Drought Barrel

Fencebroke's Drought Catchment System

Whew! It was a close call, but my wife and I just barely got Fencebroke's new catchment system installed in time for the summer drought season. We almost missed the longest, most productive dry spell of the year! Where would that have left us when the fall rains return? Here in the Pacific Northwest, the rainy season lasts for about 9 months, so if you don't have a good, functional drought barrel in place through July and August, you're facing a fortune piping in desiccant from the municipal reservoirs all through Autumn, Winter, and into Spring.

Not to worry though, we wrapped up assembly and installation of the cistern just as the last rain clouds withered into a searing blue sky, not to return for months. The model we chose was a no-frills, utilitarian number meant to blend in and soak up as much aridity as possible. My wife's careful research was spot on, as the vessel is already full to the brim with parched, bone dry air. Fifty or so gallons worth. That may not seem like much to you desert dwellers out there, but in soggy Puget Sound, 50 gallons of drought goes a long way in November. Every little bit is less time I have to spend out back with the hair-drier and less money out of my pocket. This thing is sure to pay for itself in no time!

Please note, I have heard of some folks using these barrels to actually catch rain instead of drought. Never could I dream of such irresponsible, reckless behavior. This is foolhardy sorcery, which I cannot in any way endorse. No, once you have exhausted your store of drought for the season, it is best to just clean out the barrel and store it safely upside down until the next heat wave.

The Fencebroke Crows

AKA The Birdbath Bashers, AKA The Raucous Ruckus, AKA The Corvid Cartel.

AKA “Wildlife”.

Because they are the sum total of wildlife thus far lured to Fencebroke's aspiring backyard nature preserve. Oh sure, a lost squirrel or ragged stray tabby will skulk across the grounds from time to time, but their steps are furtive and guilty; they know each one is further trespass into the dominion of the crows.

Our old red birdbath is to blame. Once an innocent enough gift to my wife, bestowed in the hope of attracting some spark of life to a freeway dominated ecosystem, this paint-chipped basin has now become the headquarters, day-spa, and mess hall for a cadre of jet-black hooligans. At our previous homes, all manner of cheerful, Disney film songbirds would congregate atop its innocuous pedestal to sip, splash and cavort while our hardened urban hearts melted in delight. I expected nothing less when I deployed the birdbath to Fencebroke North. The paisley bed seemed a good home for it, so I plopped it in the middle, filled it up, and didn't give it another thought.

Until I started finding soggy food scraps in the bowl. Every day.

I'd rinse it out, shake my head, fill it back up and, sure enough, by the next morning, the clean water would once again have turned into some disgusting soup. I was baffled, annoyed, perplexed, until one day I happened to glance outside as a neighborhood crow swooped in from the roof of my shed with a freaking slice of pizza in its beak. It landed in the birdbath (nearly toppling the precarious assembly, designed more for sparrows and chickadees than these buzzards) and proceeded to dunk the pizza, repeatedly, into the water. Mystery solved. My birdbath had become nothing more than a soup bowl for an industrious, dark-winged scavenger.

Thinking this was perhaps a single culprit who had discovered new uses for a common garden ornament, I was prepared to grudgingly accept the crow as a quirky pet/mascot, an embodiment of FPG's unexpected charm. Over the course of several weeks, however, this naïve notion evaporated as more and more offenders cawed and flapped their way onto the scene—a parade of unwelcome guests, each in turn fouling the waters of my daily offering to backyard diversity with crackers, bread slices, donuts and various other dishes which apparently appeal to discerning crows' pallets only when softened in the cool, still waters of a local birdbath. And as for whatever backyard diversity was once to be found, it has now gone into hiding, or moved on to friendlier yards, because it is terrified of the leering murder that has claimed Fencebroke as its own.

Don't be fooled, there are more lurking nearby.

The soul of wit?

