. Coombes. I drooled over it at Borders when I was there with my friend Kevin Schalkofski and guess what Santa brought me? The Book of Leaves is a treasure. Simple, elegant, exceptionally well-designed. I've already spent some quality time with this one and am thrilled to have it in my collection for future enjoyment.
My sister Stacie gave me the following two books from my Amazon list. Weeds--In Defense of Nature's Most Unloved Plants by Richard Mabey (Harper Collins). How can I not look forward to reading a book with a title like this? Paradoxes are a blast.
Fifty Plant that Changed the Course of History by Bill Laws (Firefly Books). Since so many history books are about war, politics, or the economy, it's thrilling for me to access the past through subjects that fascinate me. This is an A-Z list. The plants chosen are mostly medicinal or edible, but of course the ornamental (tulip), the industrial (rubber) are included. Each selection is given two pages of text, inset with illustrations and interesting facts.
Seeing Trees by Nancy Ross Hugo; Photography by Robert Llewellyn (Timber Press). I found out about this book at least six months ago and it's been on my wish list ever since. Thanks, mom. Seeing Trees covers ten trees in detail, and provides additional information on tree traits. I haven't yet read the copy, but the photographs are mind-blowing. Llewellyn devised a special approach to capturing the images by taking multiple shots of the buds, leaves, flowers and shoots and combining them digitally into a single image. The result is deep focus, with crazy wow detail. Now, if only Lasik could do that for my eyeballs.
Finally, my friend Sue Stauffacher gave me the book Using Native Plants to Restore Community by Nancy Cutbirth and Tom Small. Sue and I are both idealists who fancy that the world can be saved with plants, so naturally we enjoy reading books by like-minded utopians. The authors, married, also teachers of English lit, began an important journey in 1995 to restore the native plant colonies of southwest Michigan. Using Native Plants to Restore Community combines personal observations of nature with advice on what to plant, and inspires the reader to engage in better stewardship of our precious land. Book sales go to the Kalamazoo, Michigan chapter of Wild Ones, a non-profit native plant group.

Happy reading.

Next month I will talk a bit about foot candles, little nubbins of wicked wax applied to the toes in the 1800's to keep the feet warm on a cold winter's night.
Just kidding!
(I will share with you some of the secrets of successful indoor northern hemisphere gardening).

Hornbeam Smackdown

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 20:56:00 +0000

The charming American Hornbeam (Carpinus caroliana) is not often found in home gardens. Perhaps it grows too slowly for those who want a towering tree in sixty seconds or less. I immediately feel kinship with a gardener who has one--in my mind it implies upstanding character. This native species has survived the onslaught of lumber barons and exotic pestilence where other key species such as Elm, Chestnut and Ash have met their Waterloo. Maybe it is no coincidence that American Hornbeam is also commonly known as Musclewood.

Recently I was given one as a gift--I assumed a seedling in a small pot. Then a truck arrived at my home hauling a 2.5 caliper (ten foot) specimen with a three hundred pound root ball.
The driver offered to help me situate the tree using his hand cart but I warned him it was too risky. During the rainy season the soil on my property holds enough water to power the Hoover Dam for a week and I knew we'd end only up perishing in the mire. He wished me the best.
I pulled on my high boots and hiked into the marshy field to scout the perfect location. Successful tree planting requires a bright ability to visualize things in twenty years. For example a row of young spruce trees planted directly beneath utility lines will one day make a nice pile of wood chips.
American Hornbeam is a beautiful small tree, maturing to about twenty-five feet in height. Its satiny-sinewy bark is grey-blue and rock hard; the glossy leavens are deep green, ovate-oblong, sharply serrate. In fall the foliage becomes scarlet-orange. A tree this lovely requires a place in the landscape where it will not be ruined by crappy real estate.
As I puttered along in my John Deere, transporting the tree at the slowest possible speed, I felt like 73 year-old Alvin Straight who in 1994 drove his sit-down mower from Iowa to Wisconsin. Every waterlogged gorge and grassy hump threatened to demolish me.
Now, I've been planting trees of all sizes for a long time yet I persist in misjudging the depth of a hole. Yes I do love to dig holes the same way I like to bite my nails and brush my teeth--with far more zeal than is necessary. There I was on a cold November afternoon with bloody fingertips, self-inflicted gum recession, and a too-deep hole filled with a 300 pound tree.
My dad offered the worst possible solution: hitch a bungee cord from the back of the John Deere to the root ball and pull it out. I fumed that we did not have time to review Sir Isaac Newton's universal law of gravitation proving that heavy stuff gets heavier when it goes into a hole.

