Sanctioned

A local franchisee hard at work.

This notice is hereby issued to inform the proprietor/s of the following garden, orchard, or small suburban farm: FENCEBROKE PROMONTORY GARDENS that this horticultural operation has been officially sanctioned by local representatives of the National Bumble-Bee Pollination Guild. Furthermore, for reasons necessarily secretive but assuredly whimsical, the aforementioned Guild has seen fit to establish a new franchise on the premises from which to base local bumblings including, but not limited to: pollination, nest building, mating, buzzing about in a lazy, cartoon-like fashion and encouraging local toddlers to try out those funny “B” sounds.

Proprietor/s of this garden should use their newly sanctioned status to immediately plant way too many tomato plants and boast about their recognition by the NBBPG to anyone who will listen. In the course of such boasting, please avoid direct contact with your local franchisees, as they are still bees and will defend themselves from undue harassment. Any such provocation will be considered grounds for immediate and permanent revocation of NBBPG “Sanctioned” status.

It has come to our attention that a resident toddler has already attempted to “pet” the local franchisees; please note any additional tactile apian affection of this sort will result in probationary status for FENCEBROKE PROMONTORY GARDENS.

ThankYou.

If You Love a Potato ...

... Let it go. If it comes back to you, it is yours to eat.

Oh man, am I going to eat some potatoes.

You see, prior to our evacuating Fencebroke Promontory on the crest of the Great Washing-Machine Flood of 2015, I had tearfully released several seed potatoes into the wild.

“Go! Be free,” I said. “This backyard life will soon chafe your russet skin. Go see the world; visit Idaho. Get out there and make something of yourself.” And then I shut the door and wept.

I've always wanted to grow potatoes.

With time I came to terms with my loss. I told myself every morning that those fingerlings and reds would be happier, better tubers out there on their own than if they set root in my humble garden. I never fully believed this, but with repetition it took on the soothing cadence of a mantra, and I was able to move on.

However, just in case my prodigal spuds ever returned, I built a home for them: a potato house. This would be a place to call their own, apart from the sunup-sundown brawl of the vegetable garden, where they could stretch towards the sun and have soil heaped upon them, the better to start a family of tender new potatoes.

Even as I cut the cedar boards, I knew this was just a dream. The potato house would be nothing but a sad memorial for the starchy little ones I let go. But I couldn't stop, and soon the house was complete and soon after that we were forced to abandon Fencebroke.

Weeks passed. And then, some untold time and countless omelets later, when we got the “all-clear” to return, and when I had almost forgotten ever slapping together that ridiculous, hopeless shrine in the first place, I came home and saw this:

And once more, I wept.

The potatoes, they came back!

Fencebroke Promontory Suites

The whole gardening thing was getting tiresome. So was the whole washing machine and the inch of water with which it decided to flood the entire floor of our house. To remedy both ennuis, we decided it'd be fun to pack up and stay in a hotel for a few days. And by “we” I mean the insurance company. And by “fun” I mean necessary. And by “pack up” I mean evacuate. And by “a few days” I mean indefinitely. Come to think of it, that original sentence was pretty misleading.

So it is that Fencebroke Promontory has temporarily set up shop in a nearby hotel, where we have been familiarizing ourselves with the omelet bar and trying, unsuccessfully, to blend in with the dour business travelers. Mostly, we've been riding the glass-walled elevator up and down with our awe-struck and very confused Daisy, who now considers this ritual to be as indispensable to daily life as Curious George. “Elevator” is pronounced “Alligator”, by the way.

The hotel is, actually, pretty nice. I confess more than a bit of surprise and gratitude for the quality of our accommodations (is it possible that Nationwide really is on your side?) The one aspect of mitigation and compensation that homeowner's insurance cannot seem to help with, however, is that related to the most innocent and utterly helpless victim in all this: the gardens of Fencebroke proper.

Early Spring is not a good time to be an absentee gardener. The lawn needs mowing; the crops thinning; the beds weeding. I myself need the therapeutic touch of cool dirt between my fingers; I have tried plunging my hands into the old potting soil of the houseplants in the lobby, but any relief thus provided is minimal, fleeting, and soured by stern looks from hotel custodial staff.