Please sorry writing. Laptop broken. Fat fingers swipe tiny screen instead; Inferior! Type like caveman/telegraph now. Stop (??? Unsure telegraph syntax.)
Lesson in brevity (time 4 twitter? No. Never time 4 twitter.) Must garden blog! Stop. Ok
Garden update. Haiku? Try haiku:
A garden update
But I already said that
So much 4 haiku
/$\&$#\% $'@ GARDEN! JUNETIME. 2 MANY PEAS! wateringwateringwatering. Plant witchhazel. Wrong spot. REPLant @-$##/* withhazel. Replant $//@-'* everything! More peas. Weedingweedingweeding. MOW THE LAWN AGAIN. Daisy "pets" a bee. OMG APHIDS!!!!!! SQUIRRELS!!!! And
Stop. (Anyone want some peas???)

The Accursed Serpent

Just some useful info about a common garden pest.

...The Accursed Serpent, by which I am, of course, referring to that most petty, subversive and vile of outdoor beasts: Contortus aquatica, better known as the common garden hose.

C. auatica is not a native species, but has been routinely introduced into backyard habitats the world over. It's presence can usually be inferred by tell-tale signs such as broken plants, toppled statuary, and persistent foul language, either shouted or muttered under the breath, by any nearby humans, a natural enemy with whom it has struck an uneasy symbiosis (tending toward parasitism). Gardeners, a peculiar subspecies of human, in particular seem vulnerable to hoses, and may, in fact, be largely responsible for their introduction into the cultivated ecosystems upon which they wreak so much havoc.

Once a garden hose takes up residence in a given garden, a human will normally initiate contact in order to (hopefully) take advantage of the hose's unique ability to move large quantities of water to any desired location. The hose clearly resents such manipulation, and although it relies on the human's utilities as a source of water for its nest (indicated by all manner of poorly constructed hose reels, cradles and racks), it will stop at nothing to sabotage his plans.

The chief mode of defensive action employed by the Contortus is the kink (from which its generic name is derived), although it can just as easily resort to the tangle, the leak, or, as previously mentioned, violently lashing out at or snarling nearby plants and objects in hopes of visiting destruction upon some target of value to the human host (the garden hose cares not for collateral damage; once again, it is a petty, cruel creature). Any one of these tactics can be sufficient to incite anger in the average human, but the gardener subspecies, with its labyrinthine garden beds, full of vulnerable pet plants and precarious, sentimental garden art is an easy target. A successful attack by the garden hose on a gardener can result in apoplexy, for which the most commonly prescribed treatment is going inside and watching TV. Obscene muttering under the breath, however, can continue for hours after the attack.

Contortus aquatica is officially listed as a noxious, invasive serpentine species and should be eradicated wherever encountered. Gardeners are encouraged to employ watering cans or just wait for rain as safer solutions to their irrigation needs.

"Edible" Landscaping

If it seems to you that FPG's progress has stalled, allow me to explain. My assistant, Daisy, and I have reached an impasse. While we are both taken with the idea of edible landscaping as a central theme for Fencebroke's plantings, our individual interpretations of what “edible” means are simply irreconcilable. This has unfortunately created tension in the office and on the grounds and has delayed what would otherwise be a smooth roll-out of my singular vision. For the most part, our disagreements remain civil, as she has proven remarkably mature for one so young, but I must admit to some occasional raised voices, senseless babbling and unhinged sobbing—all on my part, sadly.

Daisy was tolerant of, if unimpressed by, my use of plants like German chamomile, quinoa, and heirloom French leeks to create unexpected edible accents in our central ornamental bed (yes, the paisley one). But her own vision tends more towards things like small rocks, bits of trash and lawn clippings—anything, really that she can easily choke on and terrify her supervisors. It's not that I don't understand her view, it's just a philosophical difference: to her, my idea of “edible” as something safely consumable by humans is too restricting. She prefers to take the broader stance of “edible” being anything that, wholly or partially, can fit into her mouth. And I respect that. I just disagree.

So it is that our gardening sessions together start out peaceably enough, but tend to lapse into a common refrain, shouted by myself across the yard in five second intervals: “Daisy! No! Not Food!” Followed by a mad wind-sprint as I attempt to reach her and fish out whatever bit of debris she has most recently decided to consider “edible” landscaping.

