Start planning your garden now

     The best spring gardens are planned months in advance...which means you'd better start thinking about your warm-weather landscape now.  There's plenty you can do this winter to ensure your yard thrives in April.

Get a head start by planting now. Before the snow hits, scatter some seeds in your flower garden beds, and cover them with oak leaves to keep them protected. It's best not to wait until the snow melts, because many seeds need a period of cold before they'll sprout. Some of the best bloomers include poppies, foxglove, larkspur, columbine, hollyhock, and dianthus.

  

Shop for garden ornaments now, during the off-season.  If you wait--even a few weeks--stores and nurseries start setting up for spring, and the excess warm-weather items go back to full price.  The added bonus: that gazing globe, birdbath or frog sculpture you choose will add new dimension to the garden now, perking up the winter landscape. Over the years, the advent of frost-proof concrete and chip-proof glazings, along with a huge selection and variety in form, has made outside art popular all season long.

Send away for gardening catalogues.  Comprehensive catalogs will supply you with high-quality plants for spring and garden reading to get you though the dreary winter days.  And if you're yearning for April so badly that you can almost smell the scent of spring grass, try gardening virtually, via the Internet.  With just a few keystrokes, you can commune with fellow enthusiasts, shop for bulbs from Holland or glimpse faraway gardens.  It's the next best thing to spring, and may inspire new gardening ideas.  I enjoy going on virtual tours of Versailles and the white gardens at Sissinghurst.

While you're in touring mode, why not take a trek around your own yard?  I think the best way to map out what plants you intend to add to your landscape works best when you meander along your own garden paths, and visualize certain plants in certain spots.  Bring a pencil and paper with you to sketch out ideas and make notes when inspiration hits.

Warm weather won't cool the Christmas vibe

The calendar may say it's time to turn our thoughts to Christmas trees and mistletoe, but the weather in the northeast has a totally different agenda this year.  We're on pace for the warmest month of December on record, which will cause those dreaming of a white Christmas to sigh, wistful for subzero temps and frost-laden landscapes. 

The rest of us recall the downside of the cold, ice and snow: aching backs from shoveling, bruised bodies from falling, delayed gatherings due to weather concerns, and soaring heating bills at the time of year we can least afford it.

For the first time in my life I planted something outside in December!  When temperatures hovered in the sixties a few days ago, inspiration hit, and I hurried to the nursery, raced past the cut trees and roped pine garlands, and gathered together an assortment of ornamental cabbage plants in various shades of pink and white (pictured above).  After toting them home, I had to scout around the shed for my planting tools, but soon I was digging into the soil. 

Another upside to the unseasonable weather: my ornamental grasses still look fabulous.  Without heavy snow weighing them down, they stand proud and festive, waving their frothy "flower heads" at passersby.  Pictured below are miscanthus, but panicum virgatum (switchgrass), which has an even more upright growing manner, will look great this time of year.  It will weather the harshest winds, and even stands up to a bit of the white stuff.  Chasmanthium latifolium (northern sea oats) has beautiful pannicles that dance on the breeze, and look lovely with a bit of snow covering--but just a bit.

All in all, my philosophy this season is to embrace nature's surprising gift without regret or worry.  There will be other years when we'll battle snowdrifts and slick roadways to make it to the ones we love for the holidays.  And whether the unusual climate is due to global warming, or perhaps a less sinister El Nino jet stream, we have the added comfort of warm weather to match our warmed hearts.  'Tis the season to rejoice and revel in all the best things in life, no matter what the weather outside our spray-frosted windows.

Wishing everyone the happiest holiday season on record.

Last-minute gifts for nature lovers: native bee houses

Why not stuff a few stockings with native bee houses this holiday season?  It's a great way to send out tokens to nature-loving coworkers, friends and family members, while ensuring that our native bees have safe places to call home.

Anyone who has been following my posts has probably seen the multiple entries I've filed regarding our declining honeybee and native bee populations.  I've kicked off an informal program I call Project Pollinate, which is really just my attempt to spread the word about the plight of nature's premier pollinators, and the importance of keeping them protected.

This Christmas, I racked my brain searching for a gift to please my animal activist/vegan niece, who refuses to put honey in her tea due to the exploitation of the honeybees.  That's when I realized what a helpful, inexpensive gift native bee houses make.  Most of the designs cost less than $50 each (some far less), and make an attractive addition to any property.

One example, the teardrop-shaped mason bee house, pictured above.  It's made from bamboo, which typically weathers the elements for 2-4 years.  It attracts the productive mason bees, which are small, non-stinging beneficial insects.  Slightly smaller than honeybees, mason bees are incredible pollinators. Each one visits as many as 1000 blooms per day — 20 times as many as a honeybee.  Hang a natural bamboo house against a tree or wall where it will get morning sun and attract the bees. Female bees fill the bamboo tubes with their eggs, and nectar and pollen for the young to eat.

I've discovered similar houses on Amazon for $12.00-$25.00.  I ordered one that included express two-day shipping, so I'll have it long before Christmas Day.  Not only does this make a thoughtful, inexpensive gift, but it's space-efficient.  At roughly six inches wide and deep, and 10 inches tall, it will fit nicely into any size outdoor space--perfect even for city dwellers with balconies (even fire escapes!) and rooftop gardens.

For the DIY set, great bee house designs can be fashioned from simple blocks of wood of any shape, with holes drilled uniformly into them.  They attract all kinds of bees and insects, providing them shelter so they can go out into the world, and ensure ours is adequately pollinated.  For more information, log onto prairiemoon.com/NativeBeeHouseInstructions. 

So bee the change you want to see in this world!

A gardener's best Christmas present: more plants!

As the holidays loom, most of us aren't thinking about what our flowerbeds will look like next spring--but we should be.  The planning and prep we do today will ensure that our gardens look magnificent by that first spring day.

I know you're busy.  You've got a hectic work schedule.  And then there's the shopping and cleaning, cooking and baking.  If you're like me, you're buying plane tickets and airing out bedrooms for holiday guests.  Yet if you live in the Northeast, there's one thing you're not doing much of: gardening.  Why not take a few minutes from those bonus free hours to get next year's flowerbeds off to a good start?

