A Talking-To

I think I finally got through to that plum tree. Call it tough love if you like; I may have raised my voice a bit. Let the lazy bunch of barren sticks know I was—shall we say, underwhelmed—with its performance to date. Not a single fruit, not even a lone blossom to let me know it was trying—nothing.

I expect more of my fruit trees. See that nectarine over there? I scolded the dormant plum. Fought off peach leaf curl all last year … and it still bloomed its heart out. Came through in the clutch, too, followed up with a dozen of the sweetest, juiciest nectarines we ever tasted. That's commitment. You could learn a thing or two. What's your excuse?

Maybe I was a little harsh, they're all young trees after all. But sometimes, as a gardener, when a plant disappoints you, you're forced to make that loving, calculated decision—for the good of the plant, after all—to don your stern disciplinary vest and quietly assert the conditions of its continued membership in the garden. In the plum's case, this went something like:

!(@#()*!@&# TREE!!! WHY CAN'T YOU MAKE @!*^& PLUMS!? IMA THROW YOU IN THAT @&#%^ FIRE PIT!!! AAAAAHHHH!!! HOW'D YOU LIKE TO BE COVERED IN BINDWEED!? SO HELP ME, I'LL *!@&#^ DO IT!!!

Firm, but I think fair. And spoken with love. Question my tactics all you like, but the results speak for themselves:

The Plum, plumb scared

That lazy fig tree is next. 

The Gilded Trowel

That's right, it's awards season once again, and time to discuss the nominations for FPG's annual Tool of the Year Awards. We are excited to announce that, pending confirmation and/or acknowledgment of our existence, we have slated Tina Fey, Amy Poehler, and Chris Rock to host what will surely be an elegant, star-studded ceremony. Due to budgetary reticence, please do note however— should you find yourself lucky enough to receive an invitation—that we are asking guests to bring their own champagne/champagne flutes. Oh, and food. I am not cooking for everyone again. There are both McDonald's and Subway fine restaurants nearby, please avail yourselves of their reasonably-priced menus. Champagne can be procured at the Rite Aid.

Now that that's settled, on to the nominations!

The list is long, so I'll just hit some of the highlights here. (Let's face it, nobody really cares about minor technical awards like “Best Sharpening Performance” or “Best Rust-Proofing” anyway.)

First up, we have the nominees for Best New Tool. After some strong work in the Spring, many expected the Weed-Burner to be a shoo-in for this award. Judges will be forced, however, to consider Mr. Burner's over-the-top performance in last summer's regrettable Setting The Lawn on Fire, a gratuitous action piece which no one enjoyed. Simply a poor career choice, that, and a prime example of how even the most promising young tools can go awry without a competent agent at their control. Other newcomers include the Extendable Ladder, which played prominently in a tour-de-force of late season pruning. But look, instead, for Grandpa's Weeder, that dandelion-grabbing upstart which wowed Fencebroke's Queen, to steal this year's award.

In the Best Supporting Tool category, we see many familiar faces: Leatherman Wave Multi-Tool; Kneepads; Atlas Gloves; trusty old Carhartt Pants, and—the one newcomer out of the bunch—Coppertone Sport SPF 50 Sunscreen, which has always turned in stellar performances, but due to a long, hot Summer may finally have garnered the attention necessary to steal the spotlight from the incumbent and perennial winner of this category: Leatherman.

To be honored with a much-deserved Lifetime Achievement Award, the grizzled and inimitable Honda Civic Hatchback is expected to make one of its final public appearances at the ceremony. The Civic's truck-blood grit and versatility over two decades of service will long stand as inspiration to vehicles twice its size and half its age. With a check-engine light flashing, tires balding, and mushrooms growing on the floor, the car that never hesitated to fold its seats is not long for this world. The time is ripe for a curtain call.

Nominated for Most Innovative Use of a Tool we have the following:

-Hori-Hori Knife, in Cleaning the Gutters

-Hori-Hori Knife, in Scolding Crows II

-Pick-and-Mattock, in Breaking Open Daisy's Stubborn Christmas Geode

-Fireox the Beastbarrow, in Wheelbarrow Rides, a Daughter's Carriage

and, finally

-Hori-Hori Knife, in No, Officer, I Swear It's Not a Weapon

Look for Hori-Hori to run away with this one.

