Archive for the Janet’s Journal department

Battling weeds in your garden

May 15, 2014 • 5 Comments

The best gardeners develop an eye that takes in the whole plant and garden—not just the flowers. One “star” of this article is evident here to the trained eye. — The best gardeners develop an eye that takes in the whole plant and garden—not just the flowers.
One “star” of this article is evident here to the trained eye.

By Janet Macunovich / Photos by Steven Nikkila

Why are weeds so hard to talk about?

We spend much of our in-garden time preventing and removing weeds. Perhaps you haven’t counted those hours, but I have, since I garden professionally and must account for my time. Bottom line? We spend 30 to 35 percent of our gardening hours in pursuit and defiance of weeds.

Every weed is a desirable plant for someone, somewhere. Scotch thistle (Onopordum acanthium) is an invited biennial guest in my garden, an impressive eight foot tall, sculptural gray form that provides seeds the finches love. But oh, what a thug it can be, seeding its dangerously sharp self all around! — Every weed is a desirable plant for someone, somewhere. Scotch thistle (*Onopordum acanthium*) is an invited biennial guest in my garden, an impressive eight foot tall, sculptural gray form that provides seeds the finches love. But oh, what a thug it can be, seeding its dangerously sharp self all around!

The books, magazines, TV shows and newspaper articles into which we pour our disposable incomes don’t seem to recognize this. Twenty magazines pulled at random from my current stash yielded 220 article titles. If topics were chosen commensurate with the attention we give a subject in our gardens, about 70 of those articles should have been weed-oriented. Yet only three titles even included the word “weed.”

Should the weed-disabled gardener hit the books? I tried it, searching in general gardening encyclopedias. An “Illustrated Guide to Gardening” was typical in its coverage, allotting just ten of its 649 pages to “Weeds and Their Control.”

Weed books do exist for those who hunt. My collection, built slowly over twenty years, consists mostly of textbooks and publications from various agricultural universities’ Extension services. Although there is plenty of useful information in “Problem Perennial Weeds of Michigan” (Michigan State University Extension bulletin E-791) and in “Weeds” (a textbook published by Cornell University Press), it’s dry, dry, dry.

Worse, the suggested control methods in textbooks and Extension bulletins are mostly geared toward agricultural and commercial users. “Repeated mowing,” “clean cultivation” or “fallowing for one season” might be practical for a farmer, but are tough to translate to the home garden. Likewise, a professional landscaper may benefit from the advice “timely spot treatment with the proper herbicide,” but most of us don’t care to know which of the many herbicides available only to professionals would work even if we could buy them because it’s not often practical to apply herbicides in established beds.

The attitude adjustment can take time but it’s the ultimate liberation to be able to talk about weeds without shame. It’s a perspective that allows me to smile and say, ‘Every weed in this article and in these pictures is my weed. I grew it!’ My weedy companions in this picture are all annuals: (left to right) lamb’s quarters, lady’s thumb, crabgrass (in my hand), buckwheat (vine), perilla (at my foot), purslane (in my hand) and Impatiens glandulifera. Please note the perilla and impatiens are invited, but self-sowing monsters—weeds, by their disposition. — The attitude adjustment can take time but it’s the ultimate liberation to be able to talk about weeds without shame. It’s a perspective that allows me to smile and say, ‘Every weed in this article and in these pictures is my weed. I grew it!’ My weedy companions in this picture are all annuals: (left to right) lamb’s quarters, lady’s thumb, crabgrass (in my hand), buckwheat (vine), perilla (at my foot), purslane (in my hand) and *Impatiens glandulifera*. Please note the perilla and impatiens are invited, but self-sowing monsters—weeds, by their disposition.

When you see that a plant has running roots that turn up into new plants, like the quack grass (Agropyron repens) has done here in the blade that crosses the trowel, roll up your sleeves! You’re taking on a perennial weed. — When you see that a plant has running roots that turn up into new plants, like the quack grass (*Agropyron repens*) has done here in the blade that crosses the trowel, roll up your sleeves! You’re taking on a perennial weed.

Bindweed (Convulvulus arvensis) tops my most-hated list. Even this short, young piece can put up a three-year battle. It’s also known as wild morning glory, for its trumpet-like flowers, white aging to pink (here closed on a cloudy day). — Bindweed (*Convulvulus arvensis*) tops my most-hated list. Even this short, young piece can put up a
three-year battle. It’s also known as wild morning glory, for its trumpet-like flowers, white aging to pink (here closed on a cloudy day).

So let’s get down and dirty. First, that means we start looking at and talking about weeds without shame. They’re an integral part of gardening, so let’s accept that and acknowledge they’ll always be with us. Stop disguising them under mulch, apologizing for them, or diverting visitors from beds where they dwell. Quit refusing to admit you’re growing any. Or many. This attitude adjustment can take time but it’s the ultimate liberation. It’s the perspective that allows me to smile as I write, “Every weed in this article and in these pictures is my weed. I grew it!”

The more we bring weeding out from under the carpet, the more we can draw on each other’s experience and help. Just think how far ahead we’d be if we shared even a tenth of the tips on weed-beating that we share on rose-growing. Talking more means we’ll also begin to look more closely at our weeds and know them better.

Don’t confuse perennial bindweed with the recently-ubiquitous, annual wild buckwheat (Polygonum convulvulus, also called hedge bindweed). Notice buckwheat’s flowers are tiny, not trumpets, and its leaves are more sharply pointed than perennial bindweed. Annual wild buckwheat is far less trouble to beat than perennial bindweed – just keep buckwheat from going to seed. — Don’t confuse perennial bindweed with annual wild buckwheat (*Polygonum convulvulus*, also called hedge bindweed). Notice buckwheat’s flowers are tiny, not trumpets, and its leaves are more sharply pointed than perennial bindweed. Annual wild buckwheat is far less trouble to beat than perennial bindweed—just keep buckwheat from going to seed.

What a wealth of information becomes available when you have a weed’s name. Look it up in the dictionary, check for it in a weed textbook, ask about it at the Extension, type its name into an Internet search engine. In knowledge is power—in this case, power to predict, undermine and eliminate.

To identify your foes, start with MSU Extension weed bulletins—several include color photos. No luck there? Flip through weed textbooks at a library. Still nameless? Press a sample of the weed, preferably with root and flower or seed pod intact, sandwich it between sections of newspaper and stack heavy weights on it for a week. Tape the flattened sample onto cardboard and take it to garden centers, garden club meetings and plant swaps. Someone will give you the name.

Even before you know your pest’s proper name you can start working on the next most important fact—is it a perennial, annual or biennial? Many perennials reveal their long-lived nature through their roots. Loosen the soil all around the weed and remove it carefully, roots intact. Look for underground runners that pop up into new plants, or bulges and knobs on a horizontal root that foretell new shoots. The presence of storage organs such as bulbs and tubers are also telltales that the plant’s either perennial or biennial. There’s no other reason for a plant to store away a lot of starch except that it’s planning to come back next year.

