WHAT'S GROWING ON

            “Midwinter” doesn’t exactly conjure cheery mental images. Usual adjectival accompaniers run to “gloomy,” “bleak,” “bitter,” “dark,” “frozen,” “hopeless,” “dead.” This is the time of year when not getting an audition invitation after taking the “Jeopardy!” online test can precipitate a downward spiral. It’s a time of snow-smothered landscapes, short grey days, long black nights, seasonal affective disorder, hypothermia, hibernation.

New Bed arbor, stripped of vines

            Except not everywhere, and not all the time. Here in SENC, for instance, January presented its mild side. Sure, I don long-sleeved shirts and shoes to work outside, but my ancient, ratty work-jacket doesn’t usually last more than ten minutes. Humming tunelessly, I cut back brown and crunchy top-growth of plants that one of our three frosts finally got to. The beds tidied, I meander over to the south side of the house, looking for likely candidates to stick in the ground.

            For all my frozen-precipitation-blitzed friends in the Chicago and Seattle areas, here’s a horticultural report from chez Fitz.

            Bulbs: Great swaths of my small yard look quite warlike, with clumps of dagger-like daffodil, bearded iris and Leucojum aestivum (summer snowflake) foliage protruding from leafy mulch. Floppy tangles of Lycoris radiata (spider lily) and Ipheion uniflorum (starflower) soften the bellicose look, while strappy, bright green leaves of Scilla peruviana grab the eye. Scrabbling around on my hands and knees in the back garden last Saturday, I found evidence of Tulipa turkestanica to come under the Southern crabapple (Malus angustifolia). Yee-haw!

Scilla peruviana, daffodil and Leucojum

    foliage emerging (front to back)

Floppy Lycoris foliage

           

 

            Edibles: On the advice of Pender County Extension agent Charlotte Glen, the first batch of peas went in the ground last week, more than a month earlier than last year. Miss Charlotte suggested soaking the pea seeds for six to eight hours to aid germination, so I did. Fingers crossed! 

Packets of 'Wando' & 'Alaska' pea seeds

I heard back from Irish Eyes Garden Seeds farmer Greg Lutovsky, who patiently and in words of one syllable initiated me to the mysteries of growing potatoes. Did you know, for instance, that potato tubers grow up from the seed piece, not down (making the necessity of hilling crystal clear)? Or that crowding the seed eyes at planting may result in more tubers, but they’ll be small? Or that not all potato plants flower, because pollination isn’t necessary to tuber formation? (In response to this question, Mr. Greg somewhat tersely responded, “You don’t eat flowers.”) All this was news to me, despite all the books and articles on the subject I’d read. 

Puny collards 

& flourishing parsley

The strawberries—especially the ‘Fragola d’Bos’—look great. My lettuces and flat-leaved parsley are going strong. The front-garden blueberries show some signs of life, and the potting-bench trio never even lost their leaves.  The best I can say for collards, however, is they’re still alive. There’s probably an arcane secret to getting them to grow larger, too, that I have yet to run across in print.

Eleagnus berries, almost ripe

Ugly Agnes (Eleagnus x ebbingii), whose tiny flowers perfumed the whole yard October through December, has set fruit. The sandpaper-textured berries are tartly delightful when fully ripe and red, but will pucker your kisser if you pluck ’em too early or too orange. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

(Somebody oughta write a book, to put all this pertinent information together in one place, don’t you think? Oh, wait! Somebody has! If only some other somebody would publish it.)

            Other: The ornamental apricot (Prunus mume ‘Peggy Clarke’) continues to produce its button-shaped, intensely pink blooms, punctuating the pervasive green and brown. Under the clothesline-turned-wisteria-support, Edgeworthia chysantha’s tight white buds continue to avoid squirrel depredations. They don’t look like much, not even open (the buds, not the squirrels), but their fragrance puts them in the same class of winter sweeteners as Daphne odora, tea olive (Osmanthus fragrans) and winter honeysuckle (Lonicera fragratissima).