This is not the only difficulty I have encountered in redirecting my gardening urges towards activities more becoming of hotel guests. In the gardening year, April in particular is ruled by the urge to sow. And while so far, no one has seemed to mind the handful of broccoli starts I snuck into the landscaped parking lot beds, I fear it is only a matter of time before I am deductively linked to the large squash mounds which popped up overnight in the manicured front lawn. But what else am I to do? It's the only spot on the property that gets full sun.

Now, if you'll excuse me, the omelet bar closes in 10 minutes and Miguel the cook will be worried if I'm not there for my ham and pepper fix.

Remember to Tip Your Hellebores

I don't really want to get caught up in the whole “who to tip and how much” debate on a simple garden blog; but then I never really wanted to get caught up in a garden blog either, so what I want clearly has little if anything to do with the content or existence of what you are about to read. What can I say? Keys get mashed, topics barreled into, and I'm just kind of dragged along, kicking and choking, behind the rowdy old writing horse I keep thinking I can tame. Which makes you, I guess, some sort of leering spectator who, for some reason or other, enjoys the disgraceful spectacle. I can't say I blame you—everyone enjoys a good train wreck.

All that being (regrettably) said, there is one standout member of the plant community whose reliable and unwavering service is in long-overdue need of some recognition and gratuity. I'm speaking, of course, of the courageous, the honorable, the rugged and downright … um, pretty … sentinels of the garden's Winter Guard: the hellebores.

Sure, everyone is quick to ooh and aah when they're on display at the nursery: up on shelves, in pots; gorgeous, moody colors paraded like caged, exotic animals. Any plant can (and should) look vibrant and healthy in such a controlled environment. What people often forget, however—especially those who do not have plants of their own—is that hellebores provide this thankless service even when turned loose in the most unforgiving soils and neglected garden beds. 

 Helleborus 'Elly' keeping vigilant watch over Fencebroke South. Still resplendent 2 months after her bloom began.

Every year, these dutiful, beautiful warriors surge up through frozen ground in the darkest depths of Winter. They cast their soft radiance across the wasteland as a strong but gentle light, penetrating gloom and despair for weeks into months—however long gardener or passerby is in need of a firm reminder that all the outside does not necessarily suck in the barely-days of year's end.

So I urge you all, the next time you come across one of these lovely stalwarts standing their faithful watch, please offer a small token of your appreciation. My rule of thumb for gratuity is 20% of the hellebore's original purchase price. This usually calculates to about $2-$5, which sum I fold neatly and tuck into the unfurling leaves in late Winter/early Spring. To what ends the hellebores use this bonus, I cannot say, only that the money is usually gone by the next day. Hellebores are a prudent bunch; I suspect they deposit the funds in savings as soon as my back is turned.

If you find yourself in the presence of a worthy hellebore, but short of cash, I am quite certain any small gesture of thanks would be similarly appreciated: a small bow or curtsy; a tip of the cap; a soft but earnest round of applause; a honk of the car horn as you drive past; even a brash high-five would go some ways towards assuring their happy return next Winter when our downtrodden spirits are once again in need of their guiding light.

Everyone Be Quiet and Go Back to Sleep

Please; I am begging.

Fencebroke Promontory is run amok with feather-light sleepers. Fitful bed-thrashers abound; from our beloved (but tending nocturnal) Daisy to the young nectarine out back, which felt warm sun and heard birds chirping and jumped out of bed into full bloom, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, sometime in February.

A mild (to downright non-existent) Winter is to blame. We all tossed and turned through the holidays, saw the dawn's glow on the solstice, and figured we may as well get up if we couldn't sleep. The bulbs put on a pot of coffee. The ornamental plums started frying bacon and roused all the later Spring-blooming trees to an early breakfast. Insomniac perennials, having stayed up all night watching TV with Witch Hazel and its winter-buddies, look ragged and surly. The raspberries partied late into fall, passed out for a couple hours, and woke up hungover. They whipped up a batch of bloody-marys for everyone: it's going to be a long year. The bees look confused. The birds got the worms.

Meanwhile, The lawn is getting a head start on its yearly campaign, seeking to establish an autonomous prairie state; the weeds are staking their stubborn claims; the veggie garden is looking for action and the fruit trees are playing chicken with late frosts. Customers at work are frothing at the mouth, making delirious, sleep-deprived demands for basil, tomatoes, and petunias. Daisy, for her part, has taken to late-night nature documentaries.