Ground ivy (Glechoma hederacea) is a tough perennial weed, rooting wherever it touches soil and ducking so nimbly in and out of lawn and groundcover that the whole area usually has to be killed and started over. — Ground ivy (*Glechoma hederacea*) is a tough perennial weed, rooting wherever it touches soil and ducking so nimbly in and out of lawn and groundcover that the whole area usually has to be killed and started over.

Which brings me to another “must-do” when it comes to weeds. That’s to stop looking for miracle techniques and products. Weeds caught early on, under two inches tall, can be dispatched fairly easily with a hoe or a smothering mulch. Give them a year and you’re in for a battle that requires a discriminating eye and lots of hand work.

I’m not saying I like this fact. Established perennial weeds make me cringe. That’s what’s wrong with the lead picture in this story. See that Canada thistle (Cirsium arvense) among the hostas on the left? Okay, go after it. Loosen the soil, remove every bit of root you can find. Then acknowledge the root’s depth, brittleness and tenacity by returning every week or ten days for two whole seasons, April through November, to nip off every bit of thistle that tries to make a comeback. At the end of the second year, you may have starved it out—forced it to exhaust all the reserve starch in its roots.

Tuber roots are what make yellow nutsedge (Cyperus esculentus) such a scourge. Those in the know understand that if you don’t get the nut out, you don’t get the sedge out. — Tuber roots are what make yellow nutsedge (*Cyperus esculentus*) such a scourge. Those in the know understand that if you don’t get the nut out, you don’t get the sedge out.

Perennials and biennials can stash an amazing amount of starch in their roots, given even a bit of green leaf to work from. Take a carrot (Daucus carota) in its weed form: Queen Anne’s lace. It’s as cute and small as a carrot-top in its first year – just a bunch of low, feathery leaves. Yet look what the root produced by those leaves delivers in year two—four feet of stately stem, leaf, flowers and thousands of seeds. No wonder when we leave a bit of weed root in the ground, it manages to keep sprouting for years.

Bindweed (Convulvulus arvensis) is worse. Given time to establish, its roots may dive 15 feet deep. If dug well and then nipped in the bud every six days—more frequently when the growing is good—it takes 2 to 3 years to wear it out.

Don’t confuse hedge bindweed (Polygonum convulvulus, also called wild buckwheat) with perennial bindweed. An annual, wild buckwheat is far less trouble to beat—just keep it from going to seed. That means where blown-in seed or seed-infested mulch spawns an invasion, weed thoroughly several times before mid-June.

Scouring rush or field horsetail (Equisetum arvense) drives people crazy yet it’s a wimp compared to bindweed and Canada thistle. Dig it well, focusing on those enlarged tuber roots, keep new shoots nipped weekly for one season and it’s gone.

New weeds show up all the time. Some pretend to be something planted on purpose, as this one did. When it reached eye level I decided I didn’t plant anything new that would be so big, and yanked it. We took this photo for posterity. I’ll use it to figure out what it was!

Tuber roots are what make yellow nutsedge (Cyperus esculentus) such a scourge. Pull on this weak-looking, creased-blade grassy creature and it comes readily, with what looks like all roots intact. Those in the know, however, understand that if you don’t get the nut out, you don’t get the sedge out.

Yellow wood sorrel (Oxalis florida) is another perennial that fools us by pulling easily and seeming to have little root. That’s because its running roots break loose and stay behind when we pull—a good reason to study the plant, learn that it has runners and loosen the soil well throughout the area before pulling.

Obviously, we can’t cover all weeds and weeding techniques in this article, but this is a good start!

Janet Macunovich is a professional gardener and author of the books “Designing Your Gardens and Landscape” and “Caring for Perennials.” Read more from Janet on her website www.gardenatoz.com.

Janet’s Journal: Observe and appreciate your plants’ flip side

April 25, 2014 • 1 Comment

Learning the flip side of bloodroot (Sanguinaria canadensis) means employing a tactic that also tends to save the plant in the long run. Dividing bloodroot reveals its secret and yields divisions to carry on even if the mother clump falls to fungus. — Learning the flip side of bloodroot (*Sanguinaria canadensis*) means employing a tactic that also tends to save the plant in the long run. Dividing bloodroot reveals its secret and yields divisions to carry on even if the mother clump falls to fungus.

Do you give your garden’s flip side any attention?

For those raised entirely in the age of the MP3 and CD, a brief historical side trip is in order. Recordings of popular songs were once sold individually on 45 rpm “singles.” Buyers usually sought a “45” for the song on the “A” side, receiving the lesser ditty on the “B” side or the “flip side,” only by default—Elton John’s “Crocodile Rock” was the “A” accompanied by a flip side “Elderberry Wine.”

The flip side of pearly everlasting culminates in a show of lovely orange butterflies marked black, blue and white. Its caterpillars give a preview of the color that will come, if only the gardener is tolerant of their presence and some tattered foliage.

Most of the time the flip side got little play. However, the song on the flip side of a 45 was ocassionally a delightful find.

Plants and gardens are that way. Although we buy or grow for an “A” side—that certain shape flower, a particular fragrance, or a rich fall color—we ought to give flip sides a play or two. They’re good for a laugh and sometimes for longer term enjoyment, but even if appalling they are enlightening.

Pearly everlasting (Anaphalis margaritacea) is a sturdy native perennial of sunny, sandy places that opens white nubbin flowers in dense clusters in August. The flowers dry in place—thus the moniker “everlasting.” The plant’s downy gray foliage gets little special attention, except when invaded by tiny “worms” in May. These knit together and despoil the leaves at the tips of stems, alarming and disgusting most gardeners—unless they’re given a bit longer play.

If you hold off on the insecticides, the “worms” can be quite entertaining. Small, dark and creepy at first, as they grow they become recognizable as the larvae of the American painted lady butterfly. Experience teaches that they will finish feeding sometime in June and depart to pupate, at which point a well-established pearly everlasting will grow over its tattered tips and bloom without concern at its normal time.

Given their long evolutionary gig together, it shouldn’t be surprising that insects are often present on a plant’s flip side.

View pine sawfly as a disgusting flip side to mugo pine and Austrian pine, enjoy their lively dance routine.

Pine sawfly on a mugo pine is a “B” side that can disgust a gardener. Given just occasional play, though, sawflies have a certain charm.

First, there’s the way they emerge from the eggs on the needle, a perfect row of bumps on the needle’s underside. Sometime in May the caterpillar-like sawflies pop out in close-coordinated sequence. The needle becomes a stage for a chorus line of tiny acrobats which first hang down, then flex and flip themselves topside to begin a few weeks of feasting.

If not blown away by a forceful stream of water or insecticidal soap during their debut performance, they grow to show the tolerant observer yet another dance number.

By mid-June a sawfly gang is clustered below the new growth, each member as long as and colored much like the needle on which it feeds. Even the preoccupied gardener notices the act at this point and pauses to look more closely. The colony’s response to this close inspection is a uniform twitch and freeze.

