Back in June 2008 I wrote, “A mixed container is a challenge. Just like planting a garden with the right plant for the right spot, for a mixed container one must at least consider putting plants with similar needs together.” Then I went on to talk about breaking that rule. (It didn’t work out well. I’m pretty sure I never mentioned those particular pot combos again.)

This past April – the 8th to be exact if I can trust the scrawl in my calendar that reads “k – front porch pot” – I planted a container that I wasn’t sure would make it past Daffodil Days. I was so unsure of it that I didn’t even take a picture after I planted it. But not only did it make it through spring, I just took it off the porch yesterday, looking more beautiful than ever. My temptation is to take zero credit for it and say it was just dumb luck – one of those happy accidents that happens sometimes in the garden. But actually, the plants played very well together and there’s a (remote) possibility that I might have had an inkling when I planted it. The plants I chose could all take the kind of “evenly moist” that is easy to maintain in a glazed pot (watered twice a week); they all appreciate a little morning sun and afternoon shade. And here’s where I really lucked out – they almost all grew just enough to fill the pot without being bullies.

The plants:  Pinus palustris (Longleaf pine) – in any container it’s guaranteed to turn heads. (I planted one in the pot by the road too.) Farfugium japonicum ‘Aureomaculatum’ (Leopard plant) – another stunner, finally blooming now. Hypericum calycinum ‘Brigadoon’ (St. John’s wort), Asparagus densiflorus (asparagus fern) and a couple of tiny Campanula ‘Elizabeth Oliver’. The campanula were the only plants that, after they were done blooming, were overtaken by the rest. It was almost as if I planned it that way.

I know there’s something to be said for redoing containers periodically throughout the season to keep it all interesting – and keep a gardener on her toes. But my goal is always to get it right the first time. (And this was the first time.)

Have you planted a container combination that stood the test of time and maintenance? What worked? (Was it carefully planned or a happy accident – or a combination?)

Summer solstice is a perfect occasion for taking stock of the season so far. We’re at a midpoint – at the start of summer – with a lot to look forward to and plenty to look back on with both pride and chagrin. We always like to try new things here and although I have every intention of talking about what works and what doesn’t, I seem to be much more likely to show off our successes (the pictures are prettier). So today I’m joining Susan over at Ink and Penstemon for her Solstice snafu day celebration for a virtual bonfire of disappointments, mistakes and failures.

We tried soil blocks this year thinking that it would be great if we didn’t have to use peat pots or the indestructible coir pots anymore. (Planting this spring we turned up more intact coir pots – it’s like an archeological dig around here.) It turns out that soil blocks are not easy to make. I definitely didn’t get the soil mix right – any suggestions for what works would be welcome. They took every shoulder muscle to jam soil into the maker and a lot of finesse to stamp them into the tray without breaking the fragile clumps. Ours – the ones that held together – were like cement and most of the seeds we tried in them didn’t stand a chance of germinating.

I count it is as a failure that we allowed Lilah (Weed Woman) to take a vacation this week. Not only would we rather be kicking back on a Block Island beach too but the weeds have suddenly taken off as if they knew they were safe. This particular patch of purslane, onions and Berggarten sage (Salvia officinalis ‘Berggarten’) is an example of an intentional snafu. Supposedly onions do not love sage. We want to see if they really won’t grow well or if it’s simply a silly idea to pair such excellent companion plants with each other instead of with plants they might benefit instead.

We were so excited to place the Gunnera manicata in our little cement pond. Gail and I both said, “It’s perfect!” especially paired with our other greenhouse behemoth (Agave americana) in a nearby bed. But then the gunnera started to wilt. My research has indicated that they like full sun to partial shade so I can only think that the poor thing is in re-potting shock. We’ve cut all the big leaves off and might make a last ditch attempt to save it by taking off the flowers too. It just doesn’t look stupendous anymore and I’m seriously disappointed. We might have to take it out and hide it just to keep from feeling so terrible about it.