For Best Ensemble Performance, the nominees are:

-Half-Moon Edger, Digging Fork, Hori-Hori Knife, and Fireox the Beastbarrow, in Removing Even More Lawn Even Though You Promised We Were Done Last Year

-Extendable Ladder, Pruning Saw, and Loppers, in Maybe It's Time To Call The Arborist

and,

-Yellow-Jacket Spray, Spray Foam, Lots of Wasp Traps, Two Big Rocks, and a Flashlight, in Failing To Thwart The Hive; A Summer Of Terror

It's anyone's guess who'll take the award, but Half-Moon et al certainly deserve the honor after having been lied to so many times before (seriously—this year, no more removing lawn, I swear).

And finally, we have the Big One, the Gilded Trowel, the Tool Of The Year.

-Hori-Hori Knife, looking to add to its already crowded trophy case.

-Felco Pruners, who, let's be honest, would probably garner a nomination just by sitting in a drawer somewhere.

-Collapsible Rake, here recognized perhaps more on the sheer volume and breadth of work over the last year than any one performance. Many in the industry think this could finally be the year we see a rake take home the big prize.

And, lastly,

-Fireox the Beastbarrow, whose strong back and puncture-proof tires have borne every last bit of sod, dirt, mulch, rocks, and woodchips dis- or relocated in the course of Fencebroke's transformation. The wheelbarrow is widely respected by peers for its unflinching resolve on the job and stolid grace when leaning against the shed between gigs.

That wraps up the nominations, be sure to check back for the exciting results! If, for some reason, you fail to receive an invitation to the ceremony, please do not be offended, it is due to one of several reasons:

a.) I don't like you

b.) I forgot to make invitations

or

c.) I got bored with this whole awards ceremony thing and moved onto something else

You never know, it might be all three!

Super Fencebroke World

In the much-anticipated video-game version of Fencebroke Promontory Gardens—a project admittedly early in the development phase—one thing is certain: seed-packets are to be the currency of the player's adventures.

There'll be no giant coins, rings, ammunition, inexplicable healing kits, grenades, or gemstones for my characters, no sir. Unless you count used shotgun shells, which some previous liege of Fencebroke was wanton enough to fire off in his suburban backyard with what must have been alarming regularity, I haven't encountered any of these useless tokens in the course of my gardening. Seed packets, on the other hand, always feel like real-life power-ups when I come across them. Their contents unleash such awesome abilities as Carrot Power, Kale Krush, Arugula Rocket, Tomato … well—tomatoes, and, in the right combination, they can unlock the gate to Lettuceland.

That's why, in Super Fencebroke World©, after any of the game's many small achievements—crops harvested, invasive weeds turned back, slugs thrown into the street, giant magic dragonflies tamed, saddled, and loosed upon the forces of pestilence—the player will be rewarded with seeds. Collect enough and you get an extra life. Find all the bush beans and you gain invincibility. The player, should they find themselves replete with seed packets, will be faced with a difficult choice—sow them to produce food for the hoe-wielding army of underlings they have amassed in preparation for a showdown with the Dark Lord Taraxicum (sorry, plant Latin joke)—or spend the seeds as currency, bartering for better tools, enchanted mulch, more powerful hats with wider brims, or any other character upgrades available. I'd choose wisely if I were you, but for now, just keep an eye out for those little seed packets.

Daisy Levels-Up

The game should be up and running soon, right after I teach myself computer animation and find some venture capitalists venturous enough to invest in cutting edge horticultural entertainment, so stay tuned for updates. And lest you think this whole thing is a pipe dream, I have already, through some fast-talking and the promise of bunny cookies, recruited a young, up-and-coming recording artist for the soundtrack. Sorry, that's record-er artist. Recorder. That's the … the instrument she plays. You know, the plastic shrieky-flute? Oh, who am I kidding, she's my daughter. But trust me, she's good. (Look—she's getting those bunny cookies one way or another, so I may as well try to coax something useful out of her.)

All right, enough procrastinating—computer animation, here we go …

Which Hazel?