There is no way to save or replace the needles by this time. Once the needle-imitating sawfly larvae depart, plummeting to the ground to pupate in the soil by next spring, that stretch of stem will be bare. I usually squash the group and clip the affected stem back to a side branch, but not until I’ve given the group my eye and a bit of direction, moving my hand close and then away to choreograph the twitching motion. I wonder that someone hasn’t videotaped and exploited this performance—it’s just begging to be set to music.

People and plants have a long history, too, so that human interaction with a plant becomes part of its flip side. Bloodroot (Sanguinaria canadensis) is understandably well known for its charming “A” side, brilliant white flowers at first protectively folded into and then proudly displayed among mitt-like gray green leaves. Its flip side somehow escapes notice. Next time you divide a clump of bloodroot—you should do this every few years as a defensive tactic because clumps are known to succumb suddenly and totally to root- and crown-destroying fungi—break a bit of root and you’ll see the flip side in the orange sap that oozes out.

Celandine poppy (Stylophorum diphyllum) is a showy addition to a shady garden, with a sappy flip side. — Celandine poppy (*Stylophorum diphyllum*) is a showy addition to a shady garden, with a sappy flip side.

The sap of celandine or wood poppy (Stylophorum diphyllum) is a flip side too. It’s valued for its “A” side in a shady garden, bright yellow flowers in spring and early summer. Its “B” side is there to be discovered all season—a plucked stem can yield enough bright yellow-orange sap to write out a word or two. Harmless, temporary dye. It’s said that the great garden designer Gertrude Jekyll would write notes to herself in celandine sap.

The “A” side of prairie coneflower (Ratibida pinnata) is apparent in July – a wind-generated bobbing and weaving of its yellow-petalled flowers that might be titled “Dance of the Golden Shuttlecocks.” The flip side should bear the name “Lean on Me,” since that’s the act that follows when the plant is placed as nature intended, among tall grasses. Without the accompaniment of grasses or other sturdy neighbors, the flip side can be a bother, however, requiring tall, carefully placed stakes.

I’ve seen the flip side in a different version though, one so arresting that it literally changes the “A” side. Knowing that the 4- to 5-foot stems will splay in July but wanting to avoid staking, a gardener can play that flip side early and to advantage. In May, pull the stems down and away from each other and use bent wire to staple them to the ground in a sunburst pattern. The stem ends and the side branches will all turn upward then, growing to produce a spoked circle of half-height, self-supporting shuttlecocks.

Providing other plants a strong shoulder to lean on, ornamental grasses play a “B” side that should be a hit in any garden.

Few plants have such a supportive nature as ornamental grasses. They provide neighboring plants with a windbreak in summer, and perform the same service for birds in winter.

Ornamental grasses have quite a motherly tone to their flip side. Besides acting as support for tall prairie flowers, they serve as windbreaks for other plants and animals too—pay attention and you’ll notice butterflies and birds taking shelter on the lee side of a dense grass on blustery fall or winter days.

It can’t be denied that butterfly bush’s showy flowers and accompanying butterflies belong on the top ten list. But its “B” side as a natural staking system ought to get more play.

Butterfly bush’s (Buddleia davidii) flip side is supportive too. Delphiniums or cosmos grown within its spread can take advantage of this to thread their way up and then stand securely between the stiff branches.

Romantic blue monkshoods (Aconitum species) are certainly sinister on their flip side. It pays to know that eating even a little part of the leaf, flower or root can be deadly. It seems to have been part of some Roman armies’ scorched earth tactics to poison water supplies with monkshood, preventing enemy use of those resources.

Common milkweed (Asclepias syriaca) has a playful flip side. The foliage is well known as Monarch butterfly caterpillar fodder and the hemispherical clusters of pale purple flowers add color and fragrance to a wild garden. But watch a butterfly sipping nectar from an individual flower in that purple globe. Notice that the close-set ring of upward-facing petals parts easily and the butterfly’s foot slips in. The ring then closes tightly, forcing the butterfly to yank-step, as we might labor to reclaim our foot from deep, sticky muck.

All of the milkweed plants play this game. I can’t help but think there were other ways to insure that a pollinator’s foot came into contact with pollen, but this group of plants have a character that prefers to work by practical joke.

The “B” side of every plant is there to be observed, or it can be discovered while exploring plant encyclopedias for word of your garden favorites, or you might just piece it together over time from conversations like this between gardening friends. Dig a little deeper into your garden’s flip side this year for the fun of it, for a mind-expanding game, or to learn more rewarding ways to grow and use your plants.

Janet’s Journal: How to improve your clay soil

April 20, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Rejoice in clay, the choice of many fine plants. Roses and crabapples, plus rarer beauties like Rodgersia (above) thrive in a loose clay-based soil. — Rejoice in clay, the choice of many fine plants. Roses and crabapples, plus rarer beauties like *Rodgersia* (above) thrive in a loose clay-based soil.

By Janet Macunovich / Photos by Steven Nikkila

Ah, spring! The season of new life, warm earthy scents, and fresh starts on gardens!

Unfortunately, it’s also a season of miracle products—powders and potions claiming to “break up heavy soil,” “dissolve clay,” “ionize damaged soil,” etc.

Twenty-five years of gardening in soils throughout southeastern Michigan, around homes new and old, has taught me that only one ingredient can be added to hard soil to make any real difference in its garden potential. Air is that magic ingredient.

“Wait!” you may say. “I bought this stuff, mixed it in and it worked wonders…”

You’re right, for the wrong reasons. You feel that stuff made the difference, but I know that mixing was what worked wonders. The digging allowed air to flow through the soil.

Air brings water with it. Water doesn’t fall into soil, it’s pulled in by capillary action, a draw that exists only if there’s air moving freely in pore spaces in the soil.

Abundant, moist air fuels an explosion of life between the soil particles. Microorganisms and soil animals increase geometrically in aerated soil. These creatures’ chewings, manhandlings, regurgitations, excrements, and other life processes transform solid soil minerals into forms which can be imbibed by species restricted to liquid diets—plants.

Clay in soil is not terrible. When the tiny bits of mineral called clay are numerous, that soil offers far more nutrients and holds moisture far better than one that’s mainly sand. Compaction is what’s terrible – the state soil takes after pressure has been applied, usually by earthmoving and grading equipment. Even a farm’s best sandy loam can be packed down so hard that the average gardener will cry “clay!” and begin seeking wonder products.

Left: Don’t worry about planting among still-whole chunks of clay. Plant alongside them or break them in half and fit them, plus decaying mulch around the new root balls as backfill. Right: Use a garden fork to loosen the bed. — **Left:** Don’t worry about planting among still-whole chunks of clay. Plant alongside them or break them in half and fit them, plus decaying mulch around the new root balls as backfill. **Right:** Use a garden fork to loosen the bed.

