Departures and convergences

Yesterday, the scent of the basil I'd picked for our daughter to take back to Halifax lingered on my fingers for a long time. She also took with her some sage (advice), rosemary (for remembrance) and a golden zucchini from her aunt Sarah's allotment -- all the better to help her celebrate her last week before art school begins.

Our mother also went to art school, and was a medal-winning textile artist before she became a full-time mother. She was also a gifted botanical painter. Today, would have been her 80th birthday. In one of life's strange synchronicities, our mum was about my daughter's age when I was born, and she was about my age now when she died.

Unlike Helenium or Helen's flower for Frances of Faire Garden, I can't plant a flower called Jean Eleanor or Bunty in my mother's name -- unless someone can tell me that one exists. Instead, I remember her with a bouquet of flowers that she found special: geranium, marigold, or petunia (for her many balcony gardens), columbine (her father's favourite), scarlet runner (a "perennial" in all her gardens), China aster (the birthday flower she used to plant for me).

For a while when our mother had an in-ground garden, I was at university, too, and she would send me off after a visit with herbs, flowers and the occasional monster zucchini. Somewhere in space and time, she's probably out there hunting up new zucchini recipes or making lists of bulbs to plant for spring. A package of mail-order Asiatic lilies was the last gift she gave to Sarah and I. Some of them were still providing fodder for the lily beetles this summer.

Happy birthday, Mum. Let me just put on the kettle, and we can have a cup of tea together in the garden.

MeMe in the Garden: An Honour

Toronto Gardens bloggers, Sarah (left) and Helen (always right) Battersby

We are delighted that Toronto Gardens has been presented a Meme Award (or MeMe Award) by Charlotte at The Galloping Gardener, a blog we follow for its tantalizing stories and pictures of gardens around the world. To participate in the Meme Award you need to:

* Link back to the person who gave you the award.
* Reveal seven things about yourself.
* Choose seven other blogs to nominate, and post a link to them.
* Let each of your choices know that they have been tagged by posting a comment on their blog.
* And finally, let the tagger know, when your post is up.

Besides being an honour, this award is fortuitous. As co-bloggers, "Sarah and Helen" have been thinking of sorting out the who's who confusion for some time. Here are our seven things:

Sisters, sisters: Helen's the know-it-all big sister; Sarah's the funny little sister, 2 1/2 years younger. For the past eleven years, our families have been lucky to live two doors from each other on a tree-lined city street in Toronto. Our children have grown up together, as have we.

Homes sweet homes: As kids, we moved around. A lot. Our family emigrated from England to Canada when we were four and two, and first settled in Montreal. We then lived in places as far-flung as North Wales and the Northwest Territories, but spent a lot of time in small towns near Toronto. So it's natural that we put down roots here. Sarah also has a country home in a one-room, century-old schoolhouse on an acre of land two hours outside the city.

Garden plots: That wandering spirit shows up in multiple gardens, giving us an array of gardening experiences to write about. Sarah's: a small balcony garden, a shady (rented) front garden, a sunny guerrilla garden and a community garden plot in the city; plus her large country place. Helen's: two variations on city shade in front and back gardens, a community garden veggie plot; plus occasional incursions at the family cottage on an island in the St. Lawrence near Québec City.

Division of labour: We both blog on Toronto Gardens. Sometimes one carries the blogbaton, sometimes the other. Helen also keeps up the dialog with other garden bloggers on Blotanical; while Sarah connects with garden Tweeple on Twitter. Sometimes we talk to the same people through different networks, giving the appearance of a Gertrude Jekyll/Ms. Hyde persona. In practical terms, we function as HelenandSarah, one of those whaddayacallits - a synergy? of the best of both. But we really are quite different, bringing two perspectives to Toronto Gardens.

Secret identities: Besides being bloggers, Tweeters or Blotters, Sarah is a graphic designer who also teaches her craft at a community college; Helen is a freelance copywriter and creative consultant who also volunteers as chief whipcracker for a local powerwalking club, the Shore Things.

