There is a strip of my yard - a narrow, untended, overgrown strip between my neighbor's garage and the play area with a sandbox, trampoline and playhouse - where I put plants for one last shot at life in my care. They end up there because a) I don't really like them, b) I have too many of them, and like them too much to get rid of them, c) I have no idea what to do with them, or d) curious to see if this should be the plant that takes over this narrow strip.
Some unknown mint had taken over a garden along the side fence, so one summer I pulled all of it out ... it has one massive and stubborn white root system ...and threw it into the compost. Except for a few stray roots. Let's see if you really want to live! And I planted a few into no man's land.
A beautiful white Japanese anemone had taken over a front garden bed. Pulled it all out. No thick white roots here, but thin, hairlike roots that were almost impossible to completely irradicate. It still hides in corners of that bed, under the blue spruce, tangled into the monkshood and lady's slipper roots. Every spring those hairroots send up new growth and somehow manage a white flower before I yank them. I couldn't get rid of them all, could I? No. A few go into the "anything goes" patch.
I had clumps of iris that had to be separated. And when you separate iris, you either need to find many friends who need purple iris, or put them into unsuspecting neighbor's cars when they leave their doors unlocked, or dig up lawn to make more space for iris. After trying all of the above, I just gave up and put one iris clump on top of the ground on the strip of chaos. Didn't even plant it. (That's passive aggressive gardening). I'm not throwing you out. Quite. But not planting any more. I'll just set you here for a few chilly months. I'll check on you in the spring.
Yarrow? Yup. Random lily bulbs? Check. 2 raspberry bushes ... um yes. But those are different!!! There was a thought at the back of my head that maybe this random 'live if you want to' patch should become a nicely contained raspberry patch. There is really no other place for raspberries. But I couldn't quite get rid of all of the other courageous plants that will not die.
Were you wondering about the iris? The next spring, after abandoning the iris clump to the cold Saskatoon winter, I was taking a walkabout the yard, and that crazy iris was sending up shoots! It doesn't bloom there; doesn't get enough light, but it lives. The lily is blooming. I really cannot remember how it got there. The mint is spreading with abandon. It supplies flavor for a great grilled pepper recipe from Jeana. I'll get my first raspberries this summer.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
hot compost…
It was a secret withheld for years of my life.
I’d read about it in gardening magazines, but I knew no one who had successfully heated anything up in their backyard. My dad dismantled the composter in his yard after the neighbours complained of the smell. I tried one out of chicken wire – the pile of leaves just dried up more and sat stubbornly in a pile… through the winter they waited and sat through another summer; unchanged and uncomposted. I tried one out of a green garbage can, with holes drilled into it. It sometimes worked, but was more muck and smell than anything the magazines described.
During our first fall in Saskatoon I watched with horror as the gigantic poplar tree in our backyard covered our lawn (and all of the neighbors’ yards) with millions of huge lily pad sized leaves. I bagged them. Those 9 bags of leaves sat under the poplar tree for the winter… in the spring they were still there. 9 bags of leaves unchanged and uncomposted.
The second fall I just took the lawn mower to the offerings from that huge poplar. Drove over and mowed all of the leaves, dumped them in a pile in the back corner together with whatever grass clippings decided to come along, and soaked the whole thing. (My boys couldn’t figure out why I was watering the pile of leaves and grass.)
A few days later the first Saskatchewan snow fell, and when I looked into the backyard everything was white except that crazy pile of leaves. I went out to look, put my hand out, and felt heat radiating from that thing.
I’d read about it in gardening magazines, but I knew no one who had successfully heated anything up in their backyard. My dad dismantled the composter in his yard after the neighbours complained of the smell. I tried one out of chicken wire – the pile of leaves just dried up more and sat stubbornly in a pile… through the winter they waited and sat through another summer; unchanged and uncomposted. I tried one out of a green garbage can, with holes drilled into it. It sometimes worked, but was more muck and smell than anything the magazines described.