In a compacted soil, air spaces have been squeezed closed. Crumbs of combined clay, sand and humus have been pulverized – crumbs that once gave the soil an airy, root-friendly structure. Separated by crumb-busting, the component particles settle into dense layers. They will not re-form into crumbs until treated with that mix of worm spit, fungal strands and bacterial residues called microbial glue.

Pressed down and airless, compacted soil can’t attract or support many worms, fungi or bacteria. Thirty years after being graded with heavy equipment, such a soil will still be dense and lifeless unless physically broken and aerated.

Worms should be considered a gift. They move into the cool, moist mulch and dine on the leafier organic matter. Between meals they burrow into the moist clay, dragging organic matter with them and depositing worm manure (casts) along the way.

So can anything be done with the miserable leavings called soil on your property? Certainly. However, there is no immediate fix unless you can afford wholesale excavation and replacement.

Here’s a much less expensive option that trades time for money.

This spring, start some soil-loosening by wetting the soil. Since pore size in hard-packed soil is small to non-existent, it takes a long time for water to infiltrate. So cover the soil with porous mulch to encourage water to “sit” and “stay.” Wood chip mulch is fine, but pine bark is best for reasons explained later. Layer the mulch with grass clippings if you can—more on that later, too.

Keep the area well watered throughout summer.

Boots...one of the best tools for the garden. A gardener in boots can accomplish far more when working with hard-packed soil than a gardener in tennis shoes. — Boots…one of the best tools for the garden. A gardener in boots can accomplish far more when working
with hard-packed soil than a gardener in tennis shoes.

In late summer or early fall rake off the mulch. Use a garden fork to loosen the bed. Insert the tines as far as you can, lean back on the handle and pop a chunk loose. No need to lift the chunk out of the bed, just pop it far enough that it doesn’t settle back level with the undisturbed soil.

Move over one fork’s width, insert the fork and pop again. Continue doing this row by row through the garden until the whole surface is lumpy.

Add one of those miracle products now if you’d like. Scatter or sprinkle it over the area and water it in well. Me? I’d rather use that money to add compost.

Re-cover the area with mulch. Add more grass clippings or leaves that are small or shredded. Water. Wait some more.

What’s going on while you wait is, well, life. Worms move into the cool, moist mulch and dine on the leafier parts. Between meals they burrow into the moist clay, dragging organic matter with them and depositing worm manure (casts) along the way. Other soil animals follow these trails, which is why worm burrows often contain a soil’s greatest diversity of species. After the first waiting period you were able to loosen previously-impenetrable soil to a depth of 8 or 9 inches because the worms led the way. Now the worms will go even deeper.

Many plants enjoy loose, clay-based soil, including roses.

During the waiting periods, some of the organic matter that is dragged into or falling down worm burrows is decaying bark. That’s good, especially if it’s pine bark with its high lignin content. Lignin, partially rotted, lasts a particularly long time in the soil and each bit becomes a nucleus for soil crumb formation.

After a year, in spring, the bed is ready for planting. Don’t worry about planting among still-whole chunks of clay. Don’t remove them, either. Just plant alongside them or break them in half and fit them, plus decaying, mulch around the new root balls as backfill. Roots will follow the crevices between clods, making fibrous nets over every moist, rich clay surface—nets which hasten clay’s crumb-ling.

Maintain a layer of leaf compost on this bed. In 4 to 5 years your visitors will exclaim “aren’t you lucky to have such good soil?!”

Here are three ways to take some of the labor out of this process.

One, drill rather than dig. Use a soil auger or rent a power posthole digger. Punch holes in the clay every 12 to 18 inches rather than loosen with a fork. Let drilled soil fall back in and around each hole. No need to backfill the holes with “good” soil because the drill adds the only necessary magic—air.

Two, if you have a heavy-duty lawn tractor or can hire a farm-grade tractor and operator, knife the soil rather than fork or drill it. A soil knife attachment slices the soil vertically, cutting about 18 inches deep. The soil doesn’t turn over, as with a plow, it just parts. Knife the soil in rows 18 inches apart. Go over the area twice, first in rows parallel to any slope, then up and down the slope.

Sorry—don’t try drilling or knifing if you have buried utility wires, pipes, or sprinkler lines in the area.

Your third out is to moisten the soil with watering and mulch, fork it lightly, then build a raised bed of imported soil on top of it. Don’t, however, skip the forking. Many raised beds over clay fail because there is no transition area between the two soil layers. Water pools there, unable to penetrate the clay as quickly as it ran through the top layer. Roots rot.

Finally, if your soil really is clay, be happy with that. Clay soil is the choice of many fine plants. Common species like roses, lilacs, iris and crabapples plus rarer beauties like Rodgersia and Ligularia thrive in the loose, clay-based soil.

Janet’s Journal: Big trees in the 21st century

March 1, 2014 • 10 Comments

To set a new standard for the 21st century, let each gardener adopt and nurture just one tree. It has to have space to grow like this sycamore in a relative's field. — To set a new standard for the 21st century, let each gardener adopt and nurture just one tree. It has to have space to grow like this sycamore in a relative’s field.

With a simple pledge, gardeners can replace unrealistic expectations for street trees with a new tree ethic and plenty of safe big trees for the 21st century.

“Have you seen those little holes they left in the new sidewalks downtown? For trees?! How do they expect a shade tree to grow in such a tiny space?”

It’s my turn to speak. My mind races through a lifetime of feelings about trees. What I see on that journey both surprises me and changes my position in a subtle and important way. Here’s a replay of that mental ride which begins back in my youth.

It’s great weather and I long to be outside, playing with my friends. We’re all under orders, however, to stay inside with all windows closed today. Standing at an upstairs window, I am still well under the canopy of a big elm at streetside. With the elms on each side and across the street it forms a solid ceiling.

I live in awe of the elms. Planted in the 19-teens, they are shading their third generation of hopscotch games and Sunday walks to church. Some are so big that the trunk fills the entire space from sidewalk to curb.

A truck unlike any I have seen proceeds along the street, a cannon on its back spraying fog into that high elm ceiling. I do not understand what is happening, but it has to do with the trees, so it interests me.

A gardener can be an advocate against threats to a tree, such as decking in the trunk, which will soon kill this linden, only 25 percent grown.

Next, I’m sitting on the front steps, in my pajamas. It’s nice that the elm in front of the house is gone because at dusk we can sit here and watch bats swoop and dart across the opening.

Then, I’m walking with friends, passing through alternating sections of light and shadow. We stop and kick at rings of mushrooms growing where those huge tree trunks once were. At a new ash, we take turns holding onto the trunk and pivoting around the tree. It’s such an odd thing, to be able to put one’s hands completely around a tree trunk.

Later, I’m a driver, taking in the neighborhood as a whole. What a shame that the big trees are gone. Some of the new ones snapped or stayed small, but some have begun to grow. Following belatedly in the path taken by adults of the neighborhood, I resign myself to waiting for the leafy ceiling to regrow.

