Pod Growth

Day 314: When something dries out, it shrinks. That's an inescapable fact. And logically, the more water it has to lose, the rate of shrinkage will be different. Obviously, a cherry tomato would shrink more than a similarly-sized walnut meat simply because it has a higher water content. Nevertheless, having seen dried milkweed pods, I was not expecting fresh ones to be quite so enormous! These are already four inches long. Taking a tangential detour in the discourse here, and having come face-to-face with my own mortality at my annual checkup, I have to wonder if the next owner of this property will appreciate the inheritance of botanical diversity my garden supports: milkweed, Akebia, kiwi vines, gooseberries, a medlar tree, and hiding under leaves, a treasured stick which sprouts aqua-blue fungus with the arrival of autumnal humidity.

Black 'Hocks

Day 335: Several times in the past, I've gathered seeds from my black hollyhocks intending to plant them the following spring, but invariably, I've forgotten to do so. Perhaps this time, I'll remember. Single Hollyhocks are not as common as they once were. Most gardeners lean toward the showier doubles of most plant species. However, I have fond memories of the 'hocks growing against the alley fence behind my grandmother's house, reds and pinks, whites and yellows, and every one a single. As a four-year old, I probably sowed hundreds in the neighbourhood from pods I collected and turned inside-out to watch the seeds fly apart from their tightly packed nests. To me, "hollyhock" shall always signify a large, floppy, open flower. Those fluffy double things are something else, not hollyhocks, and they have no place in my scheme. My grandmother would be proud.

Fall Colour

Day 355: I half-expected to see little pockets of frost in the yard when I stepped out onto the back porch and felt the chill in the morning, but if it was there, it eluded my eye. That said, a few things are starting to colour up and seed pods are bursting, ready to be harvested for next year's planting. Autumn is not the end, but rather the beginning of a new gardening season, the time when potential is paramount in the gardener's mind. It is a time of evaluation and planning, identifying what needs lifting, what needs moving, what might go here or there to give shade or to eliminate it. Autumn's advice must be heeded. What worked well? What did not? In pulling out the nasturtiums, I discovered that they had saved my other plants from attack by black aphids. A boon, perhaps? Or in a garden where they had only ever been a problem on marigolds, were they drawn to the nasturtiums, there to breed and lay eggs? Whatever the case, a lesson was learned under Autumn's tutelage. There will be no more nasturtiums for me!

Particularly Peculiar

Day 326: When I was in third or fourth grade, I experienced a peculiar phenomenon of euphonics in that after saying the word "broom" several times in succession, it ceased to have meaning in my mind and became simply a mellifluous sound; meditative, if you will, and possibly akin to the similar "Om" of yogic mantra. I was a strange child, to be sure, and even then, my fascination with language and semantics was strong. Another linguistic form which continued to intrigue me into adulthood was that of the tongue-twister, and I went well beyond "she sells sea shells by the sea shore" to write my own. ""Few-fruited fennel flowers freely following frost" and "Merrily chewing cherries, very cheery veeries chirrup" are but two examples. However, one which seeped beyond the boundary of true tongue-twister into the realm where meaning ceases to apply was "particularly, peculiarly." It is not a complete sentence, and therefore I do not categorize it as a true tongue-twister, but try it three times fast. You will undoubtedly discover that you're putting an extra "-lar-" in the second word, and then a few repetitions further on, you may begin to wonder whether you are pronouncing it correctly or not. It's a rather disorienting feeling to lose a piece of your language. You may even feel mildly nauseous or dizzy. (The Surgeon General insists that I display that warning to potential practitioners.)

I'd like to be able to work that phrase into today's post, but the best I can do is to say that Clematis and Nigella both have particularly peculiar preposterously pretty pods. It's been a long week.

Nigella In Contrast

Day 33: As a species, humans tend to think of their visual capabilities as being pretty sophisticated. After all, we can differentiate something in the neighborhood of ten million colors. However, that very function often obscures the finer details of an object by overwhelming the eye and brain. Perhaps that explains why black-and-white photography has maintained its appeal despite the camera's ability to capture "true to life" hues. In a black-and-white image, features which would otherwise have been lost under a barrage of color stand out in greater relief. The maroon markings on the dried, brownish pods of Nigella are barely worth a passing glance in color, but in black-and-white, they become a primary point of interest. Don't ignore your camera's black-and-white mode!

Seeds Of Crocosmia "Lucifer"

Day 12: The weather was a bit too cool for kayaking or bicycling today, and the government shutdown means I can't even go into work, let alone take a stroll up one of my favorite trails, so I decided to do a bit of gardening in preparation for next spring. The first project of the day was to move the half-sunken, enormous tomato pot forward so the Sweetfern would have room to expand (which, incidentally, it's doing nicely). I dug out half the soil in the pot and the space in front of it, shovelling the potting soil into buckets and the garden dirt onto a piece of heavy-gauge plastic sheeting I'd laid out on the sidewalk. Once loosened, the pot was fairly easy to "walk" into place without needing to be lifted. I relocated clusters of Grape Hyacinth bulbs and the chives, and then filled in behind the pot and installed four metal fence posts around it. Next spring, I'll put up 2 x 4 wire to keep Bambi out.

A few other small yard projects kept me busy for an hour or so, and then after I'd cleaned all the tools and put them away, I noticed that the Crocosmia's seed pods had opened. Crocosmia is notorious for spreading by both seed and stolon, so to keep the sprawl at a minimum, I harvested the pods for future planting. The hummingbirds love red "Lucifer's" bright flowers, so I'll set aside a corner of the yard where the plant can run rampant. After all, I have to keep my hummers happy, don't I?