Edgeworthia chrysantha buds

Prunus mume 'Peggy Clarke'

 Hollyhock foliage,

January 21, 2012

  

            It’s the hollyhocks that surprised me most. Despite three frosts, they’re perky as young Goldie Hawn. These same hollyhocks were the leaffooted bugs’ nursery last spring, so I have mixed feelings about their survival. Still, that sturdy green anchoring the mostly brown-hued New Bed is optimistic… and now I know enough to spritz any wiener-bugs I spy with insecticidal soap. Early and often.

           As always, playing in the yard generates cheerfulness, something in rather short supply on my part inside the house these short, nippy—one might say “snippy”—days. Paying attention to the natural world invariably raises spirits, even for depressives like me, whose “Jeopardy!”-dependent retirement plans just got put off for another few years.

*****

My-my-my-my my Orion (1-21-12)

            In celestial news, Globe at Night wrapped up its first citizen-scientist project of 2012 on the 23rd. Sorry I didn’t alert you sooner, but Sky-Guy kinda fell down on the job: he didn’t mention it until his post of the 18^th, and I didn’t read it until the 19^th. Fortunately, we had an achingly clear sky that night, and all of our neighbors’ outside lights were off, so my view of Orion and his companions was superb. For the first time ever, I could make out the arc of his bow, pointing directly at poor ol’ Taurus’ triangular head. I stood outside in the middle of the street in my pajamas and aforementioned ratty work-jacket until my neck insisted I look somewhere else, preferably down. It was glorious.

            Not to worry—Globe at Night has three more projects on tap for February 12-21 (Orion again), March 13-22 (Orion and Leo), and April 11-20 (Leo). This time I won’t wait for Sky-Guy to provide details, so if you’d like to exercise your scientist chops and chip in your two-cents worth about world-wide light pollution, watch this space. Or go to the website linked above.

            And thanks for dropping by.

                                                                                    Kathy

FRESH STARTS

            Tim and I aren’t big on New Year’s resolutions. I’d like to say it’s because, when we notice a problem, we move to fix it right away instead of waiting for January 1 of the following year. I’d also like to say we don’t have lists of resolutions because we don’t need improving; unfortunately, that would be a lie. (Sorry, honey.) The root cause of our lack of interest in the short-lived post-Christmas spate of virtue? New Year’s is just another day chez Fitz, coming and going without deviations from usual bedtimes, dropping balls, bowl games, alcohol-fueled revelries, and hazy, headachy days-after.

            This year, however—not on the first, but around the fourth or fifth—I promised myself (okay, resolved) something. I vowed to play my piano at least 52 times during 2012.

The engagement piano

            “Playing the piano” is relative, of course. I’m not a good pianist, never was. No talent for it whatsoever. Ten years of lessons from the saintly (and/or tone-deaf) Mrs. May Flowers (no, really, that was her name) left me with the ability to read musical notation, a working knowledge of which key each note represents, and an abiding love of solo piano music. Except for the years 1972-1980, there’s been a piano within 30 feet of me when I’m home.

            My first material gift from Tim—he himself was the first first gift—was an ebony petit grand; the engagement piano, we call it.

The engagement piano, repaired and

with legs reattached, and oak bookcase

from Schenectady frame a selection

of Tim's paintings in our living room

            When we moved to Oak Island from Schenectady, the only possessions we brought were the mattresses, Great-Aunt Helen’s cedar chest, an 1859 boot-jack chest, two oak bookcases, our clothes, our books, Adolph the cat, and the piano. (The Mayflower guys dropped the piano going down the stairs from the Schenectady apartment, and lost half the bolts that attach the piano’s legs and pedals. One of the cedar chest’s four pillow feet disappeared, too. “Let’s look in the truck,” Tim suggested. “Oh, no,” the moving man replied. “They won’t be in there.” Tim suspects there’s a Flying Dutchman-like van chock-full of bizarre bits and pieces eternally traveling the Interstates of the U.S. and Canada.)

            Anyway. I haven’t played much the last several years, and not at all since I started blogging. Even though I suck—to call a spade a spade—I miss it. The resolution-ish inspiration struck me on a day Tim was out helping a friend set up his new computer. More computer repair and revival jobs mean more blocks of time when it’s just me and the cats to endure the mis-strikes. I played about 40 minutes that day, and again this past Friday afternoon. And it felt really, really good to reconnect with something I love. Which is the point.