As a young married, I shop for a house. To my husband and me, big trees are synonymous with a perfect home, but we buy a treeless house anyway. The seller tells us that the trees it had in front died a while back. There are trees on the neighbors’ lawns – not huge, but they do cast some shade. We plan to plant some of our own right away.

The gardener will not count as his or her tree for posterity any tree such as this tricolor beech…which has no chance to reach full size. (Purple beech, 50 feet).

A few years later we put cranky, over-tired children to sleep with slow car rides through the new, smoothly paved subdivisions that are all around. Expert now in landscaping—we’ve planted and killed three trees in our yard, but feel we now know enough to keep the fourth, fifth and sixth alive—we cluck our tongues over the dinky trees lining these roads. We’re that much more grateful for the big elm and maple next door, and the neighbors’ tolerance of small children. Those trees are child magnets—meeting places for the young of the neighborhood. We wonder if our own trees will someday support tree houses and a crowd of climbing kids, like the trees of our childhood.

At high school graduation parties for our children’s friends, we look at trees in these other neighborhoods. So many streets with rows of ash or linden, trees that are still only ornament. Yet where there are larger trees casting pools of car-parking shade, the setting is quite unlike what we knew as children. These trees have a weakness to them – battle-scarred trunks and patchy crowns. Are we noticing this because we have made trees and plants our profession, or are they truly stunted and embattled as the elms of the 1950s and 60s never were?

Driving to a baby shower for a friend’s first grandchild, we pass the latest construction projects. Road work, installation of a big new drain, traffic accidents, and development of properties alongside have taken their toll. What was a green belt of big trees is a fading memory.

The future is clear in this respect: Mature shade trees at streetside like this gingko will likely not be a part of the 21st century landscape.

Back to the present and the discussion of a city’s new street tree planters. I’m brought up short. I have suddenly realized that our resigned waiting has lasted more than 40 years but still the big trees are not back! In four decades the replacement maples and ashes should have reached 60 feet tall or more but only a small percentage have done that. In many cases the elm replacements have themselves been replaced two or more times, having succumbed to disease, accident or side effects of paving, utility digs and reconstruction coming at increasingly short intervals.

We lost our trees to elm disease, replanted and waited for the time when things would settle down and return to “normal.” While we’ve waited, the world has changed in many different ways, some of which we fail to see. One of those blind spots has swallowed our big trees.

From the perspective of an era of elm-lined streets, it’s criminal to put a tree into a small hole surrounded by concrete. To those who see the reality of modern living, it’s business as usual.

Given the proliferation of underground utilities and related work, plus the frequency of major road changes and commercial area make-overs, trees along main streets and even most side streets won’t grow undisturbed for more than a decade. They cannot ever attain their old stature, aren’t expected to, and would even be an inconvenience to routine if they did. Air conditioning units in every building and car have devalued tree shade. Trees are planted now out of habit, and/or are designed into new, instant landscapes because nothing else provides enough height and mass to offset the new buildings they front.

We pave too much, dig too often, drive too recklessly, wield too many mowing and trimming tools at too great a pace to have big trees along our streets anymore. This is not evil nor is it a temporary condition. Changing our ways to once again accommodate big trees along the roads would mean that too much of the life we pave, dig, drive and rush to enjoy would also have to change, which is simply not realistic.

It’s time for my generation to shake itself and see this. We have to begin lobbying not for larger planting holes where modern life makes such a thing impossible, but more frequent replacement of trees that have reached their limit in those holes. More important, we have to plant more wisely, and soon (in places not along streets!), or the grandeur, reassurance and pleasures that come from mature trees will not be a part of our children’s children’s lives. Many of our children have already missed that experience.

I hope each gardener will look around and find a place where a tree can be expected to grow to maturity. Whether that’s in a back yard, neighborhood park, or subdivision commons area, let’s each plant one appropriate new tree or adopt an existing tree with potential and protect that tree. We can research the species to determine how big it can grow and how quickly. We can project that mature canopy and root mass onto the existing landscape and find ways to give the tree room to grow to those limits, both above and below ground.

I’ll water my tree during droughts, and learn what insects and diseases to watch for and fend off if they come. I’ll be its advocate when human activities around it become threatening and pass its care on to my children, heirs or successors on the land. I won’t ask that they keep everything in the landscape as I had it, just that they continue the stewardship of one particular tree.

In this way we may preserve and continue to grow big trees. Better yet, we’ll maintain the connection between growing people and growing things, one of the most precious relationships of all times.

Janet Macunovich is a professional gardener and author of the books “Designing Your Gardens and Landscape” and “Caring for Perennials.” Read more from Janet on her website www.gardenatoz.com.

Web Extra: Pruning to make great evergreens

October 31, 2013 • Leave a Comment

To read the full article by Janet Macunovich on pruning evergreens, pick up a copy of the Nov/Dec, 2013 issue of Michigan Gardener in stores or find it in our digital edition.

Captions by Janet Macunovich / Photos by Steven Nikkila

Even a tiny branch (circled) has great potential. Once clipping changes its position from shaded interior to sunny outer edge, this wimpy twig can become a husky, densely feathered leader.

Evergreen pruning can be done at any time. I can even thin at one time, and cut back overall at a different time. I take advantage of that in winter when we need long branches for decorations. Look at all the great cuttings I've gathered just from thinning this boxwood (left) and these hollies (right). — Evergreen pruning can be done at any time. I can even thin at one time, and cut back overall at a different time. I take advantage of that in winter when we need long branches for decorations. Look at all the great cuttings I’ve gathered just from thinning this boxwood (left) and these hollies (right).

Work with the natural shape of the plant and you can do all the cutting at once, using pruners. Most stems are clipped by one year's growth. The thickest are cut by two years'. These shrubs were a matched set five minutes ago. They will be again in five more minutes once I've clipped the one on the left. — Work with the natural shape of the plant and you can do all the cutting at once, using pruners. Most stems are clipped by one year’s growth. The thickest are cut by two years’. These shrubs were a matched set five minutes ago. They will be again in five more minutes once I’ve clipped the one on the left.

If a shrub has become too big (photo 1), I wait until early spring to cut and thin. For instance, I cut and thinned these boxwoods shortly after budbreak (photo 2). At other times all this previously sheltered wood and foliage would have been suddenly exposed to summer heat or wintry cold. Such quick changes can kill leaves and make wood die back even further than it was cut. Recovery was well underway in August of that same year (photo 3).

Janet’s Journal: Fall is a Great Time for Moving Plants

August 10, 2013 • 1 Comment

September is a great time to move most shrubs. Oakleaf hydrangea (Hydrangea quercifolia) blooms wonderfully in half shade in moist, well-drained soil. If grown in other locations it’s a disappointment. — September is a great time to move most shrubs. Oakleaf hydrangea (*Hydrangea quercifolia*) blooms wonderfully in half shade in moist, well-drained soil. If grown in other locations it’s a disappointment.

