Pruning Roses

Although I prune roses every year, and have for decades, I really don’t know what I’m doing. Yes, I know about outward facing buds, crossing branches, and twiggy growth, but when confronted with an actual rose, those directives feel very abstract. And somewhat useless. So before I make the first cut I think about two things. First, there was the year I didn’t get to the shrub roses at the Glasbern Inn soon enough to suit the owner. He took a chain saw and sheared them at a height of about 18 inches, and you guessed it—they bloomed beautifully that year. The second example came in an article I read a year or two ago, written by a British rose grower (who must have been an excellent gardener because he lived in England). In the article were photos of pruned and unpruned roses side by side. There was absolutely no difference between the two!

Armed with the knowledge that pruning roses is not a matter of life or death I put on my rose-colored glasses and make up my own rules. My rule with the vigorous ‘New Dawn’ rose wired to this historic brick wall is, if a lateral branch sticks out too far I cut it back. Horizontals I don’t touch unless they’re sprawling in the wrong direction. As for the dozens of shrub roses at the Glasbern, no one rule applies. Some are in locations that have become shaded over time, so I allow them to reach (through weeping hemlocks or up against stone walls) for the sun. To do otherwise would be cruel. I groom most of my shrub roses (‘Carefree Delight’, a couple of Easy Elegance roses, and a mix of Meidilands) fairly lightly, pruning off last year’s hips and cutting long canes back to two to three feet. I leave the cascading roses that drape down from a height of 15-20 feet toward the Glasbern parking lot below completely alone. For one thing, I would need a crane (and some really tough gloves) to prune them safely, and for another, I want them to eventually coat the entire bank with luxurious pink blooms. At that point I may rethink my non-strategy.

Without fail, all of the roses reward my fumbling attempts at grooming them with an exuberant show. This, by the way, was the perfect week to prune roses.

Or not.

Spring Garden

I only went out to cut some forsythia.

But the sweet little white crocuses that opened up this morning were such a welcome sight that I had to photograph them. And then there I was on my knees worshipping the spinach as it peeped out from under its bed of straw and admiring the strappy foliage of Tulipa clusiana that was curling around under the hydrangea … which called to me as I passed and insisted that I cut off the scruffy remains of last year’s flowers. 

Garlic greens were poking through the soil (yes!) and Jackmanii clematis was tangled all through my sweet Carol Mackie, a situation I could not just pass by without correcting. Gray-white Nepeta foliage demanded to be set free of last year’s brittle remains, and that old spiraea stump yielded (finally) to my not-so-gentle pushing and broke off at its rotten base. It takes, you might or might not be interested to know, three years for a decades-old Spiraea x vanhouttei to mostly disappear after it’s cut off at ground level. Viburnum setigerum berries are still hanging juicily aside pregnant leaf buds, fermenting. Maybe the birds that have eschewed them all winter will now begin to find them fascinating.

Piles of snow still rest in shady corners, and the soil is too cold to sprout much besides bittercress, onion grass, and last year’s larkspur seedlings. It is not spring yet.

But the sun is shining and the view, though short in stature, is tall in promise.

The itch tickles. 

A Tree Falls in Peru

Why might you cut a tree down in a landscape where trees are as scarce as trillium in a deer-infested forest? This is what I asked Joachina and Fermina when they took a rare break from whirling around the 25-30 foot tree, which had been chopped from the base of El Misti mountain in southern Peru, and dragged and set into the center of a playing field, only to be ceremoniously axed once again. “It’s tradition,” they replied. Then they returned to the business of swirling their beautiful costumes while skillfully balancing the traditional hats perched precariously atop their heads.

 

Being a skeptical American I thought, there must be more to it than that. And no doubt there is, but either the origins have been lost in Incan history or they are a deeply held secret. At the end of each Carnivale (of which there are many in Peru) the native people don their fine costumes, each representative of a particular region. The drag a tree to the scene, decorate its branches with small gifts and balloons, and dance from afternoon until the job is done. Each dancer takes an occasional ceremonial whack at the trunk until at some point late in the evening—these things can’t be rushed—the tree falls and releases the gifts from its branches. The winning whacker gets the tree.

The ceremony (well, party—the dance requires tall stacks of cases of beer) I witnessed was on the outskirts of Arequipa, a dirt-brown city of about a million people that sits 7800 feet above sea level on the desert coast of Peru. Joachina and Fermina had moved to Arequipa from a much smaller, much higher (12,500 feet), and much greener city, Puno, which is on the shore of Lake Titicaca. Thus they wore the handsome skirts and hats from that region. Could it be that the tradition made its way from the rainier, more mountainous regions to the dry areas closer to the coast? Although that particular mystery will remain unsolved, I came away with other insights. 

Among them:

Tradition and ceremony offer great rewards.

The carbon value of a single tree was vastly outweighed by the joy it brought to the Carnivale participants.  

In our culture, we just don’t dance enough.  

Big Snow

How big? Maybe 17 inches. Big.
Big enough to keep my spinach and garlic very very snug. I expect big things from them in spring, because snow is good for the garden.

A good snow cover keeps the ground at a steady temperature, preventing  freeze/thaw cycles that are damaging to plants.

 A really good snow cover will protect plants from deer browse. Unfortunately it may make them more vulnerable to mouse and vole damage.

Snowfall takes nitrogen from the air and releases it slowly into the soil. Very little of it ends up in the storm drains.

10 inches of snow = 1 inch of rain. 10 inches of snow falling on an acre of ground is equivalent to about 27,150 gallons of water.  That’s 113 tons.

