The Joy (and woe) of Composting

The problem to be solved: My compost pile had been rendered useless by the massive infiltration of roots.

The task at hand: Restructure my two- bin compost area in an attempt to save usable materials and to reduce future root problems.

Hank, always my co-partner in problem solving, created a new bottom for the bin that would receive properly layered materials for a decomposition process that could begin before winter. The new bottom was a metal screen raised a few inches from the ground and held off the root-bound earth by scrap lumber.

Lacking leaves in this young yard (hence lacking "browns"), we offered to rake our daughter's lawn. I could barely contain my excitement as we drove "Big Red" away with six big bags of leaves. Sarah was pretty happy with the situation as well. Time to organize the materials to layer: My hefty heap of old greens, bags of leaves, bone meal, bagged cow manure, a bit of fertilizer and the water hose. Let the layering begin.

The most challenging aspect was transferring my huge pile of poorly composting greens into their new bin. Initially it went quite well. Half way down I met with my nemesis, the roots.

Wishing I had a team of oxen, I severed and forked out clumps of tenacious roots, shook the dirt off and tossed them aside.

Whatever remained I forced through a screening device rigged up on a wheelbarrow. In a Go-Back-To-Start Monopoly move, small sticks and woody chips that didn't make it through the screen were tossed onto my new compost pile.

And below the screen? MANNA FROM HEAVEN!! Rich compost, complete with wiggly little creepy crawlies. Running my gloved hands through this and inhaling made all the effort worthwhile. It was at this point that Hank shouted over, "Do you want a spoon???" Three wheelbarrows full of GOLD were bagged and set aside for next spring.

And here is the finished project! My new, reconfigured and (hopefully) properly layered compost pile. Of course, the proof is in the temperature. I couldn't help but compare the testing to the hundreds of times I have run a thermometer to a fevered child and hoped the mercury would be down. But this time I hoped for rising temperatures each day as I tunneled to the center with a pitchfork and tested with my hand. Day One: Stone cold. Day Two: Stone cold. Day Three: cool. Day Five: Maybe a little warm? Day Six: Warmer! And this morning on Day Eight when I exposed a center portion to the air, STEAM!!!!!

Uh-oh, Hank just announced that if the compost pile makes me this happy he guesses he will never have to take me on a cruise...........I better tone it down.

"Naturalizing" Bulbs

I've just made a stooped over bee-line for the aspirin and heating pad. Maybe the gardening magazines portray the naturalizing of daffodils at the wood's edge as bucolic, beautiful........and easy. But today's endeavor was far from a "Fine Gardening" moment as I set out to plant my 50 bulbs at that fictional bucolic edge. Ten holes measuring 10"x 10"x 6", five bulbs to a hole, that was my plan. I hadn't counted on each little hole consuming 25 minutes of my precious, dwindling, October daylight. While I would like to write that I was setting bulbs in rich, loose loam along a rambling old stone wall, that was not the case. Where the lawn meets the woods has been the pit of hell-fire I've chosen to ignore for three years. Today I ripped out numerous young saplings, yards of grapevine and briars, severed countless mazes of inch-thick roots below the ground with my pruners. I've removed shale, rocks, dense clumps of long grass and scraps of builder's landscaping plastic. My labor had a sweet spot, though, when my eye caught a vine of bittersweet deep in the woods. It was one of those illuminating moments. Intellectually, I know I am not supposed to delight in this discovery because bittersweet is an invasive menace. But I love when the orange berries swell and split their cream colored cloaks, adding jewelry to the bland brown wardrobe of the November woods. Where it is, it will cause a problem to no-one. The aspirin is taking hold now and in retrospect I can stand by one of my gardening principles. As long as you love what you're doing, it's never work. Hopefully, each time I round the last bend homeward next April the daffodils will smile at me from the woods. And if my intent is realized, I will believe that God put them there, not I!