I opted instead for 4x4's. Using our bodies for counterweight I managed to jack the tree high enough to make a clay mound beneath the rootball, gradually raising the tree to a proper height.
To ensure good drainage in a wet area I elevated the root flare a few inches above the soil level and mulched with six bags of organic soil and two bags of shredded cedar. The stakes will be removed in one year after reaction wood has formed and the root plate is well anchored. Lastly I protected the trunk from girdling rodents by wrapping it with chicken wire.
Before heading in from the cold I took a final moment to appreciate my new American Hornbeam, a glorious addition to the landscape. I can hardly wait for spring when I can scout for Lo moth caterpillars, one of this tree's unique guests. Lo moth caterpillars are covered in clusters of bright green spines that sting like hell. If I am lucky enough to find one I will have a strong urge to touch it. Heck, it can't be more painful than having no fingernails.

Gardeners, Travelers, Friends

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 20:15:00 +0000

"Gardening is a long road, with many detours and way stations, and here we all are at one point or another. It's not a question of superior or inferior taste, merely a question of which detour we are on at the moment. Getting there (as they say) is not important -- the wandering about in the wilderness or in the olive groves or in the bayous is the whole point." Henry Mitchell

Five years ago I met a tiny woman with bobbed, ivory hair named Alice Wilkes. She struck me as once-famous 1920's flapper girl who had traded table top dancing for gardening because at the age of eighty-three it made good sense to keep nearer to the ground.

Alice showed up at my workplace brimming with questions. Apparently her raspberries had gone bad over the years as raspberries always do and she was looking for a better variety. I recommended some reliable mail order companies that sell virus-free bramble stock.

Alice and I hit it off quite well. The ladies at my office remarked that I had made a new friend and sure enough, she called me two weeks later. "I do wish you'd come for a visit and see my garden," she said.

When I arrived Alice seemed reluctant to invite me in through the front door, ordering me to meet her outside at the rear of the house. On the way I passed a detached old garage filled with everything but an automobile -- shovels, trowels, hoes, rakes, forks, towers of clay pots, bags of manure and fertilizer. It was so crammed with garden apparel that there was scarcely enough room to stand, but looking at Alice's diminutive body I believed she could crawl unscathed through loops of barbed wire to find a good spade if she needed one.

Her garden wandered along a narrow strip of side-yard, each off-kilter bed growing into the next as if the plants had burst through uneven walls and she had set forth, ant-like, to contain the green spill within a new border of smooth beach stones.

"It's really just a lot of plants I like." Alice said it so plainly that any scoundrel would take her at face value, but I knew better. She was a true connoisseur.

She pointed out her recent acquisitions and we both agreed that creeping miniature sedum 'Angelina' was a stand-out, although she remorsefully added that hers was subject to a bit too much afternoon shade and was therefore spindly.

The real jewel, however, was soon revealed: a common Mediterranean fig (Ficus carica) that had wondrously survived three consecutive Michigan winters.

"Any fruit?" I asked, greatly impressed.

Alice shook her head. "The dog-gone things never get big enough to ripen before the snow hits. Maybe this year I'll hit the jackpot."

For a while we simply sat on the cool earth, noting our shared affection for rampant clover in turfgrass, praising the weather and hinting at politics (we agreed). I learned that her husband had recently died and that her son had been killed in the Vietnam war but she said it all with a slight shrug, not indifferently but without complaint.

Before we parted, Alice shared some of her Cranesbill and loaned me her paperback edition of Henry Mitchell's book One Man's Garden. "He's marvelous," she promised, adding, "If you don't care for him I just might not be able to be your friend."

Oh, Alice, I thought, I love it when you talk like that.

The next time we met, just before August's conclusion, I gave her a dense clump of Helianthus maximiliani, which I instantly regretted. Where on earth would she put this rocketing prairie giant in her small suburban garden? I warned her that if she showed it too much affection she might be sorry.

I spent the cold months reading One Man's Garden, relieved that Alice and I would remain friends after all. That was five years ago, a blink of an eye. We visited only once this summer, regretfully too near the end of things, but her late-season raspberries were refusing to quit and we stood on the driveway, happily eating them together.

