Summer gardening pix: July 11

Just some pix to show the state of the garden in mid-July. I didn't get around to actually posting these till late July, so I backdated the post. It's fun to see how things are progressing.

The pond

The potager

Front and side cottage garden

Containers

Summer garden pix: July 7

Just some summer garden pix:

Pond

Hardy water lily (Nymphaea) 'Perry's Almost Black'

Front and side cottage garden

Scenes from a summer garden--last week

I’m trying to keep a photo record of my garden, partly because it’s fun to see changes over time and partly so I can see what to add or change to make it look good year-round. (Note to self: mid-May to mid-June was kind of boring--need more stuff that blooms). The problem is, I get so busy with gardening and work (work=that thing I do to pay for my gardening habit) that I forget to take pictures. So last week I was very proud of myself. I went out before work last Thursday and took lots of pictures. And then forgot to upload them for, like, a week. *sigh*

Better late than never, here they are. This was my garden as of June 22, 2017:

Front and side garden

 Canterbury bells:

Yellow rose: 

Front entry area:

Side garden along the driveway:

First daylily blooms of the season:

Pansies and larkspur and a few other things:

The pond plus the new bed I just built next to it: 

The Vegetable Garden

Tomatoes and basil in containers along the south-facing front of the house, i.e. my desperate attempt to get tomatoes to ripen on the vine instead of in my spare bedroom.

Snow peas climbing the yard art I use to (badly) disguise the ugly satellite dish pole in the middle of my potager:

Fennel that wintered over, plus cilantro, cabbage, and radishes:

Lettuce about to bolt, lovage, and chard:

Beans and potatoes:

Pleasant surprises: a garden's greatest gift

It's nearly summer, and I spent Monday night worrying about frost. According to the forecast, the overnight low was supposed to be 32. Our average last frost date is June 15, but like a lot of gardeners, every spring I convince myself that that date is a worst-case scenario and of course it won't happen this year and the one good thing about climate change is that we'll all be a zone warmer and sure I can fit another six pack of tomatoes in. Yes, we gardeners are often delusional.

So it was with some trepidation that I got up Tuesday morning and ventured out to water the garden before work. I expected curled, frost-blackened leaves. I expected to mourn the untimely passing of  my tomatoes, basil, peppers, squash, and everything else I shouldn't have planted so soon. I steeled myself for the carnage. I stepped warily over the threshold and into… paradise. The morning was cool, the air perfectly still and fresh. And there was no sign of Jack Frost nipping at my nightshades. Something else was missing too--the hordes of grasshoppers that have plagued my garden since the nights started warming a few weeks ago. There were a few hopping here and there, but the Biblical plague was MIA. I can only guess that it must have been cold enough to drive them back--but not cold enough to damage tender summer veggies.

I don't think I've ever enjoyed watering as much as I did on that cool, perfect almost-summer morning. I even had a pair of hummingbirds for company. Mornings like this are why I garden: why I spend weekends shoveling manure, why I fight my way through gale-force winds to plant and water and weed, why I strain my back moving rocks to build raised beds, and why I spend half my salary on soil amendments and irrigation supplies and plants. My time in the garden was short--I do have to work for a living, and I had an 8:30 meeting--but that half hour or so in my own little paradise let me start my day with beauty and peace. 

Scenes from an almost summer evening

I took a short stroll with the husband this evening and took a few pictures of the garden and the neighborhood. I love how familiar plants and places can look different depending on the light. These were taken at dusk on this beautiful almost-summer evening.

In this light, the garden almost looks like the lush oasis I keep trying to create here in the land of sun and wind and late frosts. The dry creek bed could almost have water in it--instead of the leaf litter I need to clean out before the monsoons start.

Looks like the hollyhocks are about to bloom. 

I like to mix ornamentals and edibles (yay for cottage style!), so here we have the not-so-photogenic tomato cages mixed with an apple tree, some bachelor buttons, the aforementioned hollyhocks, and a Ketchup and Mustard rose.

Yep. There's that leaf litter I need to clean out of the dry creek bed. In the right foreground is a piece of garden art I picked up for a couple dollars at a garage sale. I'm experimenting with using it instead of a tomato cage. If my tomatoes don't freeze Monday night (it's supposed to be 31--*sigh*), we'll see if it works.

Here's the M*A*S*H* sign my husband made me for Christmas a couple of years ago. We had to relocate it this spring, because it was sitting in the middle of what would become the pond.

This is our grasshopper preserve, otherwise known as the front pasture. If you'd like about a million grasshoppers, bring a big net and take a walk through it.

Just a beautiful night in the neighborhood.

 One of my favorite things about summer nights here in Flagstaff are the cloud formations. It isn't even monsoon season yet, and we get to look at this gorgeousness.

One of many things I love about gardening is that it puts me more in touch with the seasons. The same small plot of land can have many personalities depending on the time of year. I might not ever notice that--at least not in detail--if I didn't garden.