During our first fall in Saskatoon I watched with horror as the gigantic poplar tree in our backyard covered our lawn (and all of the neighbors’ yards) with millions of huge lily pad sized leaves. I bagged them. Those 9 bags of leaves sat under the poplar tree for the winter… in the spring they were still there. 9 bags of leaves unchanged and uncomposted.
The second fall I just took the lawn mower to the offerings from that huge poplar. Drove over and mowed all of the leaves, dumped them in a pile in the back corner together with whatever grass clippings decided to come along, and soaked the whole thing. (My boys couldn’t figure out why I was watering the pile of leaves and grass.)
A few days later the first Saskatchewan snow fell, and when I looked into the backyard everything was white except that crazy pile of leaves. I went out to look, put my hand out, and felt heat radiating from that thing.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Dandelion Dilemma
Written 12 years ago...
this bearer of dandelions bouquets will be 17 this summer.
5 inches into the ground with one hand,
and pull at the plant with the other hand
till the whole thing comes out of the ground.
Satisfied, you move to the next plant.
Quietly your 5 year old asks you what you are doing?
And you (with no small amount of guilt)
recall the little hands gripping precious yellow flowers,
bringing them into the kitchen with kisses
and promises that he will always bring you flowers...
every day when he is five, and then when he gets older
and even when he is a Grandpa,
he'll always bring you flowers.
this bearer of dandelions bouquets will be 17 this summer.
As your 5 year old comes and silently stands beside you,
you vigorously dig your long "dandelion root destroyer"5 inches into the ground with one hand,
and pull at the plant with the other hand
till the whole thing comes out of the ground.
Satisfied, you move to the next plant.
And you (with no small amount of guilt)
recall the little hands gripping precious yellow flowers,
bringing them into the kitchen with kisses
and promises that he will always bring you flowers...
every day when he is five, and then when he gets older
and even when he is a Grandpa,
he'll always bring you flowers.
The promise is sealed with a kiss.
Sitting on the grass
with my 5 year old's arms around me,
and a memory of a bright yellow bouquet on my kitchen table,
I wonder who thought to call them weeds.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
prairie footprints
straight lines betray our presence
telephone posts disappearing into the horizon
fading gold rows of last year's grain fields
rows of evergreens lining the farm yards
fenceposts rising and falling over the hills
telephone posts disappearing into the horizon
parallel tracks of steel
fading gold rows of last year's grain fields
but the river
meanders in and out of view
traveling through the valley it carved out for itself
in no hurry
to determine it's path
bushes and trees
tumble over the hills in dark veins
following the gathering rain as it tumbles out of the sky,
the wind-tousled tangle of grasses
give way to a fox and his tail
the horizon... stretching from sunrise to sunset
crooked line where land meets sky
interupted by poplar stands and house tops
blinking towers and river valleys
Saturday, June 4, 2011
prodigal
you have no idea what I would give
if you asked
you ask for half my inheritance
so that you can run away
it runs through your fingers like sand
turns to corn husk and mire
I would give it all to you
if you stayed
like sand on the sea shore
stars in the sky
if you asked
you ask for half my inheritance
so that you can run away
it runs through your fingers like sand
turns to corn husk and mire
I would give it all to you
if you stayed
like sand on the sea shore
stars in the sky
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
poplar pomp and circumstance
This creature overshadows the entire yard.
Not just mine - it sits strategically at the junction in our back yard
so that it can deposit spring stickies and yellow fall leaves
onto four different properties.
A good wind can give an even better distribution.
I love the fall yellow
the climbing challenge for strong teenage boys
who want to conquer the world
the birds who hide in the top canopy
and spy on the world
The roots keep surprising me.
Sometimes they masquerade
as underground sprinkler lines.
They meander into my garden,
tangling up my fork as it digs for potatoes.
They slip under my orderly patio bricks, and create
berms where they were not wanted.
They sneak across the lawn
and into the sand box.
And it doesn't matter where they run;
they are constantly testing me.