Now's the perfect time to clip a few twigs from your beloved boxwoods so you can start that hedge you've been longing for, or propagate a few eryngiums (sea hollies) to place in that hole in the middle of your side border.  According to the eminent horticulturist, the late Christopher Lloyd, propagating root cuttings is not an activity reserved for the professionals; we can all give it a whirl.  And he advised that the dormant season is the "best time to set about it."

What does it require?  Little more than a pair of sharp hand pruners or a knife, a few small plastic pots, a medium to plant in, a bottle of rooting powder, and the desire to begin the gardening process in December.  Here's how:

Wash pots and pruners/knife in soapy water, then rinse the tools in a 10-percent bleach solution. This reduces the spread of plant disease. Poke holes in the bottom of the container with an ice pick if there are no drainage holes.

Mix together equal parts of sand and peat moss to create a soilless mix that drains well. Place the bottom of the plant pot in a container of room-temperature water until the top of the rooting mixture is damp.

Cut a 4- to 6-inch piece of stem from the terminal end of the branch.  This type of cutting is taken from the current year’s growth that is starting to harden.  Remove the leaves from the lower half of the cutting.

 

Dip the bottom 1/2-inch of the cutting into powdered rooting hormone. Do not dip the cutting directly in the hormone container, which can contaminate the entire supply of rooting hormone. Pour a little bit of hormone in a small container and dip the cutting. Discard the used hormone and reseal the larger container. Top off any excess powder from the cutting.

 

Slide the bottom of the cutting 1 inch into the rooting soil. Water the cutting with room temperature water and a spray bottle. Push three or four bamboo skewers into the edge of the plant pot. Drape a piece of clear plastic over the skewers and plant pot to form a mini-greenhouse. Secure the plastic with a rubber band around the container and plastic.

 

Place the cutting in an area in bright, indirect sunlight in a room with temperatures around 70 to 75 degrees Fahrenheit. Check for roots in eight to 10 weeks by gently tugging the cutting upwards. If the cutting does not slide out of the plant pot, then roots are starting to grow. Leave in the rooting container for two to three more weeks before transplanting into a larger container.
 

Choosing and using wreathes and garlands

As the Christmas season approaches, thoughts turn to holiday home décor. Topping the list of must-haves each year are wreathes and garlands, usually fashioned from pine. These perennial favorites grace railings, porch posts, and mantles, and are often accompanied by sparkling lights. Seems we can't resist the urge to Deck the halls, and, come December, our desire reaches compulsive levels.

The idea of welcoming the outdoors into our homes is not a new one. We do it every time we buy a bouquet of flowers and place it on a tabletop, and the holiday season is equally steeped in au natural traditions. Our long-established ritual of stringing up nature's gems, be it pinecones, bittersweet vines, cedar, pine and spruce branches--even boughs of holly-- began with the early settlers of this country. Used to adorn Christmas trees, individual rooms or entire houses during the Christmas season, wreathes and garlands added to the family income after the harvesting season was over. Selling them fetched a tidy sum, which was spent on clothing and household articles.

Other things used in early garlands included cornhusks, mosses, dried fruits, and those famous holly leaves. Basically, people used whatever was still green (or they could dry) during the winter season, which is why conifers were--and are--so popular.

As the industrial age geared up at the dawn of the last century, people increasingly turned to artificial items to fashion wreathes and garlands from. Purists will disparage such innovation, but it makes for an ever-widening variety of materials to draw from when creating artful arrangements. I'm always on the lookout for interesting combinations of nature-made or human-crafted items.

In fact, I'm such a fan of garlands that I use them (natural or artificial) around my house all year long.  Nowadays there is such a vast array of materials to choose from, that my home can boast holiday-type spirit through every season. Among my favorite wreath and garland combinations: olive branch and bay or magnolia leaves; grape vine or twigs with berries or chili peppers; boxwood; any type of pine or spruce mixed with pinecones and walnuts spray-painted silver and gold. The combinations are as limitless as the imagination!

If you're pressed for time, many retailers offer wreathes and garlands in all shapes, lengths, textures, colors and price points. Some of my favorite places: Pier 1, One Kings Lane, Michael's, West Elm and Wayfair.

Whether choosing pre-made items or creating your own garlands and wreathes, remember, there is no "right" or "wrong."  Go with what makes you feel great whenever you gaze at it, inhale the scent of or touch it. Go basic, get wild, or choose something in-between.  Take some time during this hectic holiday season to treat yourself to the stylish touches that turn your house into your favorite place on earth.

Living off the land...in luxury

There was a time when nearly everyone had a garden.  During WWII it was called a "Victory Garden," which encouraged American citizens to band together for a common cause: patriotism.  And "patriotism" in the early 1940s could be seen--literally--as rows of vegetables and fruits dotting the landscape.  The cost of transporting produce during wartime was prohibitive, and rationing was in full swing, so 20 million Americans contributed to the war effort by growing their own food--anywhere they could, be it back yards, empty lots or city rooftops.

Of course, farmers had provided for themselves and others in this manner for centuries.  It's the cornerstone of civilization--necessary, often backbreaking work.  Yet along the way, people started realizing the important life lessons that could be coaxed from the soil.  Communes sprouted like bean plants in the 1960s, as the era of "free love" took root.  These "intentional communities" were filled with "back-to-the-land" utopian principles of equally shared economies, non-hierarchical structures, group decision-making and ecological living.  Although communes are often thought of as an American phenomenon of the Vietnam era, they actually popped up all around the world, and many still exist today.

Here in America, where capitalism is (rightfully) king, hippie-era notions no longer hold sway.  Or do they?  Let's face it, many of us yearn for the "good old days," when we recall running, as children, through mazes of corn in our grandparents' gardens.  Who among us doesn't have happy memories of accompanying friends and family members to the local farm for berry, apple and pumpkin-picking excursions?  Yes, my friends, we yearn to be a part of nature.  It's in our DNA.

Yet the truth of the matter is this: we require that nature be on our terms.  Our homes should be set on rolling green hills, but NOT include actual wildlife in our intimate living spaces.  Grass has always been thought of as good, (hence the reason for our homes set on golf courses) while dirt is bad.  Just watch a Tide commercial from any era, and you'll be reassured of the collective American consciousness toward the great outdoors.  We want to interact with nature only to the degree that we can control it. 

There are arguments for and against this kind of thinking; it's a topic that should be explored by environmentalists far more knowledgeable than I.  Suffice it to say that this "is what it is," as they say.  So how do we reconcile it all? By going back to our old ways--with a new twist.  A modern way of living among the green hills, but without all the weed-choking, wildlife-endangering chemicals that ensure the green-carpet golf course look: welcome back to the farm.