More likely to: Sarah is more likely to know who's who in U.S. politics; Helen, to know the names of our 5X-great grandparents. At the library, Sarah is more likely to check out the hot how-to book; Helen, the new mystery novel. Both are fans of Jane Austen (and amongst the microminority who like Fanny Price). For fun, Sarah's more likely to be mixing eclectic playlists for her iPod touch; Helen, to be downloading photographs from her Nikon D40.

Funny you should say so: We were both born with funnybones. Influences? Beyond the Fringe, Monty Python and The Goon Show, with a good dollop of early Sesame Street, SCTV, the Dick Van Dyke Show and I Love Lucy. As gardeners, we must also confess a shared fondness for Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men.


Luckily we've always been able to crack each other up, and hold each other up. It came in handy when we shared a big bed, itchy with chicken pox or endured family sturm and drang. We've come a long way from there to here. And we are only getting started on our next chapter.

That's us. Here's you. We love so many blogs that this is a toughie. There are many faves that we have to leave off, such as group blogs Garden Rant or Gardening Gone Wild or Amanda at Kiss My Aster, now that she's the blogiface of Horticulture Magazine. Like our nominator Charlotte, we also love Pomona Belvedere of Tulips in the Woods, aside from any other reason for having one of the best names in blogging.

But here are our seven Meme Award recipients, in no particular order -- and Sarah and Helen had to wrassle each other to each get our picks on this list:

* For making us never sorry that we read her funniness, Kelly of The Sorry Gardener.
* For being the near-neighbour whose garden we would most like to have, Yvonne of The Country Gardener.
* For her ability to quote Jane Austen in a gardening context (and for many other reasons), Laura of Interleafings.
* For her great photographs and entertaining commentary, both blogging and tweeting, Ivette at The Germinatrix.
* For her ability to make us yearn for bottomless funds available for garden travel, Alice of Bay Area Tendrils.
* For being a nurturing nexus for other garden bloggers, Carol of May Dreams Gardens.
* For her philosophy of doing things to make the world more beautiful, Susan at Miss Rumphius' Rules.

Have a guerrilla!

That was not a line from The Goon Show, that was the preliminary to a report on our guerrilla gardening efforts in a secret corner of the universe. Things are looking up.

Our neighbourhood guerrillas have added two healthy (thanks to this year's rains) trees to the city's canopy, plus a happy-looking perennial garden. And after our umpteenth seedy foray, the morning glories have begun their ascent in earnest.

Just beautifying the city, one narrow strip of land at a time.

Why, but why, do they call it Obedient Plant?

Despite evidence to the contrary, this photograph does not illustrate why they call it "o-bee-dient" plant. Though the flower does seem to exert a siren call: Oh, bee... Oh, bee-eee...?

This is Physostegia virginiana, and it's called Obedient Plant for the way you can bend the individual florets to your will, making them go thisaway and thataway.

I would have posted on this flower sooner, but I spent a fruitless evening searching for the reason why. What an unprofitable study. Citation after citation told me that the reason you can move the florets into position was due to their "hinge-like" stem.


Such nonsense. Hinge-like? How is it hinge-like, I kept snarling at the computer. [And, for reference, have a look at these hinges, courtesy of Stantheoldhardwareman.com]. Where's the barrel, and which part pivots inside which part to make it all happen?

Saying that the florets fold and stay in place because the stems are hinge-like is as meaningless as saying they do it because little fairies hold them in position -- though I'm tempted to like that explanation a whole lot better. I prefer fairy tales to imprecision. For pity's sake, someone: Give me the science behind it.

They certainly don't call it Obedient Plant for its well-behaved garden etiquette (however, there is a lovely white cultivar called 'Miss Manners' which is supposed to mind its). Given good garden soil and decent moisture, these little cuties will elbow their way into any space available in the garden.