Plant labels are something I would love to put on the bonfire. Just when I feel like I’m catching up printing them, the entire garden bursts into bloom, hiding the labels I’ve already placed and requiring about twenty-hundred more. The weekend garden docents must have fits trying to find plant names for interested visitors. At least I know which plants I put labels on… And in the last couple of years I never got a tag on this enormous lily. I know that if I’m dying suddenly to know its name, visitors must be curious too. We ordered Lilium ‘Gerrit Zalm’ back in 2008 but perhaps now it’s known as ‘Trebbiano’? Curious.

And lastly, our self-sowers might look to some like an egregious error of judgment but in the case of our pink peony poppies, we meant to have so many. We’ll be saving seed perhaps to sell in the shop. Plus, we and our visitors love them. I did, however, remove them completely from our big Display Garden bed. I have come to the realization that the reason self-sowers are considered such a nightmare is that it’s mentally challenging – heartbreaking and difficult – to edit out something you think is beautiful. But sometimes, just one (or twenty-hundred) will do and make the garden more fantastic than it might otherwise be.

Do you have any snafus to throw on the solstice bonfire? Confess it here and/or head over to Ink and Penstemon to join the celebration.

We are poised on the edge of the pit of despair (a.k.a. March). I know a lot of people choose to remove themselves from danger by visiting the tropics at this time of year. While I generally prefer to spend plane fare on plants I have to say that it’s probably a good idea, every few years anyway, to give yourself a real change of scene. Putting at least a good 1000 miles between yourself and your garden can only recharge and reinvigorate your interest in it. And there’s no better time than March because it’s the most diabolical month – generally too awful to be outside and with cabin fever inside reaching critical levels, March always feels like it’s about 365 days longer than it is. Plus winter interest is only interesting for so long. (And I’m someone who loves tree bark.)

I do plan to put about 3000 miles between me and my garden (and Blithewold) later in the month but in the 102 days between now and then I need to focus on finding a few things that might keep me from falling down the rabbit hole. Sweet peas is one. Sweet peas equal spring and really all I have to do to maintain my equanimity is look forward to a sweetly scented June. We sowed 18 varieties yesterday. We went ahead and used the cow pots after trying a little soak test. The pots, even dry, pull apart more easily than peat and much more easily than coir. The one we have in soaking has definitely softened and we figure that we’ll just remove the pots when we plant like we used to with the peat pots. Sweet pea roots don’t like to be disturbed but we disturbed them for years with no ill effects.

Projects are another thing that can keep me from brooding so it’s a good thing that we still have gardens to design. I did preliminary sketches for a couple of the beds a month ago but now that the seeds and plants have been ordered, we can draw out some plans and plug our final wish list in.  It’s all about looking forward. And I’m still catching up on book, magazine and blog reading and am so grateful for that kind of escape right now. I’m all for being in the moment – you know me – but sometimes, like when it’s raining (snowing, sleeting, hailing, squishing) it’s more inspiring to spend the moment in a whole other time or place at least mentally.

Another project on my plate is putting me back in the moment the same way writing the blog does and hopefully will be the same kind of medicine. My first article as the new garden columnist for East Bay Newspapers was printed this week.

What will you do you do to stay sane through March?

Raise your hand if your houseplants don’t have scale. Anyone, anyone? If they don’t, I’m willing to bet that either Mother Nature loves lucky-you especially (though she may have another plague in store, beware); you have only four houseplants, all begonias; or your plants have been infested with scale insects in the past and you have somehow managed to banish it from your house. If your plants do have scale, don’t be embarrassed. You’re in good company (says me).

I freely admit to having disgusting scale on a few of my plants at home. (For Mr. McGregor’s Daughter’s houseplant census, I also admit to having upwards of 85 plants inside my approximately 1000 sq. foot house…) And I’m sorry to say that ever since we stopped using systemic pesticides, a few scale have found their way back into the greenhouse here and there. If you’re not already familiar with these sapsuckers, scale generally look like crusty brown or waxy yellowish scabs and are often found on the underside of leaves along the midrib, tucked into leaf axils or along the stem. (Mealy bug is also a type of scale which resembles sticky grey cotton goo.)

