Cold Climate Gardening

Winter sowing, as far as I can tell, is identical to what, in my self-education as a gardener, I learned as cold stratification. The more traditional description of the procedure is to put the seeds in the fridge for the requisite period of time, and then sow them in pots or flats or whatever your technique is for seed starting.

I learned stratification from Lauren Springer’s book The Undaunted Garden: Planting for Weather-Resilient Beauty. Her method is similar to what is commonly referred to as winter sowing now, but she didn’t bother with greenhouse-like containers to protect the pots of seeds. Instead, she covers the soil mix with “one-eighth inch of fine gravel (one or two grades coarser than sand)” and after watering them from the bottom, she puts “them outside on the north side of my shed, which stays shaded throughout the winter. This prevents the seed from experiencing the wide temperature fluctuations of warm, sunny winter days.” They aren’t covered because “The ideal cover…is a blanket of snow.”

Popularity: 15% [?]

…

Popularity: 23% [?]

Sunday, October 8th, was a gorgeous autumn day, sunny and warm. I decided to go up the hill for a walk in the woods, camera in hand, and you get to share the results. (Be forewarned: this is an even longer than usual post.) But first, a little bit about where we’re going. Our family lives on 14 acres. It is a narrow slice of hillside, with our house near the road at the bottom of the hill and our land going uphill for about half a mile. Once upon a time, it was all forest. We figure our house was built sometime in the 1880s, so that’s probably about the time the trees were cleared for pasture, though it’s always been marginal land for grazing: not especially fertile acid clay, with a high water table that leaves many areas soggy during years of average rainfall. The forest has been growing back as the occupant before us (and maybe the one before him) gradually stopped mowing the areas furthest away from the house, though we still have a field of about 4 to 5 acres.

The field gets mowed yearly with a brush mower, which is also used to keep paths through the woods cleared enough so a suburban girl like me can pick her way without carrying a machete or getting lost. The path starts out in what I call the Secret Garden, which is an area closer to the house that reverted to trees early because it’s clearly too wet to mow. I have dreams of turning it into a native plant garden, but for now, that’s mostly all it is, an idea that, maybe someday . . . After meandering through the Secret Garden, the path starts going up, and threads through the hedgerow alongside the field before joining the woods proper.

Don’t these berries look ornamental? And the birds love them. Such is the recipe for disaster, for these are rose hips of the invasive Rosa multiflora. This shrub is growing on the bank of the seasonal brook that borders the northern side of our property, right before it narrows and becomes easy to cross at the top of a hill. As you cross the brook at this point, you can look back down the slope and watch the water spill over the rocks. I used to dream of sitting on a bridge and enjoying the view, which I would enhance with ferns and native flowers planted into the steep bank. But it took a mere decade for this little glen to fill up with the thorn-infested brambles, which I’ll have to remove before I can ever realize my dream, and I’ll have to be eternally vigilant ever after. Don of An Iowa Garden has been working on eradicating this shrub, and it sounds exhausting.

Popularity: 61% [?]

This is a section of the Birthday Garden, which is a somewhat raised bed sandwiched between the driveway and the house. At the base of the stone wall, looking rather pale, are some Colchicum byzantinum. Above them is an unknown chrysanthemum, which Debi Lampman of Bedlam Gardens in King Ferry, NY gave to me this spring, when I visited her in the course of researching an article on gardening hotspots in Ithaca. Next to the mum, Colchicum ‘Lilac Wonder’ emerges from the blue-green foliage of a catmint (Nepeta sp.). I got it from Bluestone Perennials as ‘Six Hills Giant,’ but it has never …

Popularity: 31% [?]

As befits a good garden buddy, I gave some colchicum bulbs to my friend Bub several years ago. As a matter of fact, every time I dig up and divide a new kind, I give her some, so by now she has at least three kinds. But she’s never bought any herself, so all that she has originally came from me.

The strange thing is, she now has a type that I don’t have. In the photo above, the wider petaled flower in the upper left is what I would call Colchicum byzantinum. In the middle you can see some intermediate width petals, and all the way to the right, some really skinny-petaled blossoms. Below is a second photo which, while slightly out of focus, makes the petal difference quite clear.

Popularity: 19% [?]

When I was growing up, there was a game show on tv called “To Tell the Truth.” The various contestants tried to trick the game show panelists into thinking they were the true zoo veterinarian or whatever weird occupation was featured that day.

Sometimes I think my colchicums are trying the same trick on me. Oh, I can tell they’re all colchicums, all right, but is each one the cultivar it’s supposed to be?

On the left, we have Colchicum ‘Autumn Herald.’ On the right, C. ‘Violet Queen.’

Popularity: 25% [?]

Colchicums as a whole are pretty miraculous, emerging from out of nowhere and blooming without leaves, but this particular variety (Colchicum agrippinum) takes the cake. I planted it in autumn of 2004. It didn’t bloom then, and it failed to send up leaves in 2005. Not surprisingly, it didn’t bloom in 2005, either. When it didn’t send up leaves last spring, I had given it up for dead, a mail-order stillborn.

Popularity: 22% [?]