Putting in the garden

I can’t remember the first time I heard the expression, “putting in the garden,” but it was a very long time ago. “I’m going to put in the garden this weekend.” “It’s almost time to put in the garden.” Once I got some experience as a gardener, that expression seemed weird. Yeah, I would, “put in a garden,” but that usually consisted of building another bed, cultivating a new area, or some similar activity that would significantly increase how much watering and weeding I had to do (Note to self: what seems like a great idea in March is usually a pain in the posterior by August).

What people usually meant by, “putting in the garden,” was, “planting the vegetable garden.” The entire thing. Usually in a weekend. Once I moved from Portland to Southern California, I stopped hearing this expression, since gardening is truly a year-round activity in SoCal (except when the outdoor temperature is approximately 1582 degrees, and you will spontaneously combust if you open your front door--but even then one gardens in the evening, once the porch cools off enough to not melt one’s flip-flops to the soles of one’s feet). But now that I live on Hoth in Flagstaff, I once again hear people talk about, “putting in the garden.” And now I understand why. I planted a bunch of stuff in March (first warm spell = delusional gardener), only to watch it freeze/rot/get buried in snow. I planted some more stuff a couple of weeks ago. Some of it froze. My poor potatoes--planted during the aforementioned March warm spell--have frozen twice. Yet they are sprouting once again, brave little tubers that they are. And believe it or not, we haven’t quite reached our average last frost date, which is June 15. I really need a giant hoop house to cover my entire yard.

Based on what everyone tells me, Memorial Day weekend is the official time in Flagstaff to, “put in the garden,” so that’s what I’ve been doing. Last year we started building a potager (note to self: what seems like a good idea in October will probably seem absurd the following summer, when the grasshoppers are eating everything and I’m watering 219 times a day). It’s not finished yet (obvious from the pic at the beginning of this post), and it doesn’t look like much, because it’s mostly filled with newly-planted seeds and newly-transplanted seedlings.

Photo 1: The bed on the left is seeded with winter squash, bush beans, sunflowers, and nasturtiums. The bed on the right contains peas (they’re the tiny green things at the base of the metal yard art covering the ugly satellite dish pole in the corner) and fennel transplants plus sunflowers, zucchini, and marigolds. The half-built bed along the chain-link fence has two hills of winter squash. Why wait for a bed to be finished to plant in it?

Photo 2: The bed on the left has purple cabbage, cilantro, and a lone fennel plant that wintered over, plus seeds for radishes, beets, more cilantro, and basil. The righthand bed contains my poor frost-nipped potatoes, seeds for bush beans and zinnias, and a lone calendula seedling, the only one of my winter-sown calendulas to survive the first grasshopper invasion of the year. The bed by the fence contains lettuce, chard, a currant bush, onions, blackberries, a boysenberry, and seeds for zinnias, cucumbers, milkweed, and basil. Oh, and I think I threw in some garlic too.

The delusion image in my mind is much prettier than the reality shown above. Imagine those beds overflowing with grasshoppers beans, squash, strawberries, raspberries, potatoes, parsley, dill, basil, marigolds, sunflowers, chard, lettuce, parsnips, onions, garlic, blackberries, zinnias, and calendula. Hopefully some of that will actually happen, and I can post pictures here so there is evidence that it’s actually possible to grow stuff in this bizarre land of late frosts, grasshoppers, howling wind, grasshoppers, lousy soil, and grasshoppers. In the meantime, I will bask in the warm glow of sunburn accomplishment and enjoy my fantasies.

Does anyone have a flamethrower I can borrow? I think I hear grasshoppers...

Cheapskate gardening 1: Propagating plants

Photo from Flickr user mannewaar. Creative Commons licensed.

For much of my gardening life, I’ve had a large yard and a small budget. Sound familiar? Yeah, I thought it might--especially the small budget part. That seems to be an issue for a lot of us. Food gardening in particular tends to get more popular during hard economic times, but you won’t save money if it costs more to garden than to forage at the local grocery store. So let’s talk about how to garden less-expensively. This post will be the first of several, written on no particular schedule, that talk about how to be a frugal gardener. Since spring is in full swing, let’s start with how to save money on plants.

Plants are expensive. Every time I go to my local nursery, I wish I were in the nursery business. I’m pretty sure they must use gold-plated potting soil or something. (OK, nursery people, put down the garden forks. I know it costs lots of labor to produce a beautiful plant and grow it to market size. Really I do. But nursery prices still strain my budget.) So, let’s look at some ways to avoid paying top dollar for the plants you want. This first post will cover plant propagation. The next one will cover other ways to get cheap--or even free--plants.

If you’re willing to do some of the work that nurseries do, you can save lots of money. Go to your local library or flex your Google muscles to learn about plant propagation techniques. Most are not difficult; they just take a little time and know-how. I’ve listed a few techniques and links to articles to get you started, but dig deeper (garden pun alert!) to learn more.

Start them from seed. I’m planning another post on how to grow from seed frugally, so stay tuned for that one. For now, I’ll say that even if you pay full price for seeds at the most expensive nursery in town, starting seeds is going to be cheaper than buying plants.

