As the incredible NASA rover seeks signs of extinct life on Mars, I don jacket, gloves and boots to discover life in the garden.
My quest lacks any scientific or other significance, but it’s exciting for me. To behold snowdrop blossoms, crocus shoots and swelling magnolia buds fires hope.
In this part of the Midwest, winter sets no records (so far). Still it’s been a trial. Months of always cold, mostly gray weather preceding a snowy mostly subfreezing February. As the snow pack melts away, daily excursions across the backyard wasteland produce a harvest of sightings.
Just as NASA chose a landing site rich in potential for discovery, I too, know where to search. My eyes carefully scan little warm places, microclimates where the scant winter sun strikes longest and protected areas near the house.
In mid-January the snowdrops beside the walk near the backdoor were opening. As the piles of snow melted in late February, there they stood as if nothing happened. Deliberately planting such tiny wonders in places easily seen from the warmth of indoors enhances the show (no jacket, gloves and boots are needed to see them). I also plant clumps of these early birds elsewhere in the garden to enliven forays into the brown world of wintery death and dormancy.
More than green awaits. Sound is back.
Water trickles into the roof gutters overhead as the snow mass melts. Occasionally crystal icicles shatter as they plunge from rooftop glaciers. Little streams, once muted by an ice slab, babble again.
The resident male cardinal, who began singing pretty regularly about Valentine’s Day, is joined by other birds almost every morning.
Even before melting commenced and birds chirped, I brushed snow from the glass top of the tiny cold frame to speed warming. I cleared weeds and debris from this solar-heated grow box in January, and have been looking for weed seeds sprouting at least once a week since. Germinating weed seeds will indicate it’s warm enough under glass to plant cold tolerant greens for a jump on the growing season.
Snowdrops, as their name implies, aren’t afraid of being among the first blooms of the year.
By Michael Leach
My garden spends months waiting to exhale into green tips and tiny blossoms. This breath of life is held captive all winter beneath a crust of cold, wet soil, dull brown leaves and leaden clouds.
Despite the seeming dormancy, daffodils, crocus, snowdrops and other early bloomers have little patience with this situation. They make the best of it for weeks, by growing roots. But eventually the time comes to send up pinpoints of green. Timid at first, they grow bolder in the warmer, longer days.
Bees enjoy the early flowers of snow crocus, too.
More and more plants join them. With this breath of life called spring, the earth is transformed, almost as we watch, into green everywhere, swelling flower buds, blossoms opening. In just a few weeks, this part of the Midwest will be filled with a chartreuse haze, softer than a whisper, that seems to hover over every branch and twig. Hillsides become fluffy, pale green clouds, accented with tufts of redbud and dogwood flowers.
Daffodils push their way through the cold soil and old leaves. Flowers will soon appear.
Even as those first tiny shoots begin sticking it to winter’s backside, cardinals sing again in early morning. They are probably only marking territory, but I prefer to think they’re heralding the coming spring.
Redwing blackbirds do the same thing, singing brightly. Spring is coming, along with those migrating birds. True, bitter winds, snow and ice can make an appearance anytime in March — usually after a couple of balmy days — but their return is short lived. No wonder birds sing with hope.
Adding to the effect, is a powerful artificial construct — daylight savings time returns not long after the redwings.
There are downsides to this. One, the inevitable poor man’s jet lag of getting the body adjusted to a new time zone — without leaving home to visit a different place. And for a few weeks, morning coffee will revert to waiting for signs of dawn, instead of marveling at the play of light on the white sycamore branches. Evening, however, suddenly grows longer, hinting at summertime.
This gift of evening light from the government could mean a bit of weeding after supper. Or I could gaze at the charming, ever-changing scene. The latter choice is wisest, for spring vanishes almost as quickly as the last note of a cardinal’s cheery trill.
Spring usually goes from: “It’s never, never, never going to
arrive” to “I’m weeks behind schedule” in 17 nano seconds or less. Gardeners
are body-slammed from the tedium of winter house arrest into a frantic, aching
rush tackling endless chores.
But don’t panic. We are here to help with suggestions based on our experience of tasks that are best done sooner than later. One of the first things you should decide is what to-dos can wait for later in the season. Pick your battles wisely. For instance, if it’s too wet, cold or the schedule too packed, skip some of those early vegetables and plant them in late summer for fall harvest. Here are other ideas.
Michael’s suggestions
Take photos of borders and beds to
see what areas need filling when bulb planting time arrives. Memories fade
almost as quickly as the snowdrops and hyacinths.
Apply weed preventer to reduce
tedious work in pavements, beds and borders. Organic and nonorganic products
are available, but nothing is 100 percent effective. Unless arctic
conditions are expected to persist for weeks, I start in late winter with
the brick patio and walk. These face south and warm quickly. The gravel drive
is next and then beds and borders. Following label instructions, apply just
before rain and save watering the products in. Record-setting precip last year
— much in the form of gulley-washing downpours — mean more frequent treatment.
(Caveat – preventers don’t distinguish between desired self-sown flowers and
weed seeds.)
