During harvest time I was interviewed by a local writer on the subject of garden vegetable oddities. He shared with me that a citizen gardener whom had grown a Mickey Mouse-eared tomato had gotten him on the phone, and how terribly excited the caller was, believing in miracles. A tomato that looks exactly like Mickey Mouse!
The journalist emailed me the pictures taken by the breathless gardener of his curiosity. I replied that I thought the tomato resembled the shape of a simple molecule more than Disney's famed cartoon character: the fruit was composed of three, smooth, conjoined orbs; lacking eyes, a pointed nose, and whiskers, which I do believe are essential features on Mickey's head. Call me picky.
In my opinion I was being prompted to exclaim this tomato phenomenon as, well, phenomenal, but my pulse remained steady. I explained to the journalist that plants do all kinds of crazy stuff, especially in their tendency to mimic the sexual organs of humans (don't tell me you've never seen a phallic gourd). A three-pronged tomato was, to me, not as amusing or unusual as the yams I had judged at the county fair this summer, resembling bug-eyed chihuahuas or angry old men.
Scientists have known for years that our human brains require recognizable data in order to cognate, and so what we at first do not recognize as "normal" we match with what we already know, the same way we see whales and horses in cloud formations. Or, for some, the Virgin Mary on a french fry.
It's unquestionably fun to look for patterns in nature. The more patterns we learn to recognize the deeper our scientific appreciation and understanding of the natural world. Teaching children how to identify trees by their leaf shapes, for example, is something most of us can relate to. And what a pleasure it is when the child sees the face of a fox in a blob of mildew on the freshly picked leaf!
A grown-up gardener should pause to remind herself that in the age of industrial macro-farms we rarely have an opportunity to glimpse nature's creative whimsy because we no longer get our hands dirty. When all of our edible plants come from a grocery store; hybridized, cultivated and preselected for absolute uniformity, it should not be surprising that when a gardener really sees nature unfiltered, she will be taken aback. It is when a gardener expects to pull a few bizarre-looking carrots from the soil that she has re-established an honest dialogue with nature.
There is much exploration to be done on exactly how plants do communicate, - with one another, even with us if at all possible. But it is the quiet mysteries of plants I hold in the highest regard. Knowing that my tomatoes are not scheming to intentionally look like a billion-dollar trademark by way of Mickey Mouse, or trying to bring forth religious miracles, or even attempting to appeal to my narcissism in any way whatsoever is profoundly satisfying.
Writer Mark Germer stated it well:
"Recent work on information processing (even kin recognition) in plants suggests that there may be more going on there than we now understand; as for birds and mammals, it has long been appreciated that they are perfectly capable of deception and subversion. For my part, I don't find these things odd or disturbing, as it's the continuity of all life that intrigues me most. Humans are not alone in their baseness -- though a few may be alone in their desire to rise above it."
Showing posts with label plants. Show all posts
Showing posts with label plants. Show all posts
Monday, December 8, 2008
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Despicable Daylilies
For anyone who is overly fond of daylilies (Hemerocallis), I am taking this opportunity to express my dislike. I know this may be downright immoral with many gardeners. Feel free to look away.
It's not that I am entirely blind to the the limited niceties of daylilies, a few varieties have the momentary worth to catch my eye, but even when I do rarely admire them my interest quickly wanes and I find myself seeking superior garden plants.
Trouble is, too many gardeners fail to surround their daylilies with more interesting companions, instead massing them by the dozens, hundreds, thousands. The result of this is anything but beguiling. A few well-selected daylilies tucked amongst fairer neighbors I may approve of but over and above, well, it becomes just another crop, like onions or potatoes.
When daylilies are finished, they are finished - yellowing, spotted foliage that hogs otherwise valuable garden space, their yucky brown flower stalks hanging around forever, offering nothing. The messy clumps seem to wither and decay endlessly. What for five minutes of garden glory was a bit of splashy color is now for the remaining 55 minutes of the garden hour an eyesore, a regretful decision, a dreary post-orgasm.
In the country, where I live, the daylily is frequently bedded at the end of a long private drive, visible to the homeowner with only a pair of high-powered binoculars.
The curiousness of this unfortunate habit is one I can scarcely fathom. Provincial daylilies are also also crowded around barns and outbuildings, almost always facing the road, where they cannot be seen by anyone but speeding passers-by. I have yet to understand why such a popular flower is planted where the gardener never visits. Perhaps it is to irritate people like me.
In the city, where I work, daylilies are planted in strict rows outside bank drive-throughs, around street lamp-posts and in medians. No-one pays much attention to them when they are blooming because it is inevitably ninety degrees outside. Don't try to convince me that a row of Stella d'Oro makes an urban heat island more attractive. I will be in my air-conditioned car thinking of my own garden, mostly unscathed by daylilies.
I, too, once succumbed to a momentary lapse of daylily planting (though not with any degree of fervor). I even installed an enormous bed of them...alongside my driveway! But I came to my senses - I observed them, I thought about them, and I formed an opinion from which I have not since strayed: daylilies are vastly overrated. Learning from my mistake, I dug up each clump and hauled them to the compost pile. Along the way, however, my wagon struck a small boulder and tipped, spilling them in a heap. I suppose I felt a twinge of guilt over tossing out "good" perennials, and so I salvaged a dozen, mixing them into other flower beds, wondering if I might appreciate them more if I could disguise all anatomy but the blooms.