Needless to say, I have killed it -- as I've killed many "invasive" plants -- by trying to grow it in dry shade on a sandy slope under Norway maples.

When I say killed, in this case I really mean thwarted. Since the snippet from our neighbour T. was planted on my problem slope about four years ago, it is, in fact, still hanging in. It puts out about four 6" stalks a year. This Year of the Big Rains, it actually bloomed... two (2) mingy-looking stems.

Like many of the flowers that thrive in late summer, when the Norway maples on our street are at their thirsty and leafy peak, I have to be satisfied with admiring their beauty in OPGs (Other People's Gardens).

Just call me a Batters-bee.

Saving a 150-year-old tree

This story happened in Quebec, but it's a story that could have happened anywhere with trees. Take one 150-year-old sugar maple tree. Apply wind; lots of wind. Aaaand... oops!

Miraculously, this tree-sized branch missed the car, landed on a fence but didn't crush it, even the birdhouse made it through the branches unscathed.

However, the tree itself was seriously compromised, with one main branch out of three gone, leaving a trunk now open to the elements. One more big wind, and the branch to the left would fall on the garage; the branch on the right would head straight for the living room of our cottage.

What to do? Well, in our case, the first thing to do was to call our tree guy, Tarzan. You read that right (especially if you read it with a French accent). Tarzan knows trees.

At first, he gave us two prices. The first was to turn the fallen branch into firewood, and haul away the brush. The second price was to cut down the tree.

What is a 150-year-old tree? It's something that has been around for longer than Canada has been a country. Let's say it was actually planted 150 years ago, in 1859. According to Wikipedia, that was the year Dickens published A Tale of Two Cities. Big Ben's chimes rang out in London for the first time. Arthur Conan Doyle and Georges Seurat were born. The very first oil well in the United States was drilled. That's a lot of history.

We asked for a third alternative, to buy a few more years for this wounded but otherwise healthy tree. That's why Tarzan will be coming back next week to try to stabilize the two remaining branches. He'll insert two threaded metal rods, joined between the branches by a turnbuckle.

It's an imperfect solution for a less-than-ideal situation. But if it's good enough for the Maple Leaf Forever tree, it's good enough for me.

Bloomsday in the Country

My second garden is two hours outside of Toronto, where I exult in tons of space, sun and sandy soil with lots of rocks. Not to mention hummingbirds and clear night skies full of stars. It's not a designed garden, rather it's a bit of a chaotic and impromptu mess. But it's a pretty mess.

It's arrived after years of using a garden technique I call "Plunking." Dramatization below:

Me: I just bought this plant, where should I put it?

Me, answering back: Oh, just plunk it there in that empty space.

I've resolved to change my "plunking" ways, and to get more structure in my garden, especially after seeing Country Gardener's garden (Yvonne Cunnington) this summer. But for now, here's how things look this Blooms Day.


Wild asters, goldenrod, phlox, coneflowers, monarda all fighting it out.


Fatal Attraction Coneflower Echinacea. I need more of these.


Crimson Pirate Daylily and Monarda Fistulosa.

My recuperation spot under my living green umbrella. I feel a kinship with Newton here: I have to watch out for falling apples. Basket is for collecting them. The last gasp of the white phlox is disguising my rain barrel.

The Seductive Lure of Plant Names

When I'm at the nursery on a plant buying spree, (oops, did I say, spree? I meant visit) the thing about a plant that gets me first is colour. Anything blue, purple or lime green and my eye goes right for it. A closer inspection of the tag can frequently bring another hook: the variety name.

Breeders of hostas and daylilies are the masters of this. It must be one of the most fun parts of being a breeder, I think, coming up with all the great, creative, and sometimes hilarious names. If it's a plant I already like the look of of, and the name charms me as well, or resonates because it's the first and middle name of my sister, (Helen Elizabeth poppy) or the middle name of my cousin and myself, (Victoria Louise poppy) well, am I going to put that plant in my cart? Yes, I am going to put that plant in my cart.