This is not your grandparents' idea of home-grown living.  The new-and-improved farm communities boast ritzy state-of-the-art houses around multiple green spaces.  Many of these spaces are honest-to-goodness farmland.  These professional plots are not tended by residents, but by paid staff who toil for the visual and culinary pleasure of community inhabitants. 

Residents pay a premium to watch from their front porches others weed, gather and harvest the goods that they will purchase around the corner at the development's very own farmer's market.  Think aristocrats and serfs--if the serfs actually got paid to feed the rich.  Some think it's an excellent idea, others tout it as the perfect blend of old school and innovation.  The "agrihoods," as they're being touted, capitalize on this extreme farm-to-table trend, and they're popping up all around the nation.  Places like Prairie Crossing, just outside Chicago, The Cannery, near Sacramento, California, and Willowsford, just beyond the borders of Washington, D.C.

I think the idea has merit.  In an era of increasing isolation (people sitting at restaurants paying attention to their smart phones rather than their dinner partners), an attempt is being made to reconnect people with the land, and with each other.   I'm sure the irony is not lost on anyone; the idea of dishing out dollars to live the same simple existence as our struggling ancestors smacks of an infinite cosmic jest, yet if the concept flourishes, who knows...maybe it will trickle down to the vast majority of Americans, becoming an economically viable way to enjoy nature, and a revitalized sense of community.  

Urban gardens

When most of us think of gardens, we envision rolling hills of flowers and greenery surrounded by the sounds of stiff breezes swaying through the trees, and far-off bird calls.  We may not envision rumbling engines, blaring car horns, and the chatter of multitudes of people within a relatively confined space, but this is, increasingly, the environment that matches many of our agricultural spaces.

Why is this?  With seven billion people to house and feed, agriculture takes a tremendous toll on a planet with decreasing space.  Competition arises for water and energy, and pollution is a nasty side effect.  Hence, the need for creative solutions.  Urban farming is at the forefront of the problem-solving.

Rooftop and balcony gardens around city dwellings have the potential to make our food as "local" as possible. By growing what we need near where we live, we decrease the "food miles" associated with long-distance transportation. We also get the freshest produce money can buy, and we are encouraged to eat in season.

Another benefit of urban farming is that it adds greenery to cities, increases shade, and reduces harmful runoff. Garden plots can help people reconnect with the earth, and gain a greater appreciation for where our food comes from.  They also play a crucial role in supporting urban biodiversity, and residential zones can account for more than 60% of urban land area. Consequently, private gardens may represent a significant proportion of green space in a city, enhancing the natural world around us, and our own mental and physical wellbeing. 

Urban gardens will never act as substitutes for many semi-natural habitats, however, neither are they 'wildlife deserts'. Gardens can offer a rich variety of resources--a broad range of microclimates, plant species, and vegetation structures. They can also provide habitats, such as ponds, that may be increasingly rare elsewhere. The potential diversity of wildlife is illustrated by the long-term study of one suburb in Leicester, England, in which a city garden was designed with wildlife in mind: more than 2200 animal and plant species were recorded. Another study recorded more than 95 species of wild plant in a single garden. And gardens are not inhabited only by common species. The juniper pug is an example of a scarce moth whose natural food source is rare, but which successfully exploits ornamental junipers in domestic gardens. 

 

Then there's the most enjoyable aspect of urban gardens: they create peaceful places for relaxation and contemplation--a haven from the everyday hustle and bustle of city life. This is true for not only residents, but for visitors.  Well-planned garden spaces can attract tourists—(see my previous post about New York City's High Line Park), providing urban farming jobs to underserved and depressed urban areas.

Perhaps one day we will see soaring vertical farms that will eventually produce most of what we need within a short walk from home. According to Brian Clark Howard's article in the National Geographic, "The downside is that land in cities is often expensive, especially since gardens tend to contribute to gentrification and rising rents. Urban soils can be loaded with lead, arsenic, and other toxins, requiring remediation or replacement before planting can be done safely. Cramped conditions can limit yields, and getting enough water and sunlight can be concerns. Still, if the right combinations of new technology, community support, and economic incentives align, it's possible we may soon be munching on skyscraper scallions and avenue arugula. An early example is the rooftop garden on the InterContinental New York Barclay Hotel, which includes an apiary. The Midtown bees produce honey used in the hotel's kitchen, and they fly to pollinate plants as far as five miles away."

Working with nature for individual profit? Now, that's what I call "going green" in every way possible.

 

 

Welcome winter

After all the leaves have dropped, and the Northeast settles into muted November, most gardeners around these parts will admit that this time of year is their least favorite.  I used to feel that way, too.  I'd look around my yard with a mixture of relief (that all the leaves were finally cleared away) and depression (will it really be four long months before I see the first daffodils popping up through the snow?).  I'd wander the stark paths out back, somberly noting the stick-like appearance of lilac and magnolia trees, and recall a time when they were in full bloom, dripping lush leaves of green and blooms of purple and white, like wealthy ladies adorned in jewels.

As the years have passed, I've learned a thing or two about gardening, but I've discovered even more about myself.  Somewhere along the way, I had an epiphany, of sorts, which gently nudged me toward appreciating each day as it comes, no matter what the weather.  Some days dawn on soft breezes and buttery yellow light so enticing that you feel like sticking out your tongue to taste it.  Other days bring drama: the crackle of thunder and hot strike of white lightning making us jump in fleeting fear.  There are gentle-rain-pattering-the roof mornings, and leaf-swirling, wind-swept afternoons.  Some days smell of moss and growing things.  Others carry the sharp scent of wood smoke. But we never know quite what each new day will bring until it comes, and that's where the magic of weather never fails to entice.

This November morning wears a coat of foggy gray.  Most would say it's a lackluster day, in a dismal time of year, but I choose to recall that we are only two weeks from Thanksgiving, and I'm appreciative.  After a very dry summer and fall season, my plants need the drizzle saturating the soil around them, and I need the time, sitting amid the hushed morning air, devoid of chattering birdsong and scurrying squirrel activity, to think.

I will try to use the time allotted me during this "off season" to revise my planting strategy.  I'll recall what worked especially well in the garden last season, predict what new items may grow well in future, and devise a planting plan for spring.  I'll also relish the physical break.  As every gardener knows, tending a landscape can be hard on the joints and muscles.