Alice said nothing that humid afternoon of the plastic tube tucked beneath her nose, nor did I ask. I gave her a new copy of Doug Tallamy's revelatory book Bringing Nature Home, promising her she'd adore it as much as I do. We observed the gently swaying curly locks of her Corkscrew Willow and then she said it was time for her to go to dinner with her daughter -- they were having burritos. Glancing at her, tinier than ever, I wondered where all those beans could possibly fit.

Alice phoned my office the next week but missed me. She had a question about figs -- would they ripen indoors if they were still green? I returned the call but received her answering machine. "I'll be here on Wednesday," I said, "I look forward to talking with you then."

I did not hear from Alice again. A co-worker broke the news as she handed me Alice's obituary. I placed it on my desk next to the yellow notepad where I had written a reminder. My handwriting seemed urgent. "Call Alice," it said.

When I thought of Alice's garden without Alice there to tend it, it was too awful to consider. The best I could do to ease my sadness was to revisit the words of Henry Mitchell, a man who wisely understood that in our deepest hearts, gardeners become the luckiest of traveling companions when we cherish our journey together, even if we only cross paths every once in a while.

Introducing Country Living and Ty Pennington Themed Christmas Decor

Heckled

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 11 Oct 2011 16:26:00 +0000

     I was recently heckled at a ladies' gardening club.
   "What about the weeds?" An old woman narrowed her eyes in contempt, as if I had spoken unholy words.
"I'm sorry?" I asked.
"What about the weeds I said!"
"What would you like to know about them?"
"You used the word "natural." A natural garden will just fill up with weeds."
I rewound my thoughts. "Yes, good point, a weed management program is necessary to maintain any sort of garden. I am speaking today on garden design that is not formal. "Natural" does not mean you allow the weeds to take over."
     She said no more but her expression did not convey satisfaction. Perhaps she was just displeased with the lunch options.
     I concluded my lecture without further complaints, although another woman left early (not before noisily bundling some brownish cookies into a paper napkin) and there was a couple in the back row who chatted furiously throughout, their heads bobbing like a pair of tweedling sparrows.
   Public speaking is not without entanglements. Many people I know are terrified of facing a group and opening their mouth at the same time, insisting that they'd rather take a sharp stick in the eye, but giving a horticulture presentation is one of my favorite things to do. The process combines some of my best creative skills: writing, photography, verbalizing ideas, and sarcasm.
     Crafting an engaging garden lecture is no different from telling a good story, as long as the story is told by someone who is recommending horse shit, not selling it.
     Over time, gardeners naturally become good skeptics. They've heard a zillion claims and tried as many gimmicks. Say "Meadow in a Can" to a room full of knowing gardeners and you are guaranteed to get a laugh.
     I once attended a garden convention where a man was marketing a "microbial caffeinated soil enhancer."
     "Why caffeine?" I asked.
     "Because it wakes up the beneficial bacteria and gets them off to a fast start."
     There was some horseshit I wasn't buying.

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September Swarm

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 04 Oct 2011 16:59:00 +0000

Photo by Shane VanOosterhout

On September eleven my honeybees swarmed. I got the news from my father who casually mentioned something about seeing a "bee house in the trees." Vaguely worded, but I know how to decipher.

"Which trees?" I asked, a sick feeling in my gut.

"The pines."

"Which pines? We have lots of them."

"By the chicken pen."

I walked outside to discover a few thousand bees settling on a pine bough eight feet off the ground. I felt dishonored -- they could have at least waited until next spring to pioneer. After all, I had given them a deluxe home, hand built from cedar, covered by a pitched copper roof.
People say honeybees swarm when their hive is crowded. My hive was half full. As I lamented the hubris of my bees I recited from memory an old nursery rhyme:

A swarm of bees in May
Is worth a load of hay;
A swarm of bees in June
Is worth a silver spoon;
A swarm of bees in July
Is not worth a fly.

*A swarm of bees in September

Will be dead by December.