Scale life-cycle in a nutshell (ha!): Eggs hatch under the protective shell of the female and start their life out as “crawlers”. They don’t travel far or fast – but that would explain how they get from plant to plant especially in a cheek-by-jowl living arrangement. Once they’ve found their spot they lose their legs and settle in for a suck. After molting and morphing into their adult selves, male scale grow wings but lose the ability to eat (no mouth). Males use their day or two window of opportunity to search for and mate with females. Females meanwhile develop a crusty protective shell from their castoff molts.

I have never noticed any flyers, eggs or “crawlers” but I guess I haven’t paid very close attention. I do always notice a fresh crop of immature scale (the small yellowish ones), their honeydew poop and the opportunistic sooty mold that sticks to it. I periodically – probably once a week at home – put plants in the sink for a bath and I go after the individual scale with an insecticidal fingernail.

The recommended treatment (besides systemic pesticides, or introducing another insect into your house to eat the scale – which might be worth a try) is to scrape them off and give the plant a dilute soap and/or horticultural oil wash and a water rinse. But take care to test your chosen method before treating the whole plant. Ferns, for one, are notoriously sensitive to anything but a gentle fingernail and room-temp water, and citrus don’t love oil.

So, fess up now – do your houseplants have scale? What do you do?

Before doing anything that takes significant creative energy it usually feels very important all of a sudden to make sure that the closets are clean and the dishes have been done. That’s my preferred procrastination technique anyway and I know I’m not alone. (Though given the state of my own closets and the perennial sink-full of dishes, I think my ability to resist the muse must have many complex layers.) But Gail and I have important garden design work ahead of us and because we absolutely must be able to hear the muse when she speaks, this week Gail set to quieting the noise of the mess in the pumphouse.

The pumphouse (so called because it houses the pump for the well) is our tool shed and growing season catch-all, full of left-hand gloves, empty cans of string, stakes, dirty kneelers and squares of burlap – just to name a few of the items one can plainly see through the open door. In the latest issue of Gardens Illustrated, Frank Ronan wrote an essay about garden sheds – he describes them as places that are generally off limits to visitors where the behind-the-scenes machinery that makes the garden grow is stored out of sight. You can have a garden without trees, he says but not without a shed. I’m sure that’s true in a way – in order to really garden, one must have things like loppers, mowers, spades and rakes and they must be kept somewhere within reach but out of the reach of the elements so that they don’t become useless lumps of crusty rust. The shed itself is a necessary tool whether it takes up a wall in the garage or the bulkhead stairs. Of course, the quintessential garden tool shed is a separate little outbuilding tucked into a dark corner of the garden.

Ours is dead central within the Display Garden and an integral part of the visitors’ experience of the garden, whether the door is open or not. When the door is open, our behind-the-scenes hard work is visible and I have to say that I’m not really bothered by that even when it looks a little cluttered. Spades and digging forks and bags of fertilizer and muddy footprints are irrefutable evidence that the garden didn’t just grow out of a puff of fairy dust and elf spit. (I’d much rather that we and the volunteers get the credit.) But over the course of the season, the usefulness of the shed degrades as the clutter becomes more congested.

We’re lucky to have such an attractive tool shed; so lucky that it was recently restored with fresh paint and a gorgeous new roof; and lucky that Gail had the energy and drive to make it tidy and spacious again. And because it’s so well organized now, I like to think that it will be much easier to keep it that way.

Where do you store your garden tools? Are you able to keep everything organized and tidy throughout the season or is it still a mess? (My own shed is a windowless prefab shack with so much stuff on the floor, I can’t walk in without tripping. Maybe I’ll work on organizing it the next time I have the urge to paint…)