Transplanting with Care

So one of my problems is that plants are too damn sensitive. I feel like I have to walk on eggshells around transplants. Well, Mel (from The Square Foot Gardening book) suggests shading transplants for a few days after planting. So that's what I'm going to do.


I bought some wire and shade cloth. I fashioned wire cages to go over a 1 foot by 1 foot square. Then I covered them with the cloth and set about planting my first three squares - Marigolds.


Now, the last time I planted Marigolds, they were gone the next day. Literally, gone. Nothing. No friendly speck of orange to remind anyone what the stubs in the ground used to be. As you can see, I'm even following Mel's suggestion to water with sun-warmed water (REALLY!?!?!). I'm so desperate for success I'll try even that.


Here's Woody with his friend, Sierra. Why do dogs always act like they're starving? They kept drinking from the water bowl and trying to eat out of the fertilizer box.


Here are my marigolds carefully placed in my garden box. Woody, get out of the picture! (He's actually on his way to munch on my chocolate basil. Really Woody? You eat my chocolate basil? Maybe I didn't kill that one after all...)




So this time, I'm shading those suckers until they acclimate and get over the so-called shock of transplanting. THEN, and only then, can they be properly eaten by whatever bug comes along in the night. They'll be in my garden for at least three days, of course, I won't be able to SEE them, but they'll be there. Damn it, they'll be there.

Building My Garden Box

I recently read "Square Foot Gardening" by Mel Bartholomew and was inspired by his very organized, mathematical approach to gardening. So I decided to give it a go. I'd heard from other sources how wonderful box gardening was and coincidentally, my friend Lauren, had just built one the other week. Of course, she had the help of her boyfriend who is a contractor. Okay, okay, before you roll your eyes at my total lack of carpentry skills that I'd need a contractor to build a BOX, you have to understand something: I'll do pictures on a wall, hanging curtains stresses me out, putting up shelves? Call an expert. But I was inspired, and I was going to build a box!

I think the most difficult part was the time I spent at home depot. Just finding everything was a pain. And there's the constant looks from the people who know what they're doing wondering what the hell this girl is doing (looking completely lost) in the lumber department. I must have looked pretty pathetic because I got a lot of offers of help but I just needed time to absorb all the products. I had to make sure I knew exactly what ALL my options were, which meant checking out EVERY piece of lumber in EVERY section. I didn't want to miss something, after all. Finally, I picked out my redwood pieces and had them cut. I also bought manure, vermiculite, peat moss, and compost to fill the box. After maybe two hours and two trips to the cash register, I was ready to roll.

My plan was to build two four foot by four foot boxes. Since each box would be six inches tall, I'd place one on top of another so I'd have a twelve inch deep box. When I got home, I realized I hadn't planned on how to actually connect the two boxes together. So back to home depot I went. In talking with the store employee, I learned 2x6's were in fact, about an inch and a half thick. What does the 2 in 2x6 stand for then? I asked. The employee tilted his head to one side and thought for a moment. He gave a rather lengthy explanation about production but I was just thinking how my measurements would be off by a half an inch on each side. I guess I could live with that.

With all my supplies in order, I set to work. Actually building the box was easier than I thought and within no time I was in business. I prepped the ground where it was going, filled it with my fancy materials, and made my grid lines (the most important thing!).



(above) This is the lucky piece of real estate. Here I am getting it ready. That's Woody's blue pool, by the way. Wet dog + dirt lawn = not so good. So the pool has been out of use for awhile, until now!



(above) After I tried to level the ground...who am I kidding, I didn't try that, I put down some trash bags because I was too cheap to buy weed cloth.



(above) The smaller box with the wire bottom was not my invention. It was built by whoever previously owned the house. It made a great sifter for when I backfilled the box with some of the existing dirt.

Lesson 4 - Plant a Branch

In lesson 3, I mentioned an Australian plant I bought at a gardening seminar. Something about the petite white and pink flowers on my Matilda made me think of sitting outside on a sunny afternoon while drinking tea. I imagined her all grown up, filling the space behind my patio bench as a living romantic backdrop. In addition, Matilda was drought resistant and didn't need much care. Just the thing for me.

But in an unfortunate trampling incident, Matilda was taken out by none other than my number one herbicide, Woody. But not all hope was lost. Matilda wasn't completely severed from the ground. It seemed she had joined the ranks of the late Gryffindor alumni Nearly Headless Nick, "Once again, you show the sensitivity of a blunt axe." I set Matilda back up and used my number one defense against plant death: happy thoughts. Maybe she wouldn't notice the damage.

But she did, and she fought for awhile. I guess there's only so much water and nutrients that can go up the few strands left connecting Matilda to her roots. I decided drastic measures were needed. There was a branch just below the injury that I thought might survive. So I promoted Matilda to the Headless Hunt and completely severed her. Then I did what seemed to make the most sense, I took the severed piece and stuck it in the ground. It died.

In more promising news, the uninjured piece still forges on, barely.