The next year I resented them even more. When they showed up in their new locations I could only only hang my head in shame. What was I thinking? Before, when they were appropriately segregated, I could easily imagine eradicating them, efficiently, all at once. Now they were everywhere, spreading like a virus, and I had the same feverish, sinking that one has at the doctor's office when he authoritatively states that antibiotics do not cure a cold. Cover your mouth, wash your hands. You should know better than to spread this thing around.
It's not that I am entirely blind to the the limited niceties of daylilies, a few varieties have the momentary worth to catch my eye, but even when I do rarely admire them my interest quickly wanes and I find myself seeking superior garden plants.
Trouble is, too many gardeners fail to surround their daylilies with more interesting companions, instead massing them by the dozens, hundreds, thousands. The result of this is anything but beguiling. A few well-selected daylilies tucked amongst fairer neighbors I may approve of but over and above, well, it becomes just another crop, like onions or potatoes.
When daylilies are finished, they are finished - yellowing, spotted foliage that hogs otherwise valuable garden space, their yucky brown flower stalks hanging around forever, offering nothing. The messy clumps seem to wither and decay endlessly. What for five minutes of garden glory was a bit of splashy color is now for the remaining 55 minutes of the garden hour an eyesore, a regretful decision, a dreary post-orgasm.
In the country, where I live, the daylily is frequently bedded at the end of a long private drive, visible to the homeowner with only a pair of high-powered binoculars.
The curiousness of this unfortunate habit is one I can scarcely fathom. Provincial daylilies are also also crowded around barns and outbuildings, almost always facing the road, where they cannot be seen by anyone but speeding passers-by. I have yet to understand why such a popular flower is planted where the gardener never visits. Perhaps it is to irritate people like me.
In the city, where I work, daylilies are planted in strict rows outside bank drive-throughs, around street lamp-posts and in medians. No-one pays much attention to them when they are blooming because it is inevitably ninety degrees outside. Don't try to convince me that a row of Stella d'Oro makes an urban heat island more attractive. I will be in my air-conditioned car thinking of my own garden, mostly unscathed by daylilies.
I, too, once succumbed to a momentary lapse of daylily planting (though not with any degree of fervor). I even installed an enormous bed of them...alongside my driveway! But I came to my senses - I observed them, I thought about them, and I formed an opinion from which I have not since strayed: daylilies are vastly overrated. Learning from my mistake, I dug up each clump and hauled them to the compost pile. Along the way, however, my wagon struck a small boulder and tipped, spilling them in a heap. I suppose I felt a twinge of guilt over tossing out "good" perennials, and so I salvaged a dozen, mixing them into other flower beds, wondering if I might appreciate them more if I could disguise all anatomy but the blooms.
The next year I resented them even more. When they showed up in their new locations I could only only hang my head in shame. What was I thinking? Before, when they were appropriately segregated, I could easily imagine eradicating them, efficiently, all at once. Now they were everywhere, spreading like a virus, and I had the same feverish, sinking that one has at the doctor's office when he authoritatively states that antibiotics do not cure a cold. Cover your mouth, wash your hands. You should know better than to spread this thing around.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
What is your time worth?
"What is your time worth? Though it is often asked, I do not think this question answerable. It is the same as asking what your life is worth. And I can give it only the same nonanswer: it is worth whatever it means. the ideas that you cannot afford to raise a garden is based on the assumption that it means money, that if you are not receiving the top dollar for every minute of your life, you are suffering a "loss" - a doctrine that would not only put an end to gardens, but soon drive us all to theft or suicide."
Wendell Berry, from his essays The Gift of Good Land.
Wendell Berry, from his essays The Gift of Good Land.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Green Thumbs Don't Grow on Trees
People often tell me they aren't good gardeners, as if possessing a green thumb is a genetic trait, bestowed only to a lucky few. To this I reply, "If any of us were born with green thumbs we'd no doubt be spending a fortune on trying to correct the problem."
The metaphor of the green thumb is best suited to describe a hard-earned honor, a skill gained from routine practice, from many years of experience.
If there is a "secret" to becoming a good gardener, to turning one's thumb green as it were, it is not an inborn trait; it is passion, and everyone has passion.
The surprising thing about becoming a gardener is discovering your passion; rousing ancient senses within your mind and body that will lead you on a lifelong journey. Little did you know that new seedlings just up from the warm soil have their own unique odor, just as the sweet smell of babies can only be found on babies.
When hands touch a leaf or stem or petal one's nerves tingle. The brain, I am convinced, was long-ago wired to communicate intuitively with the botanical. This is not a magical phenomenon, it is evolutionary, for without a trait for the desire to care for plants the human race would undoubtedly perish; our earliest ancestors secured a place for homo sapien through the very act of gardening, through forming emotional connections with plants.
The metaphor of the green thumb is best suited to describe a hard-earned honor, a skill gained from routine practice, from many years of experience.
If there is a "secret" to becoming a good gardener, to turning one's thumb green as it were, it is not an inborn trait; it is passion, and everyone has passion.
The surprising thing about becoming a gardener is discovering your passion; rousing ancient senses within your mind and body that will lead you on a lifelong journey. Little did you know that new seedlings just up from the warm soil have their own unique odor, just as the sweet smell of babies can only be found on babies.
When hands touch a leaf or stem or petal one's nerves tingle. The brain, I am convinced, was long-ago wired to communicate intuitively with the botanical. This is not a magical phenomenon, it is evolutionary, for without a trait for the desire to care for plants the human race would undoubtedly perish; our earliest ancestors secured a place for homo sapien through the very act of gardening, through forming emotional connections with plants.
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