Since we have had an unseasonably warm autumn, with nary a hard frost, I even have time to get some evergreen plants into the landscape.  Among the best things to plant right now for winter interest are:  yew, boxwood, holly, rhododendron, arborvitae, pine and cypress (if you have plenty of room), spruce (also requires lots of space unless you opt for the dwarf varieties), and juniper.  If flowers in winter are what you yearn for, try hellebores, also known as Christmas roses.  H. niger macranthus will be in bloom for the big day, with large, pure white flowers.  Most other varieties bloom after the new year.  Pair Christmas rose with Christmas fern, which truly does keep its color through the season, and the effect is a bit of a tease, but lends a taste of the warm-weather glory that we call the growing season.

Autumn's last gasp: why leaves haven't all fallen yet

When it comes to living in upstate New York, people find a lot to complain about: the taxes are too high, it's so cold here in winter, it too hot and humid each summer, we get a heck of a lot of snow.  Blah, blah, blah.  Drive along a colorful stretch of highway in the fall, and all the griping recedes into the back of the mind.  Autumn in New York--in all its yellow, gold, red, burgundy and orange-leafed glory--is a sight to behold.  This year has been especially gorgeous, because by early November, the leaves are still brilliantly holding court.  In some spots near New York City, the trees are just hitting their stride.  Why is this?  To fully understand it, let's take a quick refresher on the leaf cycle.

As we all know, leaves change color when chlorophyll production--necessary for making leaves green--halts. As summer ends, the days get shorter, and nights get colder, signaling trees to begin getting ready for winter.  During winter, there isn't enough light or water for photosynthesis, so trees take a break, and live off the food they made in the leaves, and stored during the summer.



As the bright green fades away, orange and yellow hues emerge. What's incredible --and often not realized--is that small amounts of these colors have been in the leaves all along. We just can't see them in the summer, because they're covered up by the green chlorophyll.

The bright reds and purples we see, on the other hand, are made mostly in the fall. In some trees, like maples, glucose is trapped in the leaves after photosynthesis stops. Sunlight and the cool nights of autumn cause the leaves to turn this glucose into reddish, purple and burgundy hues.

The brown color of trees like oaks is not due to any defect in the trees (no, your oaks aren't diseased or dying).  It's created from wastes left in the leaves.

Why does the foliage seem to have hung on for so much longer this year?  It's not our collective imaginations--leaf-peeping season has been delightfully extended due to a few key factors: a dry summer, and warmer-than-usual fall.

Fall foliage is most vibrant when summer is moderately wet, autumn days are warm, and fall nights are crisp and cold.  This year, the northeast had drought during the height of the summer season, so leaves actually started changing earlier, but because the days have been unseasonably warm, and the nights not quite as cold, leaves aren't getting the message to completely cut off chlorophyll production.  The result: it takes longer for leaves to reach the colorful change--hence, the lingering hues, and extended "rake time" for us all.  The tradeoff: the leaves aren't quite as bright as in year's past.

I tested this theory in my own backyard, and documented the results.  Most seasons, my backyard trees have all leafed out by late October, and have begun the shedding process just as my Japanese maple begins its glorious transformation.  This year, the Japanese maple changed color right alongside the other trees (top photo), and the effect was a magical potpourri of hues ranging from palest yellow to deepest burgundy.  A sight to be seen!!

Insect idols

Just the other day I happened upon what I think is the most fascinating of insects: the Praying Mantis.  Not only because its shape and posture is so intriguing, but because it's so rare in upstate New York.  Actually, I can recall only a few encounters with these interesting invertebrates throughout the years.

I know there are thousands of species of Praying Mantis worldwide, but most of them live in tropical places, so the few hardy types who brave our cooler climate should be commended, right?  I think most New Yorkers would agree.  In fact, I doubt areas of the globe which claim large indigenous populations of these critters would afford them the deference that we do in the Northeastern United States.

A few years ago I ran across a group of ordinary looking adults doing something that didn't appear very normal: squatting together in a Pet Smart parking lot, all staring at the pavement.  As I made progress toward my car, I had to--reluctantly--pass them.   Loaded down, as I was, with rabbit food, timothy hay, specialty puppy chow, and dog treats, I knew I'd not be able to move away from the odd-looking group with anything approaching swiftness, so I kept a wary eye on them.  Turns out, I needn't have worried: the caring group was trying to coax a praying mantis away from the traffic traversing the lot, and onto the nearby grass.  I deposited my bags in my car trunk, and joined the effort.  That's when I discovered that the critters don't like to move very fast--at least that one didn't.  I've also reflected on the divine providence that guided that little guy to an area full of animal lovers.  Turns out, lots of people keep praying mantises as pets.

The one I saw the other day was on the glass window of an office building (above), and since temperatures around these parts have been a bit nippy lately, I thought it a clever way for an insect to soak up the sun's rays to stay warm.  I peered at the fella, and he looked right back, which made me smile.  I've never before studied a bug that appeared to be studying me just as intensely.  That got me thinking about these unique creatures, which prompted me to learn more about them.  Here's five fun things I discovered:

1.  They can turn their heads 180 degrees (that's how the little bugger was able to angle his head my way, and give me the once-over).
2.  Anatomically, they are closely related to cockroaches (a fact I'd like to forget, since the roach is my least favorite insect).
3.  The two most common species of praying mantis in my area are: Chinese mantis, and European mantis, both introduced to the Northeast at the beginning of the 20th-Century.
4.  The deceptively angelic-looking "praying arms" are actually covered in rapier-sharp spines, which are useful in trapping, and holding other bugs during mealtimes.
5.  Perhaps they should be called "Preying Mantis," since they eat any kind of bug they encounter (including their mating partners!).  For this reason, it is unwise to introduce them to your garden as a means of  "organically" controlling pests.  Praying Mantises make no distinction between beneficial and harmful bugs, which could upset the delicate balance of your garden's ecosystem. 

Simple ways to keep frost at bay

By mid-October, night-time temperatures drop below freezing, and it's pretty difficult to keep annuals thriving in my upstate New York garden.  The paradox is, of course, that as the perennial flowers fade, it's key to have the tender plants, and their profusion of blooms, in place in order to keep my outdoor spaces popping with color, and vitality.  Is there a way to protect these delicate plants enough to prolong the life of the garden?  You bet there is, and it's easier than I could have imagined.