The Dirtiest Book I Own

Whenever I head to the garden for a serious work day this book hitches a ride in the wheelbarrow along with its companions - the shovel, bucket, trowel, clippers and bug spray. It's easier than tracking my garden dirt into the house countless times to double check a when or a how-to. THIS is the book that bears the marks and scars of the great outdoors. As I flip through the pages I can find evidence of muddy fingerprints, hose mis-firings, debris from the garden gloves, dribbles of sun tea, flower petals, a squashed mosquito, a random seed or two, and (ew) maybe even a drop of blood from a rose thorn. More than any other gardening book, this one is subject to abuse as it lays open on the reference section of my stone wall. I can't attack the chores without Tracy DiSabato-Aust's help. She has divided her book into three sections. Section I is devoted to basic perennial planting and maintenance. Section II is all about Pruning. These sections are more for feet-up study with my peanut butter sandwich and glass of milk. Section III is my favorite, the most useful (and has the dirtiest passages!) It is an A-Z encyclopedia of perennials. For every plant name there is a banquet of information: zone, description, size, exposure, flowering time, pruning and maintence tips for every season. And there's dessert on the banquet table, "Other maintenance tips." It's a wealth of information to encourage success for every plant. So the secret's out. I own a book that is too dirty for my coffee table.

Sigh....

Quieter Days of Autumn

Having waxed melodramatic on the subject of my autumn clematis in a recent post, I'm reluctantly ready to "dial it down a notch." My divisions are......... done. As I tend to the tasks remaining, it's all so quiet, so crackly, so peaceful, so thought provoking. Ghosts of this year's garden are my silent partners. Brittle seed pods, green leaves turning purple, the brown stalks that the daylily plants are so eager to release, the yellow nasturtium just daring the frost to nip it away, the burning bush now clashing with a neighbor it found companionable a few weeks ago....to everything there is a season. And so it is with these posts. I will not go away. (But I may be a little calmer!) The quiet season will afford me opportunities to share an occasional thought, follow an impulse, and perhaps to recommend books I enjoy, like this one.

Two Gardeners - A Friendship in Letters is an mmmmmm read for anyone who loves to write, read and garden. Funny how those three things seems to pop up in the same person so often! Katherine White was a legendary editor and garden columnist at the New Yorker Magazine. A beautiful friendship began when Elizabeth Lawrence, another noted garden writer sent a letter of encouragement to Ms. White. Over the next twenty years they exchanged letters, seeds, suggestions, catalogues, concerns about each other's health, and sentiments of the gardener's heart. The ideas they shared with each other they now share with us, the readers. Tomorrow after I make sure all my changes are entered on my garden map I'll drag the Adirondack chair to a place in the sun where I can put my feet up on the stone wall. Lulled by the lazy cricket sounds at the edge of the crisping woods, I'll escape into this book again. Maybe, just maybe, I'll look past the page to the garden and despite all the challenges and setbacks will be able to say, "Well done, Lauri."

Mums and Remembrance

Exactly ten years ago I was driving down a country road on a most beautiful morning anticipating the purchase of six pots of mums to set on the old milk cart in the front of my home. On the car radio I heard that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. I continued on my mission, believing it was a small and errant commuter plane. By the time my car was colorful with mums I knew the horrible truth of September 11. It wasn't until much later that afternoon that I even took the mums from the car under an eerily quiet sky that was accustomed to regular air traffic. I remember that it seemed wrong to be doing something so trivial when our nation was in such a grave situation. Yet as I look back I see it as my small way of bringing light to a very dark world. Today was a mum day again.

I've always set pots of mums on a cart, watered until I grew careless, then chopped them up for November's compost. I have NEVER planted a mum! Their reputation as poor winter hibernators precedes them. I recently read an article that made me believe I could do it. Planting instructions were to 1) Buy Belgian 2) Buy plants in bud, not bloom 3) Plant early 4) Soak the roots first. I removed from along the walk the petunias that are tired of "waving," and gave to the Angelonia and Victoria Blue Salvia the job of complementing the mums. Planting six mums took over ninety minutes because of the tedium of teasing the roots from the root ball and because of the care needed to avoid snapping off brittle stems (score - minus one). I handled them like newborn babies. But I'm glad I'm trying something new. When September turns to October, they should be in full bloom. And on this tenth anniversary, they did their part to brighten a sad day.