"Annnnnd ...GO!" A root sends up a shoot under the tree house.
If I don't pay attention, it calls its friends
and three more shoot up right beside the successful attempt.
If I find it and rip it off, it'll go into hibernation for a while.
But it'll come up somewhere else.
In the middle of the lawn. That takes nerve!
Along the fence? Sick. Didn't notice that one. Need a pruner for that small tree.
And slowly it begins to dawn on me...that I will never win this battle.
As I drive across the open prairies,
I see the poplars - they grow as families.
Rarely do you find a lone poplar.
If one is established, it automatically sends out roots
that are ready to go instantly from horizontal meandering to vertical scouts.
One storm blew through Delisle a few years ago,
breaking trees as old and established as my poplar
as though they were match sticks.
Those big old trunks couldn't hold their arms up through the storm.
As amazed as I was, I didn't feel sorry for them at all.
I knew them.
That wind may have set them back momentarily,
but the reserves were deep and ready.
Went back home and looked at my poplar.
My big old poplar whose leaves give us piles big enough to jump in,
whose branches could take out a garage, a garden shed,
several fences and a piece of our roof,
... it continues to preside over the junction.
It is positioned to take over the entire neighborhood.
If that trunk came down, the roots are ready with an instant replacement forest.
It wouldn't take long!
There is as much energy and potential underground as there is pomp and circumstance above the ground.
Well, you could hardly call the branches of a poplar "pomp and circumstance", could you?
Perhaps "sound and fury", or "flotsam and jetsam".
No, I'll go with pomp and circumstance.
Not just mine - it sits strategically at the junction in our back yard
so that it can deposit spring stickies and yellow fall leaves
onto four different properties.
A good wind can give an even better distribution.
I love the fall yellow
the climbing challenge for strong teenage boys
who want to conquer the world
the birds who hide in the top canopy
and spy on the world
The roots keep surprising me.
Sometimes they masquerade
as underground sprinkler lines.
They meander into my garden,
tangling up my fork as it digs for potatoes.
They slip under my orderly patio bricks, and create
berms where they were not wanted.
They sneak across the lawn
and into the sand box.
And it doesn't matter where they run;
they are constantly testing me.
"Annnnnd ...GO!" A root sends up a shoot under the tree house.
If I don't pay attention, it calls its friends
and three more shoot up right beside the successful attempt.
If I find it and rip it off, it'll go into hibernation for a while.
But it'll come up somewhere else.
In the middle of the lawn. That takes nerve!
Along the fence? Sick. Didn't notice that one. Need a pruner for that small tree.
And slowly it begins to dawn on me...that I will never win this battle.
As I drive across the open prairies,
I see the poplars - they grow as families.
Rarely do you find a lone poplar.
If one is established, it automatically sends out roots
that are ready to go instantly from horizontal meandering to vertical scouts.
One storm blew through Delisle a few years ago,
breaking trees as old and established as my poplar
as though they were match sticks.
Those big old trunks couldn't hold their arms up through the storm.
As amazed as I was, I didn't feel sorry for them at all.
I knew them.
That wind may have set them back momentarily,
but the reserves were deep and ready.
Went back home and looked at my poplar.
My big old poplar whose leaves give us piles big enough to jump in,
whose branches could take out a garage, a garden shed,
several fences and a piece of our roof,
... it continues to preside over the junction.
It is positioned to take over the entire neighborhood.
If that trunk came down, the roots are ready with an instant replacement forest.
It wouldn't take long!
There is as much energy and potential underground as there is pomp and circumstance above the ground.
Well, you could hardly call the branches of a poplar "pomp and circumstance", could you?
Perhaps "sound and fury", or "flotsam and jetsam".
No, I'll go with pomp and circumstance.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
peripheral vision
Star gazing with Randy has taught me a few things over the years ... one of those things is that when you are looking for a distant and fuzzy galaxy in the night sky, it is best to use one's peripheral vision. Things are a little clearer in the dark with the peripherals.