That one! Right there—the Witch Hazel. Like ten thousand eyelashes mascara'd with sunshine. Smells like lemons and inspiration. You can't miss it. It's the brightest thing in February. Come on, stick your face in. Huff some Hazel, you'll feel better, trust me. 

The Good Woodchip Fairy

I think his name was actually Doug. But, yeah, the Good Woodchip Fairy is forever how Doug shall be known in the mythos of Fencebroke. For he rattled in like a diesel-powered sprite from nowhere on an otherwise humdrum afternoon, summoned by nothing more than an ancient ocarina and an e-mail. At the reins of his magical hydraulic truck, he beep-beep-beeped back into the driveway and unleashed a blessed tide of shredded pine and cedar to quell the infernal lawn I have neither the wits nor will to fight any longer.

Hey, this stuff smells pretty good, too. All hail Doug!

Whether or not Doug approves of his role in the local pantheon I cannot say, though he seemed, at heart, a good-natured imp. A more pressing question posed by his visitation is the matter of his opposite. Is there, to balance the gardening universe yin-yanglike—a Bad Woodchip Fairy out there somewhere? Cackling over a fire-belching woodchipper in search of … well, I can't say for certain to what ends an evil Doug would employ such arbitrary malevolence, but whatever it is, I bet it's chilling.

Just in case, we shall erect a small shrine to Doug, the Good Woodchip Fairy, consisting of an upright pickle fork—his preferred tool for disseminating the medium of his enchantment—draped in Carhartt garb. To this effigy, we will place small offerings of pine needles and Monster energy drinks in order to stay in his favor and discourage the frightening prospect of his Other.

It is a small price to pay. Especially since this sea of woodchips was, inexplicably, free of charge.

And then—BROCCOLI!

Two 'c's in broccoli, thank you

Like a groggy late-sleeper rolling out of bed straight into guilty zumba; like a truant worker sneaking in then clacking loudly on the keyboard to convince the office he was here all along; like a purple-sprouting flash mob that forgot to coordinate watches; it's broccoli time. Apparently. Late January is now broccoli time. Or so my weirdo garden would have you believe.

But why not broccoli? Who am I to question this midwinter chorus of cruciferous glee? Broccoli gotta be broccoli, y'know? Never mind that I've planted this same variety three times at all different times of year and never once gotten anything but sullen, barren stalks. Broccoli is, I guess, like a teenager—capricious, stubborn, lazy, but capable of amazing things if they would only look up from their stupid phone and put their mind to it. Also susceptible to aphids in warm weather. Is that a teenager thing? God, I hope my daughter never grows up.

We still haven't tasted it, but at this point the flavor is almost beside the point. It's fresh broccoli in January, which is like … I don't know, a foot massage at the dentist's. Only, you know, not creepy.

(*Bonus question for this post— the word “broccoli” appears in this entry almost ten times: can anyone guess how many times I correctly spelled “broccoli” on the first attempt while typing?)

Bring Forth the Hot Dogs!

 Oh sing in me, deep fires of the Earth.

<Low cackling>

Make your home in Fencebroke, within the new cauldron I have—er, the cauldron my wife has assembled for thee.

<Dragging of firepit across the lawn>

Come forth and feed upon my humble offering.

<Crumpling of newspaper and pizza coupons>

Crackle and roar into this garden. Unleash timeless inferno and blaze!

<Repeated striking of matches>

… Inferno and blaze—

<Cursing>

Inferno and—

<Rummaging in drawer. Flicking of lighter>

Ha! Inferno and blaze!

<Weak smoldering>

Good enough! Bring forth the hot dogs! Mmmwahahaaaa!

Anyone? Hey, could someone bring forth the hot dogs? They're right there, in the fridge.

<Slumping of shoulders>

Fine, never mind, I'll get them myself.

<Muttering under breath >

…

POLISH DOGS!!! MWAHAHA—hey, what happened to the timeless inferno … ?

<Raining raining rainrainraining for four more months>

Timeless inferno! Can I pencil you in for early June? Wonderful. And so, let the feast of a thousand cold hot dogs begin!

<Sifting through ashes>

Dangit, where's that pizza coupon?