It is a boisterous, caffeine-fueled and thoroughly exhausting start to the year. There is a tenuous energy and optimism to the place which threatens, with every mild afternoon, to collapse into a lengthy and catastrophic series of naps.

I, for one, am going back to bed. If you could all keep it down for a couple weeks, I'd greatly appreciate it. I'll never make it to May at this pace.

The Great Wall of Fencebroke

Slashing the Earth in Twain

It arose seemingly overnight. Where once only a gentle slope separated the fertile plateaus of Fencebroke Promontory's farmland from the untamed valleys below, now stood a mighty barrier wall. Towering three bricks tall in places and stretching from one horizon to the other, the looming edifice erupted from the very earth to set in stone the boundaries of natural law. On this side crops would grow; mouths would be fed; civilizations would flourish. On the other: the tribes of chaos.

Though no one could explain its creation, many would try. Tales were spun and carried down through the years, each proclaiming a different motive force, a different mind, a different hand stacking fired red clay to divide the land. All these naught but woven lies, born of fear and ancient distrust.

“Can't you see, the wall was placed to guard our crops from jealous, lowland barbarians. Thank the gods, we will be safe up here amongst the rutabagas, for no siege could ever topple our massive, mortared fortr—eh, what's that? They didn't use any mortar? … Oh. Well, still … no invading force could ever overcome the … uh, massive psychological barrier of our imposing—though admittedly fragile—wall!”

And dissenting lore from the other side:

“Clearly, the gods saw fit, at long last, to halt the marching empire of the produce. Each year, they spread into our territory, taking more and leaving us less. But no longer! This backyard will not belong to the carrots! Thank the gods, the cancerous garden has been forever banished behind this impregnable wall of mortared brick and—oh dear … did that one there just fall over? I see. Well … so long as no one … uh, bumps into the impregnable wall, we should be reasonably safe from the imperial veggies. Could someone put that brick back, please?”

Though neither side could ever truly grasp the motivation of whatever all-powerful force erected the Great Wall in such haste, there was one one matter upon which they agreed: the wall itself was of poor quality. In recognition of this undeniable truth, an accord was reached to the satisfaction of all parties, wherein no roughhousing or shenanigans would be tolerated in the vicinity of the wall—lest the beloved, timeless monolith crumble from the glancing impact of a stray soccer ball or paper airplane.

Year End Review, or, At Least the Fence is Still Standing

Don't get me wrong, it's still broken, the fence. But while it may be listing in spots, rotted in others and individual boards may have defected in the night like cowards, the fence is, by and large, still there.

And that, I'm sorry to say, counts among our notable achievements for Fencebroke's 2014 gardening season. Additional triumphs include: buying a wheelbarrow and eating tomatoes. Rather a lot of tomatoes, if I recall. The fact that a lot of tomatoes grew to be eaten at all was in itself a triumph, but here the credit must go more to an unusually favorable growing season than to our own efforts. These same ideal conditions led to a bumper crop of unappetizing, difficult to prepare but aesthetically appealing—in an alien spaceship sort of way—summer squashes. I don't know if that's an achievement or not.

In evaluating FPG's performance (which graded out at a solid C/C-, for those seeking a touch of arbitrary pedagogy in their garden bloggery), such factors were considered as: planted vs. successful crops (one wormy rutabaga doth not a stew make); percentage of beds/edging torn up in frustration; number of free plants successfully shoehorned into the planting scheme; is there a planting scheme?; number of zip-ties used; number of “mulligans” used; number of stumps removed; number of free plants removed from the planting scheme; stop taking home free plants from work; number of trips to the ER/urgent care; percentage of projects resulting in trips to the ER/urgent care; calm moments of grateful reflection vs. calm moments of grateful reflection interrupted telling Daisy not to eat dirt; tools lost; toys lost; plant-tags lost; patience lost; focus lost; look—a hummingbird!; number of laps run by screaming toddlers; remonstrations not to play in the bird bath; OK, fine, play in the bird bath; vines trellised; vines admonished; vines punished; toddlers trellised; toddlers admonished; footballs thrown vs. frisbees thrown; wading pools inflated; leaves crunched underfoot; stolen moments in the sun …

OK, this year wasn't so bad.