I've been collecting red daylilies. Coming upon this gorgeous one a number of years ago, that also bore the name of Crimson Pirate, and, me being a mad Burt Lancaster fan-- the actual Crimson Pirate of movieland--I of course had to have it! I love the flowers when they pop up in my garden in mid-July and bloom for almost a month, and knowing they're named after Burt Lancaster's role, the swashbuckling Crimson Pirate, well, it simply doubles the pleasure.

Do you have any plants that called out to you because of the name?

Blooms Day: Mid-August in Toronto

By August, my front garden is past its floral (tongue firmly in cheek as I write this word) glory. Spring is the bountiful season in this sandy, dry shade garden, and it all kind of slides downhill from there. Now the daylilies and Asiatic lilies are finished, leaving a few containers, some quiet hosta blooms and the hydrangeas to carry the load. Plus lots of leaves.

This space evolved from scratch, however it has been a while since it's had any real attention. On one hand, this shows it manages well on neglect. On the other, it's long overdue for a good application of elbow grease.

You can probably make out the framework of my dead burning bush (Euonymus alatus 'Compacta'), for instance. When gardeners visit, as you are, I'm perversely compelled to point it out, like a kid who trips when people are watching and says: I meant to do that. I've kept this dead tree, pruned slightly for more, ahem, sculptural form, with every intention of painting it... if I could only decide on a colour. Till then... I meant to do that.

It's more or less a mostly green story in the back garden, too, with a few exceptions. This is one, Phlox paniculata 'Natural Feelings.' A few things attracted me to buy this plant. Its "petals" don't drop, so it is said not to have that messy look phlox gets as its blooms fade. Yet there's something inherently messy about the odd-looking flower panicle, at least in my semi-shade garden. Also, though it was described as being very fragrant, always a lure for me, I can detect no fragrance at all. Is it me, doctor? 'Natural Feelings' must fall into that large category of plants that are effective when well grown. (Translation: not by you.)

Blooming more satisfactorily is the sweetly fragrant Hosta 'Fried Green Bananas'. This large, chartreuse hosta is a sport of H. 'Guacamole' and has a white flower with a strong, jasmine fragrance. One of my first hostas as a beginning gardener was a highly fragrant H. 'Honeybells'. Its intense perfume surprised me and, ever since, I've watched for fragrant cultivars. Another hosta, H. 'Fragrant Blue,' is not living up to its billing.

Still chugging along as it has been since June is Clematis fargesoides 'Summer Snow.' In late summer, it gives you a simultaneous display of buds, blooms and feathery seedheads. 'Summer Snow' is a workhorse in my garden. When I say workhorse, I'm not talking dainty pack pony; it's Clydesdale or Percheron material in both size and vigor. Give it room.

The weight of floral responsibility will now be carried by annuals, principally the 'Paintbox' nasturtium (Tropaeolum majus 'Paintbox') I tucked in as seeds last spring. My high hopes for a painterly blend of cherry reds, yellows and creams (driven by the package photo) was disappointed, as this batch seems to be almost entirely brilliant orange, with a few bicolours. (Next year, the variegated foliage of T. 'Alaska' might reappear instead.) 'Paintbox' is a climber, spilling over the paving in a Giverny-like fashion. All parts of this plant are edible, and the flowers are peppery and pretty additions to salads. I like to pop one in my mouth as I pass, carefully inspecting it first (though aphids do add a modicum of protein).

To see what's blooming in mid-August in gardens around the world, visit May Dreams Gardens, where on the 15th of every month, Carol invites garden bloggers to share their experience.

Is this Hemerocallis 'Chicago Apache'?

If there's one thing I've noticed when trying to ID daylilies: some of them are very variable in form. This lovely one is in Sarah's garden, and (when we last discussed it) she couldn't remember which it was.