We'll get it straightened out, but until then it may be slow-going at Fencebroke.

Maos

It's cooler when you say it out loud. MAY-oss. Like chaos but in May. May chaos, get it? Vernal disorder; a dapper springtime riot; the unbridled, reawakened beast that is the horticultural industry come Mother's Day. Did I mention that I work at a garden center? This time of year, garden centers become the hot, dense, raging cauldrons from which Maos issues forth. They are unruly mobs of flowers, hanging baskets and startled gardeners in whose face Spring just exploded. Maos. I don't know. When you read it, it seems forced. Is it the spelling? Does seeing “Maos” unleash a gaggle of Chinese Marxists to foment revolution in the mind's eye? That's a different sort of chaos altogether, and not at all what I intended. Or does it read like some tiny, easily-forgotten nation treading water in the vague expanse between Zimbabwe and the South Pacific? Either way, it's failing to convey this howling vortex of plants, customers and physical fatigue I am invoking in order to justify a complete lack of progress on all fronts Fencebroke.

Maybe if we spell it m-a-y-o-s—

OK, bad idea, now we're talking a selection of sandwich spreads. That's tasty, but no great excuse for a gardening stalemate. I'll just leave it as Maos. Deal with it. It's why, at the end of the day, I have little energy for anything but collapsing onto the living room floor and spending “play time” as a half-asleep, passive jungle gym for my daughter to climb on and explore. I keep hoping Daisy will take a hint and learn to weed the garden, or at least do some watering already. Daddy's tired. Why don't you go “play” with the dandelions for a while.

Despite repeated bouts of Maos, I ought to mention that I have managed to mow the lawn. Twice. This requires minimal physical or mental coordination, and though I may resemble nothing so much as an injured zombie shuffling behind and leaning on the mower, it still seems a noteworthy (if not quite blogworthy) accomplishment. In addition, I bent some chicken wire over fenceposts and called it an arbor. That's good enough for May.

Before and After/Persian Pickles

I get a mulligan, right? A redo? That's how gardens work, if I'm not mistaken. It's kind of an unspoken rule amongst gardeners.

That being the case, I'll go ahead and use my mulligan here, with this vaguely paisley-shaped (or is it paisle-shaped?) bed I put together.

Before.

Don't get me wrong, the shape is fine, I mean who doesn't love paisley? (Actually, I'm going to interject here that “Vaguely Paisley” has some serious potential as a band name. Whoever wants it, take it. My royalty fees are reasonable.) See, I even sprung for the plastic lawn edging to help maintain and emphasize that fantastic shape. (Oh, but you know who doesn't love paisley, I bet? Zebras. It would just look terrible on them.) So the shape of the bed is fine. Unless you're a zebra, I expect no complaints about this elegant, voluptuous slither of a bed outline. No, I just don't like the plants I put in it. That's a serious problem if you're a gardener—not so much if you're a zebra. (Hey, fun fact: according to Wikipedia, the paisley motif is often referred to as “Persian pickles” by traditional American quiltmakers.) Once the bed was cut and prepped—a lone, vestal pickle just lying there—I think I panicked at the sight of such a svelte swath of unplanted earth and just started interring anything within arm's reach. Flitting about the sordid process were several newborn and timid themes, vying meekly for my attention: a bed for cutting flowers! A bed for ornamental edibles! A small, reniform swimming pool! (OK, this is terrific, can anyone guess how the Welsh textile industry referred to the paisley design? Of course you can't. “Welsh pears”. That's what they called it.) The end product achieved none of these goals admirably, and is more or less a hodge-podge of whatever plants I had lying around. (They must have some funny looking pears in Wales. Or pickles in Persia, for that matter.) So I'd like to start over, if I could. Ctrl Z on this mess of desperate planting and Paisleyed miscellany. And to formalize the illusion, I'll just post the same picture for “Before” and “After” and pretend nothing happened in between. Just showing off Fencebroke's newest Persian pickle. What do you think?

After.