Obviously, a little TLC goes a long way in preserving annuals.  Moving plants indoors or covering them with sheets or plastic is still the best way to ensure their survival, but what I discovered is that I have so many annuals on my property that it was taking me an hour to cover and transport the plants.  I had no desire to dedicate that kind of time to the cause every single day, so I discovered a better way: water.

Though it may seem counterintuitive, water is the cornerstone to keeping large quantities of annual plants from damaging frost.  Here's how:

One of the reasons plants and fruits are damaged or killed by cold temperatures is that the cold draws essential moisture from inside the plants, effectively freeze-drying them.  Spraying plants with water before a frost gives the plants the opportunity to stock up on their supply, becoming more resistant to the effects of dehydration.  Spraying or misting your plants also leaves a coating of water on the outside of the plant. When this turns to ice, it can insulate the plant from the cold.

                     

The colder it gets on the surface of the leaf, the more damage is done to the plant. A coating of ice keeps the temperature on the surface of the leaf to the freezing point of water or slightly below. The plant will only need to withstand temperatures of 30 to 32 Fahrenheit even if air temperatures drop further. 

Didn't get a chance to hose down your annuals before the temperatures dipped below freezing?  No worries!  Simply set your alarm for an early-morning hour before the sun rises, and douse the plants at that time.  The effect will be the same.  It's vital to water them before sunrise though--when the sun hits the frost-laden leaves, the water expands and damages the plant tissue, so hosing the frost off prevents a lot of damage.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                  

 

Green Giants

Sometimes bigger really is better.  I think such a case can be made for the Northeastern fall garden.  We're just hitting peak "leaf-peeping" color around these parts, so the waning flowers have a lot of competition from the riot of red, yellow, gold and orange literally swirling around them.  Only a show of strength will divert attention, and garner admiring glances their way.  Fortunately there's a wide array of larger-than-life blossoms available in autumn that offer needed reinforcement to ailing flowerbeds, ensuring your garden looks simply sensational throughout the season.

The easiest way to go on the offensive: stock outdoor spaces with impressive annuals, such as the dahlia, shown above.  Flower heads are downright Jurassic, demanding that garden visitors stop and stare at their startling size.  Closer inspection reveals intricate blossoms of origami appeal in an assortment of colors.  Some hybrids that offer the most bang for the buck:  'Pride of Belgium,' and 'Apple blossom."  For best results, stake the plants in early summer to help support the large flower heads, and you can enjoy these stunners through mid October.  Before the first frost of the season, pop out the tubers and store them in a cool, frost-free spot (Like a garage or basement).

Proven perennials with everlasting appeal include my beloved Hibiscus moscheutos, (my favorite, 'Lord Baltimore," right).  As I've often mentioned, this versatile hardy hibiscus adds large dollops of color (in red, white or pink) to an otherwise fading fall garden.  Other autumn must-haves that have a big impact: any combination of cultivars from the daisy-like family of Helenium (sneezeweed) paired with similarly-named Helianthus (willow sunflower).  Helianthus salicifolius is particularly interesting because it's the size of the foliage that's impressive--growing up to 10 feet tall!  Laden with abundant blooms, this plant provides bright shots of yellow throughout the fall (pictured below), but even before the bevy of blooms, the lacey, willowy foliage alone will delight during the summer.   Wish you could see garden blooms clearly from your second-floor bedroom?  Plant this sunflower at the base of a sunny wall, and you'll be able to reach out and touch the blooms from your window.

The lowdown on NYC's High Line

I don't know about you, but when I reminisce about trips to Manhattan, I recall wandering through world-famous museums, hitting up Broadway shows, dining in the city's hot spots, viewing the world from atop vertigo-inducing skyscrapers, and shopping until my legs truly felt like they would drop off.  I've never equated garden tours with Gotham.

Sure, I've meandered the myriad paths of Central Park, and spent (literally) years of my life at The New York Botanical Garden in the nearby Bronx, but never have I made a trip to the Big Apple in search of anything of a horticultural nature--until last week.  Deciding to christen the fall season with an extended walk through Manhattan's relatively new amusement--the High Line, created on former railroad tracks running parallel to the Hudson River, I put on my sneakers and headed West (and ultimately North).  I'm sure glad that I did.

As any bibliophile knows, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, but look at the funky flower blooming on the High Line (in foreground of picture, above).  The juxtaposition of these two images--nature's valiant struggle to survive amid the bricks and mortar-- adds even more intrigue to what is arguably our country's most eclectic city.

To fully appreciate this strange symbiosis, here's a historical recap in a nutshell:  In the 19th century, freight rail lines were constructed along Manhattan's waterfront and west-side streets to serve an expanding metropolis, and its rapidly growing manufacturing trade.  For years the elevated railway was an integral part of the landscape, and was dubbed the "Lifeline of New York" for its efficient deliveries of produce, meat and dairy products.  Yet the mid 20th century marked the decline in manufacturing in the city and the railway line was abandoned.  It sat for decades in disuse and decline, until the cusp of the 21st century, when neighbors and city officials collaborated to repurpose the now-residential and commercial area.  Noticing how nature reclaimed the existing tracks gave the organization, calling themselves "Friends of the High Line," an idea: use the existing self-seeding plants around the rail yards to devise an iconic urban landscape which would give residents a place to relax, enjoy nature, and take advantage of the expansive view of the Hudson River.  Judging by the photos below, where one can see buds and foliage peeking between the railroad ties, the High Line idea was a good one!

 

 

 

Save the frogs

  

In my never-ending quest to discover new things about my "frog friends," I ran across the savethefrogs.com website, an information-packed place exploring the nature and nurture of our amphibian pals.

 

Geared primarily to schools, the vast amount of information on the preservation of frog habitats and the exploration of the intrinsic nature of these charming critters is fascinating.  Who knew that some frogs are immune to the AIDS virus?  Did you know that tadpoles in our reservoirs actually filter our drinking water by eating the algae buildup?  I didn't know that the oldest known frog fossils date back to the Permian period, 265 million years ago!  That, my friends, predates even the dinosaurs (by about 40 million years).

This information is not only interesting from an evolutionary standpoint, but has important implications for human life.  Adult frogs gobble up massive amounts of insects and disease vectors (think mosquitos and Malaria or West Nile Virus), and are also a food source for fish, snakes and birds.  Their ability to breathe through their skin is also handy to human beings, since many of their skin secretions have the potential to unlock nature's curative secrets. 