*Last two lines author's addition

I photographed the swarm, then consulted my library of beekeeping materials. Could I intervene and save these feckless bees from their suicide mission?
Fortunately, swarms typically linger in one spot for several days while scout bees check out the real estate. The next morning the swarm remained intact, swaying gently like an enormous flower bud on the end of its stem.
I severed the pine branch and dumped the cluster of bees into a tall plastic container. After knocking off the last bees I laid the branch across the top of the container and closed the lid, leaving a half inch space for the bees to come and go while collecting pollen and nectar. They buzzed in baritone. Some of the guard bees flew in defensive loops around my head and chest as if to say, "I have my eyes on you, fella."
For seventy-five dollars I purchased a nucleus box made from pine, and two pounds of fresh pollen cake. (If you are wondering, yes I sampled the sticky amber-colored pollen cake -- it tastes subtly of flowers). The bars in the nucleus were treated with pure lemongrass oil, an odor honeybees find irresistible, as do I.

Photo by Shane VanOosterhout

    When I transferred the bees from the plastic container into the nuc I was amazed to discover a yellow crescent of honeycomb hanging from the branch. Nearly a foot in length and four inches at its peak it had been fabricated in only five days. In the warmth of my hand, liquid honey made almost entirely of fresh pine sap and emergency sugar pooled on my fingers, which ended up in my mouth. Pine flavored honey is an unexpected delight.
Happily, the original colony seemed to recover nicely from its sudden population decline. A new queen successfully established -- although I have not yet seen her -- thus keeping the hive from falling into chaos. Guard bees are actively kicking out the lazy male drones and ruthlessly fighting off mercenary fall yellow jackets that occasionally invade the hive to steal precious honey.
   The nuc is also doing well. Even after several frosts there is an ample supply of pollen on my property due to my expert gardening and cultivation practices. A wealth of golden rod, asters and native perennial sunflowers provide the foraging bees enough pollen to take to the nuc, their hind legs stuffed with bright yellow balls of powder, the magical stuff of life.

The Wonders of Beekeeping

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 12 Aug 2011 20:06:00 +0000

Photograph by Shane VanOosterhout 2011

     I was jittery when I began keeping honey bees this spring. Although I had done my research on the subject over the winter, there is only so much a book can reveal before I have questions that are best answered through hands-on experience, or by more experienced bee keepers who are available on line.
     You Tube is useful for visual demonstrations of just about anything. The trick is surfing through the crappy videos (most of them) to find a handful of jewels. It's advisable to find excellent websites and then follow their suggested links as opposed to sifting through another appalling example of what not to do as a beekeeper.
     On the other hand, perhaps it's not all bad to watch strangers screw up so that you don't have to. Personally I find it hard to watch a guy inhale from a tobacco pipe and then exhale smoke directly on the swarm. Nicotine is toxic to bees. How many dimwits will watch that video and think it's a genius idea?
      When my package of bees was sent from Texas, it was delivered to a tiny town in Marine, Minnesota. I live in Marne, Michigan. Totally different zip codes.   After some anxious confusion and haggling, the bees were returned to sender. The following week I received a new package of bees. Fully suited, hooded and gloved with kid leather gauntlets, I nervously pried open the screened box and dumped the confused swarm into their new home -- a handsome cedar top-bar hive with a peaked copper roof. The bees were agitated but immediately settled down just inside the entrance. I left them alone for a couple of days, checking regularly from a few yards distance.
     It dawned on me that I had forgotten to note the placing of the queen's cage. Ideally her cage should be placed at the top of the hive where the swarm will keep her warm while the workers free her. Queen cages arrive with an impregnated queen trapped inside a tiny wooden container that is sealed with a hard candy plug. It takes at least two days for the workers to eat through the candy and free their new queen.
     After one week I opened the hive for the first time. The swarm reacted defensively and many bees landed on my suit and hood. I was breaking and entering. Already they had begun construction on a tiny piece of wax comb about the size of a quarter.   I found the queen's cage lying on the floor of the hive, covered with a protective cluster of workers.
     After gently shooing away the worker bees I was able to pick up the cage and look inside. There was the frustrated queen, still trapped. I placed her at the top of the hive where the workers could more easily attend to freeing her. Still an awkward novice, I crushed about a half dozen bees in the process.
   I returned to the hive five days later to find the queen still in her cage. I took a small twig, poked out the remaining twenty-five percent of the candy plug, and set the queen free. For a minute she lumbered slowly across the floor of the hive, unattended to. Then, beautifully, some of her workers began to emerge from the swarm at the top of the hive as if they were fashioning themselves into a living rope, an amazing lifeline to sweep the queen from the floor and pull her up into the heart of the suspended cluster, where she has been happily laying brood ever since.