This morning I am thinking about the things I have seen in this neighborhood with my peripheral vision.
Driving up the driveway on a summer day, my neighbor Keith is often tending his beloved but slowly deteriorating Mayday tree. Its spring blossoms fill the neighborhood with a luscious fragrance, but one by one the branches are dying, and Keith would climb the ladder with his pruning shears and tend to the tree, to prolong it's life and cut out the dead wood.
His green truck headed often for the Railway museum, where Keith restored an old train station, bringing to life the train cars and engines. We have had many visits over the fence, or standing on the driveway about trains, and stations, and railways in Saskatchewan. He knew every track that was laid, which ones were being torn up, the way the towns in Saskatchewan were named alphabetically along the tracks, the history of the railroad. The year that I used trains as an analogy for speaking at Redberry, reading Pierre Burton's books on the Canadian railroad, Keith took me to the museum for a tour (just at the junction of the #7 and the Pike Lake Road). It is a wonderful place.
When we moved into the neighborhood, I was in a hurry to hang pictures on the walls. Didn't want to wait till the boxes were completely unpacked, and besides, had no idea where the hammer might be. I went next door, and asked Keith if he would happen to have a hammer handy, that we could borrow for a moment. He informed me that I had come to the right place - he had a hammer in every room. Over the years we were to discover that he had the right tool for every job. When ice accumulated on the driveway - he had a heavy de-icer. When digging out my shrub in the front yard, Fran informed me that they had just the right spade for that job - hanging on the back of the garage.
He lent us his green truck when it was time to load up our flower baskets and climbing morning glory screens for Josie and Mitch's wedding.
Much of what Keith did was behind the scenes ... something that doesn't take place on centre stage. But if you paid attention with your peripheral vision, you'd see Keith coming and going, or in the yard; slowly, and methodically doing the things that needed doing.
Last night the comings and goings came to an end.
The neighborhood will miss you. The Klassens will miss you.
Peace to the family as you grieve this wonderful, and kind man.
This morning I am thinking about the things I have seen in this neighborhood with my peripheral vision.
Driving up the driveway on a summer day, my neighbor Keith is often tending his beloved but slowly deteriorating Mayday tree. Its spring blossoms fill the neighborhood with a luscious fragrance, but one by one the branches are dying, and Keith would climb the ladder with his pruning shears and tend to the tree, to prolong it's life and cut out the dead wood.
His green truck headed often for the Railway museum, where Keith restored an old train station, bringing to life the train cars and engines. We have had many visits over the fence, or standing on the driveway about trains, and stations, and railways in Saskatchewan. He knew every track that was laid, which ones were being torn up, the way the towns in Saskatchewan were named alphabetically along the tracks, the history of the railroad. The year that I used trains as an analogy for speaking at Redberry, reading Pierre Burton's books on the Canadian railroad, Keith took me to the museum for a tour (just at the junction of the #7 and the Pike Lake Road). It is a wonderful place.
When we moved into the neighborhood, I was in a hurry to hang pictures on the walls. Didn't want to wait till the boxes were completely unpacked, and besides, had no idea where the hammer might be. I went next door, and asked Keith if he would happen to have a hammer handy, that we could borrow for a moment. He informed me that I had come to the right place - he had a hammer in every room. Over the years we were to discover that he had the right tool for every job. When ice accumulated on the driveway - he had a heavy de-icer. When digging out my shrub in the front yard, Fran informed me that they had just the right spade for that job - hanging on the back of the garage.
He lent us his green truck when it was time to load up our flower baskets and climbing morning glory screens for Josie and Mitch's wedding.
Much of what Keith did was behind the scenes ... something that doesn't take place on centre stage. But if you paid attention with your peripheral vision, you'd see Keith coming and going, or in the yard; slowly, and methodically doing the things that needed doing.
Last night the comings and goings came to an end.
The neighborhood will miss you. The Klassens will miss you.
Peace to the family as you grieve this wonderful, and kind man.
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