Take cuttings. You don’t need a degree in botany to grow plants from cuttings. Let’s look at some options:

• Stem cuttings. This is what most people think of when they hear, “grow from cuttings.” See articles from NC State Extension, Mother Earth News, and the Missouri Botanical Garden for an overview. Fine Gardening has an article on taking softwood cuttings from shrubs that includes step-by-step pictures and a list of shrubs that root easily from cuttings. And see my post on Forsythe pots for an interesting way to keep your cuttings from drying out.
• Root cuttings. Fine Gardening also has this topic covered with a nice illustrated article that includes a list of plants that can be propagated this way. Weekend Gardener also has a good step-by-step article on the process. Root cuttings should be taken in fall or winter, when many of us gardeners in cold climates are bored out of our minds, so that’s a bonus. Heaven forbid we should be reduced to sharpening shovels.

You can also start plants from offsets--mini-plants that grow from the original, like those cute mini-spider plants that dangle from the mother plant. Just pinch it off and stick it in wet dirt, and soon you’ll have a new plant. True story: The only thing I ever deliberately stole from a store was an offset from a spider plant. I was probably about 10 or so and had fallen in love with houseplants (gardeners, like serial killers, often show signs of their pathology at an early age). I had very little money, but I would stroll through the houseplant aisle at the local Value Giant and look longingly at the pretty green wares. One day temptation got the best of me, and I pinched off a tiny offset from one of the big, beautiful spider plants, took it home, and planted it. It grew, and I had the plant for years, though I’ll admit to feeling a twinge of guilt whenever I looked at it.

Try layering. Layering is similar to taking stem cuttings, but the piece to be rooted remains attached to the parent plant while it’s rooting. See articles from Gardening Know How and NC State Extension for clear, detailed instructions. GrowVeg has a great post on propagating herbs and other edibles via layering.

Propagate by division. Division is the easiest propagation method I’ve ever tried. It works with plants that form clumps, bulbs, suckers, tubers, or rhizomes (so basically perennials that have more than a single stem, because you have to have something to divide).  It consists of 3 basic steps:

1. Dig up the plant.
2. Cut it into pieces.
3. Replant the pieces.

OK, so there’s a little more to it, like knowing what time of year works best for a specific plant and the best days to do it (hint: not when it’s 112F in the shade). Bay Gardens has a list of plants that can be propagated by division with recommended times of year. Seasonal Gardening offers more detailed instructions for those of you who liked to do all the optional reading in school.

Propagate stuff you get from the supermarket. When I was a kid (Oh, no! There she goes with another story about back in the day…), my mom seemed to always have an avocado pit suspended from toothpicks in a plastic cup filled with water. And it was always on the kitchen windowsill. It looked just like this, except after about 2 weeks it was coated with green algae.

Photo from Wikimedia Commons. Creative Commons licensed.

I don’t ever remember any of those pits actually germinating, but they were there, by golly. I’m pretty sure there was a law in California in the 1970s that said you had to have an avocado pit in your kitchen window.

Turns out there are lots of things you can grow from grocery store produce (besides algae avocados)--so many that people have written entire articles and even books on the topic. See this article from the Missouri Botanical Garden for a good starting point. A few words of advice from my own experience:

• You’ll find lots of information warning you about what not to do. Don’t propagate [thing] because it’s been treated to inhibit sprouting/it’s not organic/it will explode on contact. OK maybe not that last one. But you’ll hear the other two a lot. I’m not going to get into the “organic vs. not organic” debate except to say that if you’re not dumping pesticides on it, your homegrown version will probably be healthier than conventionally-grown produce. So I’d worry less about what you started with that what you do with it after it’s in your yard. As for the bit about being treated to inhibit sprouting: I put old potatoes and onions in my yard after they sprout, so it’s not really a problem. (If they haven’t sprouted yet, I’m probably going to eat them). And I’ve grown garlic and shallots from supermarket stock many times with no issues. So don’t be afraid to ignore the naysayers and give it a try.
• Fruit grown from seed (like the aforementioned avocado) can work, but don’t expect any fruit for several years, and don’t expect the fruit to be like the stuff you buy at Safeway. But if you want to do it for fun, go for it. Citrus is especially easy to start from seed.

OK, so I’ve directed you to a bunch of online resources. But does any of this actually work? Yes. Yes it does. I’ve started lots of stuff from cuttings: mint, basil, roses, citrus trees, rosemary, the pilfered spider plant, and probably a ton of other stuff I’ve forgotten. I dig and divide perennials like Shasta daisies and irises all the time, and I’ve started blackberries through layering. Instead of composting my onions when they sprout, I’ve started sticking them in the garden, regardless of the time of year, then using the tops as green onions. This year I stuck an old yellow onion in the ground in late winter. It has survived multiple hard freezes and snowfalls and is now sending up a bloom stalk. Onions are tough.

Propagation can be fun, and it’s especially satisfying to grow plants you’ve propagated yourself. Plus, it gives you bragging rights when your fellow green thumbs come over. “Oh, that? Yeah, I grew that from a cutting I got from my great-grandma. The original plant came over with my ancestors on the Mayflower.” Don’t forget to include a casual flip of the hand, as though this is an event so routine in your life that it barely warrants mentioning. Then you can be both a cheapskate gardener and a snob.

You’re welcome.