Unfortunately, their permeable skin makes them especially susceptible to toxins, allowing chemicals to easily cross into their bodies, and cause mutations in their young.  Especially worrisome are chemicals such as atrazine (an herbicide used to prevent broadleaf weeds in lawns).  Banned in Europe in 2004, this agent has been shown to be an endocrine disruptor, which means it alters the natural hormonal system of living things exposed to it.  Weakened frogs and toads can fall prey to parasites permeating their porous skin.  One type--Ribeiroia ondatrae--burrows into tadpoles' hind limbs, which compromises their physical development.  Have you seen any deformed frogs in your yard?  Sadly, toads and frogs are the amphibian version of Nostradamus--their mutilated forms offering genuine predictive power about the direction our environment is heading.  At the risk of sounding angry (a state my husband often accuses me of reaching), please consider the health of wildlife--and ultimately, humans--the next time you spread toxic pollutants on your lawn to make it look green.

A better idea: reduce the amount of lawn you have in favor of native flower gardens.  Not only are flowerbeds easier to maintain, but they offer much more visual interest than a bland expanse of green.  Native stunners like Solidago (Goldenrod) pair perfectly with naturalizers like Queen Anne's Lace (a member of the carrot family, originally brought over from England, but here so long that people think of it as a native).  For a pop of color, plant New York Ironweed (Vernonia noveboracensis), with lush deep green foliage and rich purple blooms. For a sweet scent, try Virginia Sweetspire (Itea virginica) with white bottlebrush blossoms that smell like honeysuckle.

To me, the best garden spaces blend the fanciful with the fundamental.  Clay pots turned upside down and placed on rocks in a native garden provide whimsical abodes for toads--a pretty practical way to serve and protect the charming critters who add so much to our lives.

 

Circle of life

As the summer officially gives way to fall, I feel let down.  My glorious garden blooms are fading, and it will be many months before my flower beds are once again lush with spring and summer blossoms. 

Preoccupied as I get with my "autumnal blues" during this time of year, it was with a heavy heart that I ventured across the Hudson River to Cold Spring, New York, to view the horticultural displays at a lovely little spot that my friends had raved about called Stonecrop Gardens.  To my surprise and delight, their praise hadn't done it justice.

Wandering the myriad nooks and crannies, the formal displays, informal woodland sections, ponds, glass conservatory and rolling sun-drenched hills--all blooming with artfully arranged annuals and a plethora of fall bloomers--was like happening upon a secret garden.  Mere words can't do it justice, so I've included photos, starting with the one above:

One of the most intriguing elements in a well-designed landscape is the use of space.   The picture on top is a prime example of artful design.  The arbor with oversized round window zeros in on the delightful interplay of nature reflecting off the pond, for an effect reminiscent of a masterful painting.  Indeed, I felt like I was standing in a museum witnessing a work of art...until I realized that's exactly what I was doing!  The intrusion of man is subtle, created only to enhance the grandeur of nature.  This is also evident in the photo directly below, where a giant stone slab has been placed in a way to create a bridge across the water...or was that placed by Mother Nature herself?

Annuals add star power to a declining garden, making it appear more robust.  In the shot below, Dahlias in tender pink, appearing as delicate as newborn skin, disguise the browning buds behind it.

Another successful strategy for year-round beauty is to plant evergreens.  The photo below reveals a grouping of plants that keep their greenery throughout the seasons:

Gardening is an exploration of the wildest of wonders in the physical world, and within ourselves.  It provides a chance to learn a little more about the natural world around us each and every day.  It's also a wonderful opportunity for us to interact, and become inspired.  Wandering the meandering paths of Stonecrop on the first day of fall made me realize that in many ways the growing season has just begun.

Walls that unite

Robert Frost said it best: "Something there is that doesn't love a wall."  Eight simple words strung together to sum up a feeling so many of us have when we encounter one.

Of course walls have a patchy history, symbolizing division and loss of freedom, as in the erection of the Berlin Wall.  Yet how joyous was the day it was torn down!  Walls can be marvels of man's innovation (the Great Wall of China), garish and grandiose, with gates of filigreed wrought iron, or simple stone pilings, produced to pen in livestock or mark borders.  The thing they all have in common is that their very existence is the manifestation of human need.

So why do we feel the need to create walls?  High, reinforced walls keep us safe.  They tell everyone that this particular piece of the world is ours.  Stay away.

I'm more interested in low walls, designed to do the exact opposite.  Low walls highlight an area, define a space, and keep tender plantings protected while allowing visitors access to our personal spaces.  If they're done right, walls can actually beckon others, drawing them into our lives.

Since I have an obsession with ALL THINGS garden related that borders on dysfunction (yes, I actually moved my daughter into her new apartment and planted her backyard garden the same day.  She still has no furniture in her living room), I make a habit of trolling the net for outdoor paraphernalia.  Imagine my delight when a posting on Craigslist revealed a man from my own town with a dump truck full of rocks that he was looking to unload.  With fingers shaking, I texted him instantly, and by the next morning he deposited a pile of fieldstones in my front yard (pictured above).

Feeling like a kid with a new toy, I grabbed a pair of gloves, and set about the task of building my wall. It took the entire afternoon, and my fingertips were red and raw by day's end, but I'm pleased with the results (pictured below).  Now my tender perennials along the driveway are safeguarded from everything but admiring glances.

The autumn garden

Once September hits, our minds tend to turn to all things autumnal.  I gear up the leaf blower because my neighbor's maple starts dropping leaves before Labor Day; my husband rallies friends and family members for the annual football pool (so we, in turn, are very careful about what we say to him lest our comments be the humorous but humiliating topic of his weekly email wrap up); I even had a dog who would begin sitting by the front door each afternoon when she heard the school bus coming down the street.  Years after my kids graduated, she'd still wait by the door each day in the hope that one of them would show up with a friendly greeting.  This is my first autumn without that faithful friend. Sigh.

In fact, we New Yorkers all breathe a collective sigh at this time of year, don't we?  A bittersweet sound that's one part relief as we happily bid farewell to steamy temperatures, and two parts regret, since the summer went so fast...how could it be fall already?