I love a hunt. But when I did my searching, the aha! prompted by my discovery of the name 'Chicago Apache', which rang a bell, quickly turned into a... huh? I've never seen so many variations on so-called "scarlet." Some show distinctly ruffled edges; some just gently crimped. Some have a white rim around the petals, some have a white rib instead. All are labeled with the same name.

So, will the real 'Chicago Apache' please stand up? And is this one he, she, it, them? Whatever it is, Sarah was delighted to get her most blooms ever this year, which is why she summoned me for the photo shoot. In our dry shade front gardens, such a display is quite the event.

[Update: Sarah has returned, and now thinks this might be H. 'Anzac.' This picture on Dave's Garden looks similar.]

The humble face of hope

C'mon, little tomato flower (our first one). We're rooting for you. You can do it! We have faith.

And, do you know what? No matter what happens, all we ask is that you do your darnedest. That's what counts.

Way to go, little 'Scarlet Globe' radishes! Or should I say: Way to grow! You are officially our first harvest. Tonight we enjoyed you with an ice-cold beer. Some of you were kinda small, but you were all delicious. And there's more where you came from. Hooray for you.

Allo, là, 'Ruby Red' lettuce. You're looking pretty good. You seem to have a bit of a jump on the 'Grand Rapids' at the moment, but that's okay. I'm sure it'll catch up, and you'll both be hanging out in our salad bowl. We can't say: any day now. But soon.

Okay, gang, good job. Keep up that mighty fine work.

Welcome to my cosmos

There are 23,000 species in the Compositae or, much more fun to say, Asteraceae family – including coneflowers (Echinacea), sunflowers (Helianthus), and, of course, Asters. Many of them are inspiring pollinators to do the happy dance right now.

This little fellow is as happy as a bee in cosmos; Cosmos bipinnatus, to be precise. It makes me happy just to watch.

Mulch ado about weeding

What's black and white and mulch all over? Yes, newspapers.

With a family addition nearly due to distract them, our neighbours G. and W. are cleverly smothering a former weed patch in their garden with newspapers, topped with a few inches of woodchips. That should keep weeds down to a dull roar while the new parents attend to more rewarding matters.

The blade of grass visible in the top left corner above shows that this method doesn't entirely eradicate weeding. Weed seeds can still land and germinate in the mulch. However, there are many more weed seeds in the uncovered soil, such as those starting to take root at right. Beneath the paper, the environment is much less hospitable.

Last month, Sarah wrote about how she has successfully used this method to reclaim her flower garden from the big bluestem grasses at her country place. It works in urban settings, too. Not only does it save weeding time, it can save digging time if you want to clear a large area. To plant something, simply cut a hole in the papers and plant.

Warning: Dog-Strangling Vine about to pop

This may be our last chance this summer to catch a major pest before it spreads its seeds. Watch out for these monsters: Under-ripe pods, packed with feathery, airborne, milkweed-like seeds.

If you're a Toronto Gardens reader, you've noted our campaign against the steamroller known as dog-strangling vine (DSV) or pale swallowwort (Vincetoxicum rossicum, syn. Cynanchum spp., the latter word derived from the Greek meaning "to choke a dog") Our previous warnings about this highly invasive, non-native twining weed can be found here, here and here.

I'm not the only one calling this a pest. Info from OMAFRA, Ontario's ministry of agriculture, can be found here and here. According to a PDF from Canada's Ministry of Natural Resources (which I wish I could post, but I don't think blogger will let me), dog-strangling vine arrived in the northeastern United States from Eurasia in the mid-1800s.

In addition to overwhelming large areas of natural habitat, DSV is a threat to the Monarch butterfly, which is attracted to lay eggs on a plant that cannot support the caterpillars.

If you find it in your garden, please do yourself, your neighbours and a lot of pretty butterflies the service of removing it and disposing of the seeds. Cut the main stem off at or just below the soil with a knife or secateurs. Don't pull on the stems, as this can break the underground root system, which will send up new shoots in other areas. Continue to cut off any new stems as they appear, which should gradually starve the root.

