GroHappy

A teddy becomes a grizzly

One of the nicest (and sometimes the most frustrating) things about gardening is the unexpected. In the garden, one of the more pleasant experiences that can manifest itself is an opportunistic crop or plant. For instance, this year an ornamental squash started in my bed where I planted Swiss chard in the spring. So far it has delivered 15 squash with at least another 6 on the way in the next few days. At Green Chimneys this year our opportunistic plant is not squash but sunflowers.

Three years ago we planted three different types of sunflowers: Moulin Rogue (all red), Gigantuous (big and yellow) and Ring of Fire (red in the center, yellow on the edges.) But since then we have not planted a single sunflower but we keep getting more and more sunflowers in the garden with each year. This year they were as thick as chickweed and we needed to pull out a lot more than we would have liked to.

But the interesting thing about these sunflowers is that only a few bear any resemblance to their elderly relatives. We have many different shades and configurations of red and yellow sunflowers in the garden because they have been cross-pollinated with a different cultivars for three years running. So a wild variety of flowers has bloomed with different heights, colors and flower configurations.

We have a couple of sunflowers in the garden that are over 12 feet high with a single defiant spike daring the squirrels to climb and eat (like the one to the right). Others have formed big clumps with small, but tall flowers.

But perhaps the strangest was the mutant Teddy Bear sunflower that appeared a few weeks ago. At the top of one of the large clumps, about 8 feet in the air was a Teddy Bear sunflower blossom about the size of a small seedless watermelon.  Teddy Bear sunflowers grow to a maximum height of two feet, with a smallish flower. This was not your typical teddy bear: it’s a grizzly.

“This must have cross pollinated with a Teddy Bear that was planted in the barrels down by the administration building [about a half mile away],” said Tracy. “It’s pretty cool looking.” Tracy and I agreed to try and save the seed of this big flower so that we could see what its offspring will look like next year.

 

The old bamboo

At Green Chimneys I have a pretty packed day: eight sessions with 11 students between 9 am and 3 pm once a week. Though Tracy thought I was mad to agree to such a schedule, I had a simple reason: I rarely ever get to deliver all the sessions. Between absences, doctor appointments, special events, etc. someone is always dropping out.

Last week I found myself with some time on my hands and I didn’t feel like weeding (I had spent the previous day doing that in my garden.) Next to the barn there was a pile of bamboo that Tracy had ordered to build some trellises for squash and frames to net the corn. A few scraps were on the side. I picked a scrap up and for some reason wondered if I could build a flute.

So I took out my Swiss Army knife and started the process. I opened the saw and cut off an end so that the stick was about a foot long with one end open and the other end plugged. I brushed off the end against the ground and opened up an awl that was on the knife. I picked a random spot near the plugged end of the bamboo and started to apply pressure. By turning the awl back and forth, a hole started to form. Soon I had a hole that was large enough to blow across.

I put on my best flautist face and blew. Nothing. Perhaps a few fingering holes would help. After I bore in a few holes I took another shot at it. Nothing. As I had no idea what I was doing, I wasn’t too bothered. I then looked up.

One of the boys in Tracy’s class had quietly walked over to me and was staring at me and my “flute.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m attempting to make a flute.”

“Does it work?”

“Let’s see.”

I then gave the flute my biggest blow and best sour-lemon face. Out of the end a loud, ear-splitting shrill noise emerged. I had built a flute. I then plugged the far end with my finger and a different sound emerged.

“That is so cool,” said Ted. “Can I make one?”

By that time the other boys in Tracy’s class had defected over to my patch of the garden and were also interested. “How about me? “And me,” said two other boys. I looked over to Tracy and she shrugged her shoulders. So I told the boys we could all make a flute but we would have to do it one at a time as I had only a single knife. I then told them to select a piece of bamboo.

“But think about what you want because the larger the piece of bamboo you choose, the lower the sound will be for the flute you make.”

One student asked, “Why is that?” So I then started to talk to them about the physics of sound and why some noises have a high pitch while others do not. I worked with each of them to build a flute while I explained the principle of how a flute worked. They were careful as I showed them how to use a knife and were quiet and patient as we built different flutes. By the end of class everyone had a flute in hand and smile on their face. No one cared that the sound was that good, but they were all able to get a tweet out of their homemade flutes.

After they left I apologized to Tracy for Shanghaiing her class. “Oh no. What you did was great. You were teaching them to be careful. Giving them math lessons as well as music. It was great. Anyway there was lots of male bonding going on and I can’t compete with that. So why try?”

I thanked Tracy for her understanding and looked at the pile of bamboo next to the table. I picked out a nice piece for myself and thought I would have another go at it during the week. Perhaps I will be able to make something that humans, rather than dogs can hear.

Fungus among us

While July was hot and dry, June was not and set the seeds (or spores) of one of our current activities at Green Chimneys: trimming diseased branches and leaves off the tomato plants. Tomatoes are one of the favored fruits of summer as there is nothing quite so tasty as a fresh tomato that has ripened on the vine. Unfortunately, for the last three years we have had a constant battle with Septoria leaf spot and every year I have endeavored with my charges to control the problem.

A few weeks ago I told a group of young boys that we would be cutting the leaves off the tomato plants. Initially they seemed uninterested until I asked them if they liked salsa.

“Yeah! That’s one of the best things about the summer garden. Will we be getting salsa soon?” said Bob.

“Well I hope so,” I replied. “But only if all of these green tomatoes are able to turn red. And they won’t turn red unless the tomato plant that is holding them lives for at least a month more.”

I then showed them a diseased leaf. It was brown on the edges and had little dots all over.

“This leaf is infected with a fungus that will kill the tomato plant unless we stop it. Look at some of the wilted leafs at the bottom of that tomato plant,” I said pointed downward.

They all looked and saw a bunch of desiccated brown leafs hanging off the metal cage. There were also small shriveled branches hanging off the bottom of the plant.

“Does that look healthy?” I asked. They all shook their heads no.

So I told them that we needed to cut off all the sickly looking branches as well as collect the dead leaves on the ground and instead of putting them into the compost heap, we needed to throw them out. When I asked them why did we need to do that Bill spoke up,” Because if you put them in with the compost you will just be planting them again next year.” Smart kid.

I gave each of them a set of pruners and they quickly set off to do the work. I said that our goal was to finish a single row of tomatoes and they set off quickly to do their job. Unlike other weeding exercises, this time the boys worked quickly and carefully. Perhaps the prospect of not getting salsa was motivating them to work hard; perhaps my promise of carrots and early tomatoes if they did a good job was a more immediate incentive.

In their enthusiasm a few healthy branches were cut, but as they were not bearing any fruit, I told them that it didn’t really matter that they were cut. After each plant was tended to, I wiped down each of their tools with alcohol to remove any spores that lingered on the blades. After 30 minutes of work, the row was nearly done.

“Gentlemen you have done a great job and probably saved this row so we will be able to make salsa in a month or so. Give yourselves a pat on the back,” I said. “Look at the difference.”  For the few plants that had not been trimmed, the dead, shrunken leafs were a bleak counterpart to the thinned out albeit airy bottoms of the plants that had been cut. The boys seemed pleased.

“OK now it is time to shop. Carrots first or tomatoes?” The boys had big smiles on their faces and decided to go for the tomatoes first.