"After a copious fall of snow, an observer may find in the scenery which it forms, matter on which to exercise his powers of reflection." ~Andrew Steinmetz, 1867

"Take long walks in stormy weather or through deep snows in the 

fields and woods, if you would keep your spirits up. 

Deal with brute nature. Be cold and hungry and weary." 

~Henry David Thoreau

"Getting an inch of snow is like winning 10 cents in the lottery."

~Bill Watterson (creator of Calvin and Hobbes)

"I used to be Snow White, but I drifted." ~Mae West

Winter Garden

My state of mind in winter follows a similar pattern every year. First relief. Snow covers the ground, nothing is growing, and I don’t have to cut and cart away any more dead plants. Then an extravagance of energy with no place to spend it. Sit down and read? In the afternoon? Then, sometime in January, I relax into the winter schedule—sleep a little later, dive into a class, get physically lazy. But a walk at the Glasbern last week reminded me that it’s all still out there, and as beautiful as ever.

Helleborus foeditus is already in bud.

Ilex verticillata -- soon the birds will find it.

Mugo pine

Opuntia humifusa, conserving water.

Corylus contorta. Tortured. Fascinating.

Moss and lichens

And the blue tree steals the scene.

Ordering Seeds!

It’s bitter cold and windy. My arugula finally gave up, and Wegman’s tomatoes are starting to look attractive (but not enough so to actually buy). It must be time to order seeds!

If you know my garden then you know how particular I have to be. I have no space for roaming squashes or rows of bush beans, so I make a list and prune it twice. The problem is, I can’t get away with ordering from just one catalog. Or even two. My list of favorites just won't mesh with the offerings of my favorite suppliers, High Mowing Seeds and Territorial. And a couple of “must haves” are not in either catalog! Sorry Jodi and Josh. So much for brand loyalty …

For example:

‘Beedy’s Camden Kale’ is the tastiest tenderest kale that I’ve tried. There may be a better one out there, but I’m not a gambler when it comes to kale. Only Fedco carries it. Fortunately, Fedco has other merits: free shipping for orders over $30, lots of heirloom flower seeds, and good prices. I'll get my order to $30 ... somehow.

Verde da Taglio green chard, from Seeds from Italy, is in my opinion the only chard worth eating. The reds and yellows look great in the garden, no doubt about it, but for taste ... I say go for the green. This is the only thing in this catalog I'm driven to order (although they do have a kale they claim is the tastiest ... tempting, but no) so I'll probably gamble on another highly-rated chard from another seed seller. If anyone reading this orders green chard from Seeds from Italy, I'll trade you some Beedys ...

'Loma' lettuce from Territorial, a Batavia, has been an absolute favorite for several years. It's crisp, long lasting, and a good seed producer. In fact I don't even need to buy seed because I always let a plant or two go to seed every year. But I do plan on trying a new lettuce, 'Two Star', also in Territorial's catalog. They have a chard, 'Perpetual', that looks promising, and I will certainly order my preferred Genovese-type basil, 'Aroma 1', which doesn't flower as readily as others, and 'Fortex' pole bean, really tender and a champion producer. Also, crimson clover, my favorite little nitrogen-fixer, and 'Mr. Majestic' marigold. So Territorial comes through!

Burpee is by far the most expensive seed catalog, but unfortunately it's the only one to offer 'Fireworks' gomphrena, which I must have. And as long as I'm ordering from Burpee, the Pot Luck dahlias are tempting. They also have 'Northern Lights' pentas, which I highly recommend, but only if you have access to a greenhouse.

I will not order tomato seeds, as I only have space for about three plants. I plan to buy starts from Eagle Point or Meadow View farm, because I know they raise them from seed. Last summer a southern mega-producer managed to inoculate the entire northeast with Late Blight by shipping infected seedlings to big-box stores. So live and learn, and buy your seedlings only from a trusted source!
As for tomato varieties, my sources tell me that 'Plum Regal' and 'Mountain Magic' are extremely blight resistant. Unfortunately I don't see them on the market. I will try to find 'Husky Cherry', the best container tomato I know, and 'Ramapo', a productive and very tasty mid-sized tomato.

It can make sense for gardeners to order seeds cooperatively, in larger quantities, and share.

So, what are you ordering?

Vintage Garden Tools

I have a thing for old tools.

Tin secateurs, curved sickles, and bent-wire cultivators are among my favorite finds. My very first acquisition was a pair of elegant secateurs, which I discovered in an antique store in Milford, New Jersey. The owner obviously did not appreciate their magnificence … “You can have it for a buck,” he said, somewhat dismissively. I paid quickly before he could notice the obvious beauty of the sleek lines, and the ingenious curved tin spring that held the blades open. At home, I scrubbed the handles with steel wool, oiled and sharpened the blades, and then found a spot on my kitchen wall.

And so I was hooked. I began checking local antique shops, looking for dusty bins and boxes in back rooms that held unappreciated treasures: spades with carved wood handles, two-handed scythes, dandelion pullers with bent shafts. In Ely, England I found a graceful swan-necked hand hoe of fearsome heft and useful length and snuggled it inside sweaters in my suitcase, hoping that it did not arouse Custom officers’ suspicions. A curved sickle was my next find. I’ve never actually used a sickle, though it was the one tool the Communist party chose to represent agriculture and linked with the hammer, icon of industry, on a field of blood to create the Soviet flag. This makes me think that I should sharpen it, and discover its usefulness.

Someday I will have enough worthy tool treasures (to be worthy they must be graceful in design and efficient in use) to create a wall of garden tools, all shined up and sharpened. They remind me of human ingenuity, of the importance of craft, of the traditions of farming … at least that’s how I justify my old-tool mania.

The simple truth is, I just like to look at them.