However, do not add the seed pods to your compost heap or composter, as killing them requires much higher temperatures than is likely produced in a home garden. Instead:

• Collect the seed pods in a paper bag, dry them and burn them in a fireplace or outdoor firepit.
• Or, boil them in water, after which they can be safely added to your compost.

This and more information about safe disposal came from this link from the Fletcher Wildlife Garden in Ottawa, which has had experience battling large areas taken over by dog-strangling vine.

The taste of a fresh beet: Unbeetable

How can one describe the taste of a fresh, fresh beet? Sweet, with something of the earth about it. Beets from a store can't approach this flavour. Typically, the time from field to market gives them the leisure to transform their sugars into starch.

If you don't grow your own beets, the city has an increasing number of simple solutions: Farmers' markets.

Two operate within a fairly easy stroll from home. On Thursday, my man and I walked to the one in East Lynn Park. Except for some unsatisfying moviehouse popcorn and hot dogs at a double bill* on Friday, we've been feasting on that bounty since.

On one night we had beet tops with a grating of nutmeg, steamed yellow and green beans with a splash of EVOO and lots of garlic, and BBQed organic bison burgers. Inspired by guess-which movie, my man made us a snack of home-made bruschetta on organic hot pepper bread. Last night, we ate the golden beets, lightly buttered, with the rest of the beans, and masses of fresh sweet corn. I sprinkled Cajun seasoning on mine, a gift from a friend just back from New Orleans. Why don't we always eat like this?

I also treated myself to flowers, a luscious bouquet of dahlias and snapdragons. To these, I popped in a single rubrum lily rescued from the rains in my own garden.

Farmers' markets are becoming much more accessible, and for this we should be grateful. The bison stand was giving away copies of a handsome magazine called Edible Toronto. A trip to the publication's website will take you to this list of farmers' markets in the Golden Horseshoe area which lists 25 markets in Toronto, not counting ones nearby in areas such as York, Durham or Peel Regions.

Even if you do grow your own, there's always something you don't have room for. In case of crop failure, or in case of deep need before your own harvest ripens, there's a market close by waiting to see you. This is one case in which the freshness can be beet.

*An unusual pair of films, gustatorially speaking: Julie & Julia and Moon. In the former, "Julia Child" and "Julie Powell" whip our appetites into a frenzy. In the latter, the main character played by Sam Rockwell feeds almost exclusively on vacupacked baked beans.

Hi Lily, Hi Lily, Hi lo

The fleeting beauty of certain flowers might be what makes a song of love such a sad song*. Now it's the turn for the Oriental and turk's cap lilies.

Wish I could send you the fragrance of the former. These pure whites, airbrushed with pink as they age, are sweet without being funereal.

The texture of lilies is something I was taught to love by the lens of a camera. These stamens are luscious, aren't they?

And just look at the teeth on those tigers.

Thus ends my song of love for this lovely Friday, before the lilies are humidified into oblivion over the weekend. Sigh. *Sorry about the earworm.

Tomato problems: Curly Top Virus

This is one of Sarah's tomato casualties, which I think we've IDed as being felled by beet curly top virus, an insect-borne malady. The leaves have curled upward and become stiff (Sarah says: like rigor mortis for tomatoes), with purple veining on the undersides. The whole plant has become stunted and curled, not older or younger leaves. There is no cure, so the plant has been removed.

This particular specimen was the largest, most robust tomato in the community garden at the time of planting. That's likely why the culprit beet leafhopper found it, took a nibble, and infected the plant with the virus.

I've Googled a couple of good online references for this, both from south of the border. Nothing that I could find from local sources was as simple or comprehensive. The first is a very useful key to recognizing tomato problems from Colorado State University. Worth bookmarking. The second is this description of the curly top virus disease from Oklahoma State University.