Lesson 3 - Get a Dog

That's Woody. He's a natural born plant killer. Don't get me wrong. He doesn't set out to kill plants. He takes no pleasure in their demise. They just get in his way. When we moved into our house. There was a green lawn in the backyard. Now it's dirt. What happened? Woody. He needed the space for running, after all. Then there's the corn stalks (yes, I'm growing corn. CORN!!) Except a couple are bent over because Woody sometimes walks over them to get his ball when it bounces into the garden (I just prop them back up, maybe they'll straighten some day). And then there's the beautiful Matilda I bought from an Australian grower. Matilda was my first big girl plant purchase since I didn't buy it at Home Depot. Woody trampled it no doubt trying to get to the bush next to it that houses his arch nemesis, lizard (see lesson 4).

But most notable is the small bush that grew in the corner of the yard. It was perfect for me. It didn't need water or any special care. And every year, it bloomed with the most beautiful flowers. I remember the day clearly. I wasn't actually home when it happened. My friend Erin brought her pit bull, Dakota, over to visit Woody for the evening. I received a text message, "You are going to be so mad."

First of all, friends, don't begin a conversation that way. Ever heard of a compliment sandwich? Every bit of bad news should follow this format: Something good...bad news...and something good. Example, "You have a great smile...but there's a big piece of food in your teeth...but it gives your smile a little extra spice today." Bad news needs a fluffer, if you will. Something to soften the blow, a bit of friendly preparation to lubricate the bad news. And anyway, how am I supposed to respond to "You are going to be so mad?"

But I digress. I stared at my phone, images of a fire or a mess of astronomical proportions swirled in my head. Knowing the dogs were playing, I figured it had something to do with the backyard. "You know that bush in the corner..." her next text began, but the rest is hazy because everything at that point just got blurry. Now, I'm no stranger to dead plants, but this one was different. It was a reminder that plants indeed can live, and produce flowers, and give me warm fuzzies. It was a promise of good things to come, of the hope of better days in my garden. But its days were numbered, just like every other plant in my yard. And its day of reckoning came without warning, in the form of a carrot colored canine who just wants to run and play and eat lizards.

And run he does, says the dirt that used to be a lawn. And play he does, say the cornstalks to the ground (because that's the direction they're facing). And eat lizards he does, says Matilda (in an australian accent). And what does the plant from the back corner of the yard say? I'll never know. It will forever remain nameless, voiceless, and of course, dead.

Lesson 2 - Plant from Seed

This is my Great Seed Experiment 2010: 72 seed trays for cultivating 72 plants. Think about it, what greater pleasure to a beginning gardener than seeing 72 small sprouts growing under her nose? What could be more rewarding than raising 72 plants that were started from seed and raised to such health that you can literally enjoy the fruit of your labor? And who can argue the cost savings of starting 72 plants from seed instead of buying 72 transplants at the store?

Of course, 100% success is a bit optimistic, even for me. I decided to maximize my chances by putting several seeds in each tray with the intent on thinning down to only the strongest, most robust plant. I did some fancy math to convince myself my chances were good, "3 seeds per tray...72 trays...216 seeds planted. If even one quarter survive I'll have more than 50 plants..." So went the conversation in my head.

Then reality set in. Okay, some seeds were really big so I only planted one or two. And of the supposed 50 plants, how many would be in the same tray and would get thinned? Then there's the little detail about how the seeds that came in my handy dandy seed kit were mostly moldy. I decided I might need to see if I had anything better in my garden shed. I had, after all, bought many kinds of seeds in the past. Of course, I never got around to planting them. Until now. So I dug out those dusty seeds and ignored the fact that they had been in the shed for probably well over a year. They couldn't be worse than the moldy seeds, right?

I planted several types of seeds - vegetables, herbs, flowers, and yeah, probably mold. At first, it was like opening a present every day as a new sprout would grow. I'd check the tray it was in and then cross reference it to my handwritten table of what went where and when it was supposed to sprout. Within a few weeks I had 20 new sprouts. Okay, a bit lower than my original estimate, but they were 20 sprouts hand planted and cared for just by me. And, like a new mother who sees no flaws in her offspring, my 20 sprouts were like Mary Poppins. Practically perfect in every way.

Then came the hard part, keeping everyone alive. Apparently, seedlings need sunlight, and sometimes sunlight through a window isn't enough. But they're too delicate to go outside until they're strong enough. And they aren't strong enough until they have real sunlight (apparently a way around this circular path is to buy a special light, but that's waaaaay to much trouble for me). So I decided to toughen up the little guys and put them out for several hours a day. But the back and forth became too much trouble so I just left them outside for several days. And they died.

Even the tree guy, who came to check out a dead eucalyptus in our back yard (yes, even the trees come to our house to die), took a look at my experiment and just had one comment, "they need water." Which brings us back to lessen 1.

The silver lining? I've noticed some new sprouts in the trays...so I'm back up to 8!

Lesson 1 - Water it

Everyone knows too little water can kill a plant. But did you know too much water can also kill a plant? Yeah, it can. Take my word for it.