*****

            Another promise I made myself—this one before Christmas—is to limit my computer just-diddlin’ to mornings. I try not to turn the damn thing on more than once a day. (Yes, we unplug our machines when they’re not in active use. Saves energy. How vital is it for Microsoft or Mac to be at the ready at all times? I mean, if you’re not working for NORAD, or anything like that.)

Knitting projects multiply

            This frees up evenings for knitting, another fun and productive use of time. Projects are multiplying—preemie caps, baby blankets, more penguin sweaters, and mittens and hats to be donated; a made-to-order scarf and another vest for Tim. I’m having a ball (pun intended). The staff of Wilmington’s JoAnn’s Fabrics loves seeing us cruise into the parking lot.

             About those mittens and hats. I’m working on a set for a child in my friend Barb's remedial reading class at Southport Elementary. Her mom (the child’s, not Barb’s) just walked out at the beginning of the school year, and dad is overwhelmed with the demands of parenting three kids under the age of eight. So the school—which doesn't have enough to do what with No Child Left Behind busywork, providing two hot meals a day, instilling values, and, oh, yes, education—is trying to mother these kids. It breaks my heart, the stories Barb tells in such a matter-of-fact voice. When I asked her what books she'd like us to contribute this fall—a twice-yearly tradition between us— she looked at me and said, "It's gotten more basic than that. I need food. The kids are hungry." Then I think about the skillions of dollars being poured into political campaigns to make sure nothing meaningful changes—Obama hopes to raise 100 million toward his re-election this quarter; while profligate Republican buffoons spend wildly to vouchsafe themselves a place at the ultimate trough. Meanwhile, little kids, here in my own neighborhood, are so hungry they can't concentrate on learning how to read. One $2000 Saville Row or Brooks Brothers suit would translate to a lot of juice boxes, fruit snacks, and peanut-butter crackers.

           Appalled? Want to help, since it’s a sure bet government isn’t gonna? Do two things. 1) Contact a teacher-friend or the local Communities in Schools organization to find out what the undernourished, ill-clad, under-loved children in your bailiwick—and there will be many—need most: and 2) Never, ever, vote for an incumbent.

*****

Seed catalog sampler for 2012

The seed catalogs are rolling in, enticing me with their promises of future delights. Why I allow myself to get roped in every January is a mystery, given my spotty success with growing from seed. Must be my masochistic streak. Or convenient memory.

            On the surface of it, seed-starting sounds easy. And apparently it is, for millions of gifted gardeners: less so for the rest of us. From what I’ve read, a basement, bothy, or greenhouse where temperatures hover between 55° and 65° is required; or, lacking one of those, a spacious, sunny room with huge, deep-silled windows. Or perhaps an under-used Hollywood bathroom. (As if.) Regular readers will recall my own jury-rigged light-table set-up from last winter (see “March Wrap-Up,” Mar. 28). Unfortunately, since I now plan on using the piano as Steinway intended, it’s back to the drawing board. Or maybe I’ll wuss out and buy transplants this spring.

            Regardless, the allure of glossy, four-color seed catalogs hasn’t diminished one iota. Good thing I’ve cut back on computer face-time.

Can Kathy really grow potatoes?

Last week, my first ever Irish Eyes Garden Seeds catalog appeared in the mailbox. The company hails from the center of Washington State, between the Cascades and the eastern high desert. Normally, that would raise all sorts of red flags, as neither “mountains,” “desert,” nor “West Coast” comes close to describing the climatic conditions of southeastern North Carolina. This catalog, however—which I perused cover-to-cover in one sitting—offered pertinent words of advice to Southern and Eastern gardeners, openly acknowledging our existence. Thus encouraged, I immediately fired off a lengthy email begging for help in my continuing quest for a decent potato harvest. Am waiting with bated breath for a reply. 

Yes, it’s still winter, but hope, and fresh starts, and spring, spring eternal. Thanks for dropping by.

                                                                        Kathy