Because of the sand which is there

Today's headline is the punchline to the joke: Why will Toronto gardeners never go hungry?

The gas-main excavations in many Toronto neighbourhoods have been revealing. What they've revealed on our east-end, upper-upper-upper-upper-upper Beach street is sand, lots of deep, inert, yellow sand.

This was the beach of prehistoric Lake Iroquois, making our street, which runs east and west at the top of the hill, former waterfront property.

Real estate prices were probably a lot lower 10,000 years ago.

When I took these shots, the excavator was curious. You wanna take a picture of a hole? When I explained my gardening interest, he said, Oh, yeah. It's sand all over this area. But it makes it easier to dig. For him, maybe. We won't mention the other thing I whinge about, but its initials are Norway maples.

I call sand "inert" above because, though it is mineral, it is very low in usable plant nutrients. Full of tiny hunks of rock, it's almost a sterile medium, with nothing much for plants to eat. Plus, the large grains leave big gaps between them, supporting sieve-like drainage.

Some sandy areas of the city are luckier than others. They enjoy a sandy loam, which contains more organic matter and, therefore, more food for your flowers. Our area is sand on top of sand.

This is why we who garden on sand must be ever-vigilant about feeding the soil. I don't mean feeding it liquid snacks of fertilizer, which is like drinking pop; a quick spike and then gone. With this underneath, you can see how quickly the watery stuff will drain away.

I mean constant, regular additions of compost, manure and mulch. This is what lasts. It's hard work, but somebody has to do it... and every year... if they want a garden.

Clay areas in the city have the opposite problem: clay soil is high in nutrients, but has poor drainage.

If you're curious about what lies beneath your garden, you can download a Toronto soil map from this link. Some of the data was collected when the subway lines were constructed. It's illuminating.

However, it might make you hungry for a sandwich.

Shade garden housekeeping: Sports

With shade gardening, there's a difference between plants that are shade lovers and shade tolerant.

Hostas, for example, are often considered shade lovers. Some do require shade to produce their best leaf colour. Yet, most hostas are simply tolerant of shade.

And here is my baby corkscrew hazel (Corylus avellana 'Contorta'), which does best in full sun. However, with a bit of morning and afternoon sun in my front bed, it tolerates my shady garden. It gives me fewer spring catkins, but still makes the twisty stems that give this plant the common name, Devil's Walkingstick.

[Oops, I stand corrected: sharp-eyed reader Nick points out that Devil's walkingstick is the common name for Aralia spinosa. Corkscrew hazel is commonly named Harry Lauder's Walking Stick. As far as I can gather, Sir Harold Lauder was a BMOC in the garden-design department, mid-19thC. Please feel free to correct me!]

HOWEVER (and you can see by the typeface that this is a big however), like many plants living in less-than-ideal conditions, corkscrew hazel does have a tendency to sport or revert back to its natural form, putting out straight stems rather than curly ones. The same can happen to plants with variegated foliage. Under stress, which is what less-than-ideal cultural situations create, they can gradually sport back to green.

You can't tell the plant: cut it out! But you must cut it out yourself, pruning or pulling up the unwanted straight or green growth. Once sporting begins in a plant, it will likely recur. Besides marring the appearance you selected your plant for, the original form is usually more vigorous and can take over.

Who knows what lily beetles lurk...

So-called-summer 2009 has been the summer of love for lily leaf beetles. Since I wrote about them on June 1st, they've been arriving by the thousands, camping out and making music.

And they're hungry. Turn your back for an instant and you're growing poles, not lilies. The whole stem is defoliated, leaving the bulb nothing to feed next year's flowers. Sheesh!

Although you'd think the stop-sign red shells would make them easy to spot, lily leaf beetles like to hide underneath the leaf. You have to seek them out by peering from the ground up, which can put a real crick in your spine. Yes, they are. A veritable pain in the neck.