Drop everything and schedule an
escape to a nearby state park, botanic garden or stretch of lovely country
driving. Spend a few hours or better a day savoring the joy of spring
fever. What a waste of time, you’re probably thinking. If poet William
Wordsworth had spent that fateful spring day planting potatoes and cabbages
instead of “wandering lonely as a cloud” among the “host of golden daffodils,
all he would have had was a crossed-off to-do list. Instead, we have his
timeless ode to spring and some of it glorious flowers. Your spirit needs
lifted just as much as his. Hit the road.
Debra’s suggestions:
Now is the time to weed. Spring
rains soften the soil which allows annual and perennial weeds to be removed;
roots and all. Weeding can be a morning meditative practice. It is also an
opportunity to roam your gardens with a cup of tea in one hand and a weed
bucket in the other. Just make sure the weeds go into the bucket and not your
tea.
Start your seeds for melons, squash,
kohlrabi, and cabbages inside. Direct seed into the garden crops that like
cooler soils: peas, lettuces, mesclun mixes, tatsoi, mizuna, kale, collards,
dill, and cilantro. Transplant the tomato and chili seedlings that you started
in early March into larger pots.
Visit the garden center to shop for cold-loving
herbaceous plants like pansies and violas, primroses, and snapdragons.
These spring beauties add early color to borders and containers. Even try
mixing them with edibles like lettuce and kale for your spring
containers. Cuttings of willow and yellow-twig dogwood add further
interest.
Watch for the early ground bees.
Their small burrows are easy to step on and crush
Sit for a moment or three and marvel
at the life that is emerging from the ground. And remember to breathe…
Teresa’s suggestions
Rework tired beds. On a cool overcast day, dig everything from the bed and place the plants on a tarp in the shade. Divide overgrown plants, toss unhealthy ones, move some to other beds or give others away. Work compost into the bed then replant the existing plants and add others as needed.
Edge beds while the ground is soft. A clean edge adds definition to borders and helps control weeds. See Michael’s post on edging.
Prune dead, damaged and diseased branches from shrubs. After spring-flowering shrubs bloom, they can be pruned for size and shape. Also, remove suckers from crabapples and the base of trees like magnolias.
Remove invasive plants from natural areas, perhaps a wooded area at the back of your property. Look for bush honeysuckle, garlic mustard, multi-flora rose, lesser celandine and autumn olive – all aggressive plants that crowd out other valuable plants and wildflowers. For tips, see http://ohiodnr.gov/invasiveplants or join an invasive plant volunteer work day at a local park.
Buds on a star magnolia offer promises of brighter, warmer days ahead.
By Michael Leach
Winter brings special magic to the garden. Visions of snowy branches, frosty twigs and bluish moon shadows on clear frigid nights come to mind. But sunshine is part of the potion.
Seeds of northern sea oats glow in morning light.
In this part of the Midwest, winter sunlight can be a rare and fleeting phenomenon. Weeks of gray skies are not unusual. So there is delight when the sun makes an appearance. When those welcome rays appear in early morning and late afternoon, the garden glows softly with the burnishing effects from the sun low on the horizon.
Plumes of ornamental grasses stand out against the somber backdrop of evergreens.
The poem on a garden plaque I keep meaning to buy starts, “The kiss of the sun for pardon … .” That kiss in winter, no matter how brief and infrequent, warms my heart regardless of the temperature.
Sycamore branches are tinted with the first rays of a February day.
In recent weeks I collected images of this warming touch. Perhaps they will inspire you to go forth in the remaining days of winter to look for special effects and golden vignettes before becoming overwhelmed with all the work that lies ahead.
The withered giant leaf of a prairie dock wears the gilt of sunshine on a winter morn.
Love ’em or hate ’em, yuccas seem magical at dawn on a clear winter day.
A walk in the woods in late afternoon brings enchantment and the voice of the woodland.
How to grow a winter garden without raising the heating bill
By Michael Leach
Wearin’ o’ the green is one thing. I prefer eating greens, especially those fresh from the garden. With floating row cover, and a bit of Irish luck, this is doable on St. Patrick’s Day and weeks before — even in the Midwest.
By chance I discovered floating row cover does more than keep cabbage butterflies away from the kale, collards, turnips and other cold tolerant greens. I plant these in late summer for a fall, winter and spring harvest. This lightweight agricultural fabric helps the plants resist winter weather, apparently by offering some wind protection. Even without row covers, kale and collards have grown well into December in some years.
While Debra was gathering rosemary during our spate of Zone 7 winters in our Zone 6 world, I harvested small amounts of greens almost weekly. Dim winter days slowed production to mere bragging rights over a few leaves in darkest December and January.
But by the end of February, the combination of warmer readings and longer days triggered new leaves and harvests two or three times a week.
This year things are different, due to one of the coldest winters in a generation. The lush, venerable greens, planted last spring, died despite the row cover. A cursory check shows little hope of new life arising from the roots.
The younger plants of late summer provided the season’s first small harvest of greens — just in time for celebrating St. Patrick’s Day. That’s no Blarney. Seasoned with a bit of butter, sea salt, pepper and bragging rights they were awesome.
(For inspiration on growing your own winter garden, check out Eliot Coleman’s books based on his experience of year-round vegetable gardening in Maine without heated greenhouses. Visit his website.)