One thing I've done to try to hang on to the color and foliage of my garden through the autumn months is to fill the garden with plants that not only survive while the others are wilting, but actually thrive during this time of year.

One such plant is the Physalis alkekengi, pictured above.  Commonly known as Chinese Lantern for it's bulging, papery seed pods, this plant ushers in the fall with a festive orange hue.  I love to see bright shots of color in the fall garden that complement the turning leaves.  As shown above (lower right side of photo), it transitions flowerbeds from the last of the Rudbeckia and Echinacea, giving garden visitors something pleasing to focus on.

This interesting plant from the nightshade family looks a lot like a tomatillo, or husk tomato, from the same family, so the resemblance is understandable.  Tomatoes, peppers and eggplants are other family members, and are just as easy to grow--though not as showy as the Chinese Lantern, which boasts lovely white flowers in the spring.  And like its cousins, the fruit of this plant can be eaten, though it's not very tasty.  A word of warning:  the leaves and unripe fruit are poisonous, so patience pays off big time when attempting to taste the seeds from the papery pod.

Perhaps the biggest attraction of this unique plant is the fact that the bright pods can be used in floral arrangements.  Simply cut off the leaves and leave the pods dangling--they'll last for years!

The real value of gardening

It takes a lot to get me to leave my beloved upstate New York gardens in August because every day some new wonder pops from the soil and delights me.  I'll take a trip far from home in the fall, the winter--even early spring, but once those first crocus bulbs bloom, for me, there's no place like home.

As much as I love my gardens, I love my kids more.  And when my daughter told me she was moving to Austin, Texas, I thought only one thing: sign me up for that road trip!  So, we piled every conceivable item we could into her little Mazda, saving just enough room for her two pups, and we steered the car south...for 27 hours, and nearly 2,000 miles!

I saw a lot of vegetation along the way, through Pennsylvania, Delaware, West Virginia, Virginia, Tennessee, Mississippi and Arkansas--and got a good feel for the Texas landscape as well.  We had a lot of laughs, sang songs on the radio, listened to an entire book on CD, and stopped at landmarks, hotels and eateries along the route.

We got to her new apartment, just refurbished, and it was a lovely little place--with one exception: the back yard.  When we glanced out the back sliders we were greeted with a cement patio, a moat of scraggly dirt around it, and a six-foot-high fence.  The only plants in sight were the sparse weeds trying valiantly to make a go of it under the brutal Texas sun (above).

I shook my head.  "This will never do."

My girl nodded.  "You're right about that."

We headed straight to her car.  But where to go?  We had no idea where the closest nursery was, so we stopped by that old standby: Walmart.  Turned out, it was the perfect place to begin.  Not only did I get a faux wood table (made of hearty cement), I got it for 15 bucks!  Since it was originally $70, I felt pretty good about that purchase.  The department manager told us the item had been around a good while, and he needed to make room for new merchandise.  Now, I don't know about you, but I've never tried to barter at Walmart before.  Who knew?

Next, my daughter rounded the aisle hugging a bush of pendulous pink petals, and my heart melted: bougainvillea.  The ornamental, vine-like bush with its mass of delicate flowers (bracts actually) boasts heart-stopping beauty.  How I've longed to plant it in my own gardens, but it isn't hearty in my area.  We couldn't resist it.  We bought two, and they were also on sale, it being the end of the season.

Before we knew it, we were back in her yard, digging holes in the 103-degree afternoon.  I'm not used to this kind of heat, so I had to take frequent breaks in her AC.  But soon we were finished, and spreading mulch around the area.

"That was a lot of fun," said my daughter, sweat beading on her forehead.

"It sure was," I agreed, looking around the finished area (below).  We'd transformed the stark fence with the lovely vines.  Plenty of water and they'd scramble across the wood and offer her a lovely sight as she sat out back with her pups and morning coffee.  Even better, we planted a memory of gardening together, sharing time and a time-honored tradition.  And that is more beautiful than any garden I know of.

Did you hear about the fungus that took a "lichen" to algae?

Lichen is everywhere we turn: rocks, tree trunks, soil and manmade surfaces like the flat, crusted lichen on the roof tiles in the photo above.  We've all seen it, and most of us know there are many varieties of lichen, but for a substance that is found on every continent on Earth--including the Antarctic--we actually know very little about it.

For instance, what do we classify lichens as?  What category, family, species?  During a recent hiking expedition with friends, the debate began as soon as we took a breather against a pile of lichen-covered boulders.

"It's a fungus," ventured one of us.  Another disagreed, declaring it more of an algae-like substance.  Turns out they're both right.  When a fungus pairs with algae (most commonly green algae) or cyanobacterium (also known as blue-green algae) the result is a dynamic duo (AKA lichen), relying on nature's "buddy system" of symbiosis--each organism helping the other to mutual benefit.  Fungus provides the moist, nutrient-rich substrata for the algae to anchor to, while algae has the ability to photosynthesize, turning sunlight into valuable chemical energy that can fuel the lichen.  That's all any of us really need to survive: a place to call home and a nice meal, right?

There are four basic lichen types (think body types for lichens): foliose lichens are the ultra-skinny supermodels of the lichen world: two-dimensional leaf-like waifs, while Fruticose lichens are pendulous, three dimensional, and a bit sloppy looking, lacking distinguishable upper and lower surfaces.  Crustose lichens form a crust over their substrates, like rocks, trees, and sidewalks. The lower surface of crustose lichens attach firmly to many surfaces and form brightly colored patches of a thick, rough naturalized texture.  Kind of like a person with a bad skin condition.  And then there's Squamulose lichens, which can't decide exactly what to look like, so they take a few characteristics of both foliose and crustose growth forms. Their shape is scale-like, and they attach by the lower surface like tiny shingles.

Okay, so now that we know what lichens are made of, and what most of them look like, why do we actually need to know it?  I mean, honestly, do lichens really DO much that helps us?  You may be surprised.  I know that I was.  First, and perhaps foremost, lichens have the ability to "fix" atmospheric nitrogen (kind of like bean plants do in soil), which allows the vital chemical element to reach other plant life.  When it rains, nitrogen is leached from both living and dead lichens and is available to plant life in the immediate areas. When lichens die, they contribute decayed organic matter to the area they inhabited, which enables mosses and seeds from vascular plants to begin developing among the pockets of new soil.  Cool cycle-of-life stuff.  Maybe not worthy of the Lion King's "Mufasa speech," but special enough to get a quote by Thoreau: I find myself inspecting little granules as it were on the bark of trees � little shields or apothecia springing from a thallus � such is the mood of my mind � and I call it studying....