September, the season of conflict, is upon us.

It’s a time of great opportunity. The nights are cool and fall stretches long ahead. Moving plants, divisions and new plantings will take quickly and have plenty of time to root in before winter.

The soft, rich colored needles of dwarf balsam fir drive the author to rip out perfectly good perennials that overshadow this conifer.

A season’s planning is done—in mental notes, journal entries, photographic records, and verbal promises, we’ve each made dozens of decisions regarding plants and gardens. That new plant is wonderful, but should be moved. Another has exhausted its grace period and is still lacking—it needs a quick trip to the compost pile. Long-time residents that have begun the downhill slide into decline need renewal or relocation.

There is no time like today to do these things.

Now it’s certain which plants are which and how we feel about each. In the spring we will have forgotten how overbearing the pink phloxes have become in that bed over near the crabapple. Even if we are able to distinguish the pinks from the whites six months from now, we may lack the resolve to oust them.

In late summer, with plant bodies at their fullest, it is clear which must be reduced and by how much to widen a path or allow neighboring plants a fair share of air space. In spring when emptiness is everywhere, the urge is to let the riot come, so long as the voids are filled and filled quickly.

Today, the sight and names of wonderful new plants are fresh in mind, and potted recruits are ready for us at garden centers, often at reduced prices. Planted now, given the fall to settle in and early spring to resume growth, they will be nearly one season larger than counterparts bought and planted next April or May.

Hand-in-hand with opportunity, though, comes mind-numbing, body-slowing reluctance. I’m parked in a chair, stupefied. My plea goes up to the gardening gods: Save me from late summer inertia! Grant me impetus, that I may take advantage of September’s gentle growing conditions.

When that divine nudge comes, I know to have my to-do list ready:

Sedum 'Vera Jameson' is pretty in bloom (above) and pretty in leaf (below), but it’s not aggressive. Left too long in one spot, it will be crowded by other plants or affected by depleted soil nutrients and begin to decline. — *Sedum* ‘Vera Jameson’ is pretty in bloom (above) and pretty in leaf (below), but it’s not aggressive. Left too long in one spot, it will be crowded by other plants or affected by depleted soil nutrients and begin to decline.

Every year I take aim and clear one area that has fallen to thugs—aggressive plants that spread and crowd out others. Everyone has a few, and I may have more than my share. Although I’d like to eradicate them all at once, I’ve learned that thoroughness in removal is the only sure cure. Since thoroughness takes so much time, I tackle only one thug per season.

This year’s target is spotted bellflower (Campanula punctata). It’s an easy place to start—though an aggressive plant can make up for its bad nature with a pretty face, this one is as homely as it is pesty.

The space left bare of bellflower will be a site for annuals or vegetables next year while I keep my eyes peeled for any bellflower resurgence from overlooked roots. I’ll have all next season to plan perennial replacements, though I already have in mind a combination of big betony (Stachys macrantha), Sedum ‘Vera Jameson’ and Salvia azurea. I have some of each that need rescuing from worn-out ground.

Hydrangeas ‘Nikko Blue’ and ‘All Summer Beauty’ have got to go. Really, this time—no more second chances. For others blessed with sheltered microclimates these plants may be August delight, but here they are flowerless. Their branch tips are killed each winter, and though new ones grow, they lack the programming to generate flowers in that, their first season. Only at the end of a long season will more tips with blooming potential be produced—and winter cold will again nip that process in the bud.

Likewise, my ‘Arnold’s Dwarf’ forsythia belongs in the compost. Dwarf it is, but flowering it is not; its flower buds are too tender to survive any but the mildest winter.

On the subject of dwarf plants, dwarf fothergilla (Fothergilla gardenii) is definitely worth keeping, but it needs a new home in my garden. It leapt to the catalog-promised height of three feet in its first year. After almost three years, it’s clear that endearing growth spurt was not a bonus earned by my gardening skills—the shrub slowed at four feet but didn’t stop until five. Even if it could be pruned without ruining the shape, who has time to prune another shrub in spring right after it blooms? Better to move it to a spot where a five-foot presence is needed.

The fothergilla will take the place of a superfluous purple bush clover (Lespedeza thunbergii), a die-back shrub 5 to 6 feet tall and as wide. I planted two bush clovers, but now see that one plant provides plenty of impact. Of the two I planted, one is variety ‘Gibraltar’ and is definitely the prettier for holding its pinkish-purple pea flowers in denser clusters. I’ll keep ‘Gibraltar’ and a friend will get the other—a treasure even if second to ‘Gibraltar.’ This October where there were two five-foot fountains of pink bloom there will be one fountain and one mass of deep orange fothergilla foliage.

Ah, fall foliage. Have I really decided that the oakleaf hydrangea (Hydrangea quercifolia) will go this year? It never lives up to its potential for bloom or fall color, not in the dry, lean soil and scant shade of my garden. Having seen it in the shade of high-pruned trees in rich, moist, well-drained soil, where each leaf may be nearly 12 inches by 12 inches, I have begun to pity more than enjoy mine. Its foliage is pale and half-sized, the flower clusters and the leaves burnt on the edges in summer, the foliage a washed out brown in fall, far from the rich maroon it could be.

Yes, that hydrangea will go. For that will free up more than a square yard of half-shade space, a perfect relocation site for four great plants now languishing in unsuitable, unseen places: fringe cups, tovara, large-flowered comfrey and toadlily.

Fringe cups (Tellima grandiflora) has been the object of more queries than almost any other plant in the dry, shady garden I designed and help tend at the Detroit Zoo. It has basal foliage like a furry coral bell and tiny flowers, pink-edged, ranged along leafless, wiry stems. Even better than good looks, it has long-term dependability and low maintenance requirements in dry shade.

Tovara (Tovara virginiana or Persicaria virginiana ‘Painter’s Palette’) adds height and colorful leaf to the shade. If I don’t move mine soon from under the encroaching viburnums, it will be only a memory.

Large-flowered comfrey (Symphytum grandiflorum) came into my garden as a groundcover trial. Big leaves, yellow flowers in May on short stalks, a dense, weed-smothering growth habit, and tolerance for drought commended it to me for a spot under the influence of my neighbor’s thirsty elm. It performed well where it was planted, and I promptly began to ignore it. Then a few divisions moved to a client’s garden because they are coarse, low, able to handle shade and are not liked by slugs. In that new site, I came to appreciate it more as a specimen than a groundcover.

When I planted my first toadlily (Tricyrtis hirta), its placement far from the beaten track and behind taller plants was determined solely by available space. Since then I’ve chanced upon that plant only by accident, but I’ve been more impressed each time with its form and the enchanting purple flowers in October. It’s high time it moved to center stage from unseen wings.

Unseen. That describes my dwarf balsam fir (Abies balsamea ‘Nana’). I haven’t seen it since the globe thistle overwhelmed it. That globe thistle definitely has to go. Fine plant though it is, I have its divisions in more suitable places. Far better to let the fir grow.