It's no good moving the leaves to get a better look. At the slightest quiver of the leaf by the All-Squishing Hand, the beetles release their grip and drop like skydivers, leaving you empty handed. That's why I've been mastering my two-handed catch: One hand to probe, one hand beneath it to capture the prey. Then the mighty squish.

You'll want to wear gloves while you're probing, as this little fellow casting a giant shadow is a lily leaf beetle larva, who likes to wrap himself in a slimy cloak of his own poo.

He makes just as satisfying a squish, though.

Hmmmm. Maybe I'm the evil lurking.

Happy to be "have beans" (or almost)

If you want to hook kids on gardening, let them plant beans. They're one of the best veggies for the impatient gardener. A week away, and our late-sown crop has sprouted its first set of true leaves. They quickly turn a bare garden into something that looks like it's really happening. What fun. Now we'll reset our Patiencemeter to wait for the fruit.

Radishes are another ideal starter seed for kids or the chronically impatient. Ours are working on Leaf Pair II or III, marking the rows of tiny beet seedlings (with the nascent red veins above) and the grassy primary leaves of the carrots. We'll pull the radishes up as they ripen, leaving room for the other root veggies to... we hope... develop.

You can see how we're faring, compared to those who had a May/ June start (not towards the end of July, as we did). Bare? Our little 0.0018 acre looks so naked it's blushing.

In the plot to our left, the corn is if not quite as high as an elephant's eye then elephant's-eyeish. Further up our row is a glowing netful of scarlet runner beans, one of my faves both for flower and fruit. We've optimistically put some in, too, and will see what our optimism gets (or nets) us.

Not much has gone on with the tomato plants, unless you count these microscopic suckers, the tiny branchlets that develop in the crooks where the large leaves meet the stem. These I unceremoniously nipped off to discourage bushy growth. If these plants ever set fruit, I want the sun to be able to reach and ripen it, and that's best done when the plants grow upward, not outward, at least in a space as small as ours with no room for them to sprawl.

Sarah's plots, by contrast, are very well dressed, with lots of ripening tomatoes, plus sunny yellow zucchini, herbs and a bouquet of marigolds and other pollinator attractants. But I'll let her tell her own story.

Love/Hate: Soapwort opera

This pretty double soapwort (Saponaria officinalis) has been sharing my Microgarden for more than 22 years. I say "sharing" because soapworts have this wacky idea that the garden belongs to them. They have, after all, lived here longer than me. We tussle over ownership for a while, but they usually give in without much of a fight. I always leave them a corner to call their own. Next spring, we'll have the same, erm, discussion all over again.

Soapworts spread by eager underground runners and they are prolific seeders, hence our annual struggle. However, they do flower in sandy dry shade, which is always a plus in my book. Another plus is their old-fashioned sweet-peppery scent, which always takes me back to childhood (perhaps I'm older than I think; saponaria root has been used as a soap since the Renaissance). Our youngest daughter is Elizabeth, so the common name Bouncing Bet is another reason I'm fond of this flower.

I grow the single form, too. It piggybacked into my front garden years ago along with a transplant of Hemerocallis fulva from Sarah's country place. Talk about the gift that keeps on giving. Soapwort has naturalized in agricultural regions since it was introduced by ever-practical colonists for its utility. It's now found in almost every state, province and territory.

Soapwort belongs to the carnation family Caryophyllaceae, with the same knobby knees on their stems as their cousins carnations and pinks. My Saponaria officinalis grows 12-18 inches tall and tends to be lank, flopping in the shade and semi-shade. This year, I experimented with pinching them back once in spring to keep them more compact. It worked well enough that I might give them a double beheader next year.

In May and June, it's the tuft of low-growing rock soapwort (Saponaria ocymoides) that's one of my old reliables on the tough dry shade slope out front.

There you go: love it for its unfussy temperament and reliable bloom; hate it for its relentless wandering ways. Take a deep sniff, pull on your gloves and decide.