On a more practical note, lichens also contribute to the food chain (Caribou love 'em, though they aren't a tasty treat for humans), have antibiotic properties that have been used in ointments to aid healing in superficial wounds, and can be found in deodorants, laxatives, expectorants, tonics, and healing pastes. Research with lichens around the world is suggesting these organisms hold promise in the fight against certain cancers and viral infections, including HIV.

All that wonderful stuff makes me wonder what can't lichens do?  Well, contrary to popular belief, lichens growing on living things, like tree trunks, can't kill trees or other vegetation. With a few very rare exceptions, lichens are more helpful to plant life around them than harmful.  So cozy up to these composite colonizers, and be thankful they're around.  Like many of us, they need three vital things to survive: undisturbed surfaces, time and clean air (kind of like me on a lazy Sunday morning).  Be happy when you encounter lichens because it means you're in a neighborhood that's clean enough to support this amazing dual organism.

In favor of the front porch

I think the porch is one of mankind's all-time best inventions.  Although formal porches can be traced to ancient Roman and Greek civilizations, no architectural feature is as "American as apple pie" as the very place many of us eat that pie: the front porch. 

Rising in popularity in the first half of the 19th century, particularly in the decades just before the Civil War, the front porch became the gathering place for neighbors, family and friends.  Technological and social forces formed an uneasy alliance in the construction and popularity of the space: technology allowed for lightweight stick construction (as opposed to the heavy timbers used in Colonial times), and the desire to escape the very technology of an increasingly industrialized world prompted citizens to yearn for a place to commune with nature.  Behind this movement to link the American house to the American yard was landscape architect Andrew Jackson Downing, who distributed pattern books (like today's house plans) linking houses to nature through the front porch.

Within a few decades the front porch was pretty much a given to any house design, combining architectural ideas with cultural ones as cited by Davida Rochlin in The Front Porch, from Home, Sweet Home: "Nobody thought much about the front porch when most Americans had them and used them. The great American front porch was just there, open and sociable, an unassigned part of the house that belonged to everyone and no one, a place for family and friends to pass the time."

Yet change is one of the only constants in life, isn't it?  WWII signaled more than the demise of the Third Reich, threatening that oh-so-American phenomenon right outside our front doors.  Once again, technology fueled the change.  Automobiles made travel to "developments"--housing neighborhoods further from business districts--easy.  No need to while away the hours on the front porch waving to neighbors walking to and fro.  The "indoor" comforts of air conditioning and television replaced the need to seek cooler temps and company on the front porch.

Perhaps it's my personality: my love of nature, and my need to connect my present with the ideals of our nation's past, but I couldn't live in a house without a front porch.  Ironically, both the houses we now own were purchased without this vital element.  No problem for us--my talented husband designed and built the porches I enjoy every day. 

Our lake house porch is rustic.  The house, nestled in the Adirondack Mountains, reflects the elements of stone and wood, so prevalent to the area.  Split rails comprise the railing (see photo, above).  Our year-round place has history on its side.  Being more than 100 years old, the porch design had to be more traditional: Colonial posts, bead board ceiling and oversized fans keep us and our visitors cool on muggy summer afternoons (below).

The only constants are the use of plants in both places  (which soften and enhance the spaces, as well as provide the visual link to the gardens beyond the porch steps), and our flag, the vibrant symbol of American values--and the wholly American experience of the front porch. 

I'm not alone in my need to connect my "inner and outer" worlds.  Since the late 1980s, the American front porch has been undergoing a resurgence in popularity.  People miss nature, and connecting to those around them!  We want to be in our outdoor spaces, but within the confines of our man-made controls (nobody wants to stand in a flowerbed with their morning cup of coffee or chat with a neighbor while dodging the sprinkler).  The front porch provides the perfect balance, a compromise, if you will, between the divinity of the natural world, and the practicality of our everyday lives.

I suggest it's even more.  It's a place to rest, a spot to take a few precious moments to wave to passersby, or invite them up the steps for a cool drink.  It's an ideal area for green thumbs to proudly display their horticultural skills, and a perfect place for things like Fourth-of-July bunting, Halloween spider webs, and holiday lights.  It's a place to hatch plans, fondly recall good times, read a book, or just sit and think.  In our time-crunched, overbooked lives, it's a long-standing tradition that harkens back to our roots, and reminds us that the ideas and ideals of previous generations--sharing time and hospitality, enjoying nature, and saving a moment or two for contemplation--are still important today.  Let's hope this vital link endures! 

This isn't your grandma's vegetable stand

Today's vegetable stands don't just offer good tastes, they HAVE good taste--appealing to all the senses

Fanciful, fragrant garlic bunches dangle from barn rafters

 

 

Like just about everyone, I love a good veggie stand.  Just seeing and touching produce, fresh from the garden with soil still clinging, makes me smile.  And while there's something reminiscent of childhood and endless summer days associated with visiting "old school" vegetable stands, inspecting rows of cucumbers and corn lined up in bins like obedient soldiers, nowadays, customers want more.  And business owners are happy to provide it.

At Blossom Hill Farm in South Blooming Grove, New York, the organic offerings are enhanced by a "crossover" experience, designed to engage all the senses.  Staff at the organic farm focus on all aspects of garden living, encouraging customers to partake of fresh fare in an outdoor dining area, wander lush garden paths or marvel at the artful barn décor, and impressive array of floral bouquets and vegetable offerings.  And though the ambiance of Blossom Hill feels eternal, like walking through Grandma's garden, the innovation sparks a brand new era in the life of the humble veggie stand.

Among the innovations are warm baked goods and individually brewed coffee to complement the healthy vegetable brunches...and always with an eye for "living art" (see the crates overloaded with zinnias in the photo, below).

Just-baked bread and individually brewed coffee are among the offerings

 

Homegrown offerings are becoming increasingly varied as well, catering to the eclectic tastes of customers.  Shoppers can pick up the staples--radishes, beans, turnips and lettuce--but they're also offered unconventional items like hot peppers, tomatillos and green tomatoes for frying.  The expanding array of produce coupled with the whimsical quality of Blossom Hill, and places like it, prove that imagination is key to ensuring customers experience a feast for ALL the senses.