Now I’m wondering, when did I last see my golden hops (Humulus lupulus ‘Nugget’)? It was on my wish list for at least five years before I found it last spring. You’d think I could remember where I planted it…

I’ll enjoy my September, once I get moving. Accomplishment, mixed with surprise, is a great tonic for September reluctance.

Janet’s Journal: Simplify your garden Website Extra

June 28, 2013 • Leave a Comment

To read the entire article, pick up a copy of Michigan Gardener or check out our digital edition.

Irises and peonies in Wil Strickland's garden exemplify his advice, "Watch what does well. Plant a lot of that and let the plants fight it out. I call it choosing your weeds." — Irises and peonies in Wil Strickland’s garden exemplify his advice, “Watch what does well. Plant a lot of that and let the plants fight it out. I call it choosing your weeds.”

Cathy Connelly: Use non-plant material for color and interest: Statuary, garden flags, rocks, whimsical yard art, even attractive old birdbaths or bird feeders that you give yourself permission not to fill.

The Fiskars Power Gear loppers (top) are a great tool to amplify a gardener's own power. Many people who have used mine say, "Oh my, I want those!" Meanwhile, Burdette Chapman dreams of being gifted with the very lightweight, superbly balanced, sharp and easily sharpened ARS 25-inch professional hedge shears (bottom). — The Fiskars Power Gear loppers (top) are a great tool to amplify a gardener’s own power. Many people who have used mine say, “Oh my, I want those!” Meanwhile, Burdette Chapman dreams of being gifted with the very lightweight, superbly balanced, sharp and easily sharpened ARS 25-inch professional hedge shears (bottom).

Ginger Reichenbach does all the work herself on two acres of garden and wouldn't have it any other way. How does she do it? "Don't stop. Don't ever stop. If you are offered help, take it and have them do things you can't. Sometimes one of my grandsons will help me and I always think then about what my father told me: 'If you have one boy, you have one boy. If you have two boys, you have half a boy. If you have three boys, you have no boy.'" — Ginger Reichenbach does all the work herself on two acres of garden and wouldn’t have it any other way. How does she do it? “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop. If you are offered help, take it and have them do things you can’t. Sometimes one of my grandsons will help me and I always think then about what my father told me: ‘If you have one boy, you have one boy. If you have two boys, you have half a boy. If you have three boys, you have no boy.'”

Website Extra: Janet’s Journal – Give your garden a raise

May 31, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Photos by Steven Nikkila

For the full article on raised garden beds by Janet Macunovich, pickup a copy of the June, 2013 issue of Michigan Gardener in stores or find it in our digital edition.

Most landscapes offer the possibility of building raised beds from recycled material. For example, we removed the raised beds constructed at this house as an accent edging 30 years ago. The pressure treated lumber was mostly intact. We couldn't pull out the spikes that held it together, so we sawed it into sections intending to haul it away. We reconsidered when we learned there would be an extra charge to dispose of it since it could not be accepted at the organic waste site. — Most landscapes offer the possibility of building raised beds from recycled material. For example, we removed the raised beds constructed at this house as an accent edging 30 years ago. The pressure treated lumber was mostly intact. We couldn’t pull out the spikes that held it together, so we sawed it into sections intending to haul it away. We reconsidered when we learned there would be an extra charge to dispose of it since it could not be accepted at the organic waste site.

In the back yard at the same house, a steeply sloping corner that ccalready begun filling the area with sod and soil cut out in other projects in the yard. The plan had been to retain this bed with straw bales now, replacing them with a fieldstone wall once funds were available. We revised that to reuse the lumber.

It was a puzzle to piece together the lumber we'd pulled out of the front beds in this new space, but simple math assured us there was enough to make the missing third edge of this triangular raised bed. So now, the earth holds two sides of the bed and we've retained the third with a wall that should last at least five years and probably much longer. No more mowing headaches—just a deep raised bed. — It was a puzzle to piece together the lumber we’d pulled out of the front beds in this new space, but simple math assured us there was enough to make the missing third edge of this triangular raised bed. So now, the earth holds two sides of the bed and we’ve retained the third with a wall that should last at least five years and probably much longer. No more mowing headaches—just a deep raised bed.

Mortared brick raised beds are worth considering if regular and varied pressure will affect the sides. That's often the case at botanical gardens where many people perch there regularly and wheeled vehicles frequently pass and occasionally bump the beds. — Mortared brick raised beds are worth considering if regular and varied pressure will affect the sides. That’s often the case at botanical gardens where many people perch there regularly and wheeled vehicles frequently pass and occasionally bump the beds.

As with wood, use some imagination and mixed stone can be recycled too. Karen and George Thompson made their steep slope into this large, safe garden by cleverly combining two sets of salvaged blocks plus a few bricks.

George works out a pattern... — George works out a pattern…

...and settles on this elegant solution. Note the brick and block combination on the lowest terrace. — …and settles on this elegant solution. Note the brick and block combination on the lowest terrace.

Janet’s Journal Website Extra: More edging photos and advice

May 1, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Continued from page 54 of the May 2013 issue.

Photos by Steven Nikkila

Practical and pretty: This raised brick edge keeps loose material in the beds, nudges feet aside, and looks great in this traditional herb garden at Cranbrook House and Gardens in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan.

There are no plants surrounding these beds at the Detroit Zoo so there’s no reason to install a root barrier. Yet there is need for a foot barrier in a place so heavily trafficked. Weathered logs and dead branches are used because it's readily available material that's in keeping with the overall landscape, where wood from pruning or tree removal is used in exhibits as animal enrichment. — There are no plants surrounding these beds at the Detroit Zoo so there’s no reason to install a root barrier. Yet there is need for a foot barrier in a place so heavily trafficked. Weathered logs and dead branches are used because it’s readily available material that’s in keeping with the overall landscape, where wood from pruning or tree removal is used in exhibits as animal enrichment.

Metal can be longer lasting than plastic edging but it is just as likely to be forced up out of the ground if not set in well to begin.

Enjoy the look but don't rely on small fence or edge sections to block weeds. Even if they are deep enough to thwart the adjacent lawn or groundcover, they'll need help at the seams. — Enjoy the look but don’t rely on small fence or edge sections to block weeds. Even if they are deep enough to thwart the adjacent lawn or groundcover, they’ll need help at the seams.

Janet’s Journal: Age Before Beauty?

May 1, 2013 • 3 Comments

Lovers of old gardens can grow the species that can’t be rushed. False indigo (Baptisia australis) is one long-lived perennial that has to be planted, given room, and nearly forgotten before it “takes,” surprising us one May with a spectacular show. — Lovers of old gardens can grow the species that can’t be rushed. False indigo (*Baptisia australis*) is one long-lived perennial that has to be planted, given room, and nearly forgotten before it “takes,” surprising us one May with a spectacular show.

By Janet Macunovich / photos by Steven Nikkila

As a garden grows, so grows the gardener.

I spent a summer in England, ostensibly as nanny to a four year old niece. There, the brothers Cameron changed my life. These men—I never knew their first names, addressing both as “Mr. Cameron”—were caretakers of a church in Shenley Church End, Buckinghamshire. A Cameron had been the church caretaker, lived in that home, and tended the walled cottage garden since the late 1600’s.

My first visit was in early June when the elder Cameron found me studying headstones in the church graveyard. He asked me into the garden for tea. I invited myself back to talk flowers, and returned throughout the summer to run wheelbarrow and dig for the two, then 70 and 80 years old.

Back home in Michigan that fall, I dug over the garden I’d left behind and planned to change it from rows of vegetables and annuals to perennials. It went fallow into the winter, insulated under a thick layer of leaves, ready for a grand metamorphosis. I spent that winter buried in catalogues, searching out the seeds of plants I’d coveted through the summer, unaware of how much I myself was changing.

Sweet alyssum and thyme sow themselves in this path and are selectively weeded.

Now, more than a quarter century has passed and with it the Camerons’ garden and even Shenley Church End—swallowed in a conglomerate community called Milton Keynes. The church is closed, lost in a hard-to-find siding off the new traffic flow. Looking into the walled yard attached to the deserted caretaker’s house, you see only the field grass and weeds that come to abandoned ground everywhere.

Yet the inspiration I took from that delightful garden still grows.

Initially, I mistook its nature.

I worked happily in my garden for years, thinking to reproduce the plants, the sitting areas, the gracefully trained vines of the Camerons’ retreat. I felt some regret as my palate expanded to include species that were probably never available to the Camerons—it seemed I would leave their garden behind. After several seasons more, I was surprised to see that the similarities between what had developed here in Waterford and what had been there in Buckinghamshire were still greater than the differences. I understood then that my real goal had been and still was to recreate the feeling of that English garden, not a replica of its beds.

Only time and the environment can weave such intricate, engaging patterns where one spreading plant meets another. Golden star (Chrysogonum virginianum) and ‘Emerald Gaiety’ Euonymus). — Only time and the environment can weave such intricate, engaging patterns where one spreading plant meets another. Golden star (Chrysogonum virginianum) and ‘Emerald Gaiety’ euonymus.

More recently, I doubted the value of pursuing that feeling. When I began gardening on others’ properties as much or more as I gardened on my own, the thrill of the new garden claimed me. Working in my own beds was not as much fun as creating a garden from non-garden. Stripping sod, outlining beds on a clean slate, watching a design move from paper to reality produced a creative high that was tough to find except in a new garden. To make anything truly new in an established garden, so much energy had to be expended in preparation, just to clear away existing plants and memories!

Established gardens began to seem more trouble than they were worth in other ways. Plants overgrew their bounds, sometimes in ugly or destructive ways only partially remedied with tedious pruning and awkward restraints. Weeds that sneaked in and became entrenched could sometimes be eradicated only through wholesale slaughter of, or painstaking lifting and cleaning of desirable plants. Pests sometimes claimed the upper hand, particularly as conditions changed around older plants. Looking at sections of garden left thin and raw for these and other reasons, I began to think it would be better to tear everything out and start new every five or six years, or move to a new gardening site entirely.

We see so many images of mature, full gardens. It’s no wonder instant landscapes are on many wish lists.

Golden stonecrop (Sedum kamtschaticum) and Ajuga repens. — Golden stonecrop (*Sedum kamtschaticum*) and *Ajuga repens*.

Creeping red thyme (Thymus coccineum) — Creeping red thyme (*Thymus coccineum*)

Today, I’m back on the Camerons’ track. I have identified the seed which germinated in me back then as love of Hortus venerablus—the old garden. Even with its limitations, its advantages are overwhelming. It’s now inextricably rooted in my heart.

To name just a few advantages, beyond the obvious ones of mature hedges and trees that cast shade…

In a garden tended over many years to discourage weeds, the seed bank in the soil shifts. Where it may once have had a high proportion of crabgrass seed—a species which can survive 20 years in the soil, waiting its chance to rise to the surface and sprout—it may eventually contain more daisy and coreopsis than dandelion, more globe thistle and coneflower than chickweed. Bare the soil in a new garden and stand ready to hoe lamb’s quarters, dock, pigweed and spurge. Pull the mulch back from a bit of old bed and prepare to thin volunteer candytuft, pimpernel, campion and cranesbill. Weeding the cracks between new paving stones is a chore. Weeding the same spaces in an older garden, the tedium is broken by discovery and decisions to leave that patch of sweet alyssum, step over that seedling sedum, and allow that pesky Perilla to stay and shade out any other comers.

No amount of skill in planting can duplicate the beautiful way that nature weaves roots and stems among stones (Irish moss, Arenaria caespitosa verna). — No amount of skill in planting can duplicate the beautiful way that nature weaves roots and stems among stones (Irish moss, *Arenaria caespitosa verna*).

Only over time do natural organisms of all sizes take hold and reach a balance with each other. Fungal and bacterial diseases seem to move in first, but if the gardener keeps a level head and avoids trying to make the environment antagonistic to all such, a far greater number of benign and helpful microorganisms soon take hold. Some of these decompose organic matter, replacing store-bought fertilizer. Others infect and kill pests. Some are known to muscle into spaces each spring before their disease-causing relatives can reach them, creating a no-room-in-the-inn squeeze play that suppresses the proliferation of the baddies.

Worms, insect-eating insects, amphibians, birds and small mammals move in as the organic matter and smaller organisms they feed on become plentiful enough to support families. No wonder my long-ago trial with a hummingbird feeder failed! We should try again, now that there is so much better habitat, more water, more insects, an absence of bad-tasting pesticides and a wealth of alternative food sources. But then, why bother? The hummingbirds are here!

Above and below: Making a new garden appear where there was no garden before is so thrilling, it can almost convince us to just start fresh every five or six years.

A client, relatively new to gardening, once wanted me to transplant a particular plant from my garden to hers, and took offense when I declined the work. She didn’t understand my explanation that the plant’s above ground appearance was a direct reflection of an extensive, old root system and an equally extensive network of life in the soil. Simple refusal would have been my best route because the to-your-bones understanding of that situation usually comes only with experience and years. She would have to learn for herself that no amount of skill with a spade can succeed in a lasting transfer of the essence of old.

The thrill of the new still exhilarates me—I count myself fortunate to be able to feel it in large doses in clients’ and friends’ yards. Yet as an admirer of age, I’m also happier in my older beds, as delighted watching things grow as I am at their maturity. The “routines” of maintenance are more enjoyable and the unrealistic expectation that things will ever be and stay “done” crops up less. I may even be learning to coach others in cultivating an appreciation of both aspects of gardening.

Oh, to sip tea with the Camerons today, and talk to them of these things. How we might laugh over what I said and did then as I plotted to transplant Hortus venerablus!

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