Rescue Me

At the end of each summer I am obligated to take in a certain number of refugee plants.  I am speaking of those rejected, less than perfect leftovers that slipped through the cracks like so many wayward human characters who wind up homeless. 

Also like their human counterparts these sad specimens often only need one last break to make something of themselves.  This is where softies like me come in. I scour through the sale and freebie corners of our local hobbit-like garden shop and Inevitably their plaintive little poses catch my eye.

A collapsed pack of once-dainty dianthus will be lying on its face muttering that all it needs is a little plot of soil and a drink of water.  I will lift it closer and gently cup it in my hand to see if there really is any hope, and that's when the plant will lay it on thick. A wilted arm will dangle exposing one beautiful baby bud, fated to meet an unfulfilled destiny. I'm sure the dianthus sneaks a one-eyed peek from under its flopped leaf, at my tearful reaction to its sneaky strategy, because the minute I pop it onto my tray of ragtag adoptees it seems to miraculously recover enough to jostle for space with its future garden-mates.

But I'm not completely naive. Even if it only recovers by next spring we both win. The outcome can be eternal loyalty and extreme success, so grateful my adoptees seem to become.

In fact even as I write, some of the subjects of this essay are blowing me kisses and smiling adoringly up at me.  Ah I love my garden.

Pinks (Dianthus) are great edible flowers

This little one is still lying down, but already perking up.

Solidly on its feet, this one will be a grateful beauty!

Dianthus peeking out from behind alyssum

Love Mine Anenome

Proud double anenome!

Tightly pursed lips have met me for weeks as this late summer show-off bided its time.  Now one morning it has unfurled with a "ta-dah!"  The clumps of anenome have grown into lush bushes in spite of their more sparse habit.  They are the envy of the neighbourhood with such voluminous buds and blooms.

Perfection to the bees.

Bright, white, splayed petals stretch like a small trampoline on each bloom, strongly supported by their tough, thick little stems.  People are posing with these starlets for the usual photo shoots.  

Full bloom grabbing the all the attention.

Little do these admiring fans know what a Matahari anenome can be.  She quietly sends her shoots beneath the ground to secretly sidle up within other unsuspecting plants, shooting for height and strength before I can discover her.  On her distracting canopy she performs her siren magic, and below she plots her takeover.

Give her enough rein and she will overwhelm you with her presence, but I know my wild-child's thinking.  I diligently keep an eye out for her sneaky arms to pop up in someone else's space.  She is held in close quarters, and her response is to fling herself upwards to seek freedom and space on my terms.

I reward her with water, a gentle word now and then, and ample support for her heightened aerials.  Well done, my beauties.  Now let's see what your new cousins, the double flowered anenomes can come up with!

And here is her competition - the Double Anenome!

See her taut trampoline-like petals?

A Snail's Place

Lucky snail dropped by a bird - intact

We came across it while inspecting one morning, my granddaughter and I; a forlorn little snail calling from the top of a recently cut stem of spiderwort.  It had apparently dropped from the sky into this alien landscape of tall inedible stalks.  The spiderwort lives in an old bottomless washtub, segregated for its own good.  This way it avoids my manhandling its extra growth, and it can leap upwards as it grows at will.

Anyway poor snail was making a herculean effort to reach another stalk, twisting its long, lithe body at all angles for that one more centimetre.  Little eye stalks popped in and out at the effort like the slide of a trumpet.  It was practically cross-eyed as it tried to focus on its next step.   What fortitude the little fellow had, (although strictly speaking, they are all hermaphrodites).   At great risk of being plucked from his precarious perch by another flying predator, he soldiered on, clutching stalks of spiderwort by stretching on his tippy toe.  His house wiggled back and forth, almost unbalancing him with these acrobatics.

We finally couldn’t stand the tension any longer, and I gently tugged him off, causing his little body to shrivel all the way into his shell, tentacles sucked in.  He was covering his ears and eyes like a little kid who didn’t want to look.  I deposited him on some still-crisp leaves freshly added to the compost.

Gone are the days I committed genocide on snails and slugs.  I now realize they have immense use in my little ecosystem.  As plants finish their lifespan little slugs and snails like my new friend begin their job, clearing the landscape for the next batch of new growth.  Their downfall is their enthusiasm, which inevitably leads to forbidden fruit so to speak.  They are consigned to the compost as I find them, although I suspect I am deporting repeat offenders more often than not.

Don't forget to click on the pictures for a good close up.  They seem to have grumpy mouths too!

From Ash to Rowan

One of the wrens bonking me with berries!

This tree will be my undoing!  Named an Ash in this part of the world, and Rowan in others, she shoots out hopeful new sprouts from her broad lumpy feet at the base whenever my back is turned.   I fought hard to have her removed when we arrived but lost the battle to my shade-loving hubby.  Now she smirks as I constantly pluck at that never ending new growth.

This tree grows shoots to spite me


And the berries! Once she has finished nurturing them, she enlists all the large garden birds to pick and throw them at me. If I am not quite under the garden umbrella I get conked with raining, hard red berries.

I try not to show her my soft spot for her perfect treehouse the robin uses to rear her young.  Beautifully located in the crook of her branches and softly padded with a gazillion fronds, those babies have it first class.

But speaking of those fronds; could she have messier habits? She discards them willy nilly throughout the day and night. The chairs below gather collections, and my poor tidy husband even has to resort to the shop vac to keep up with it.

This is one messy resident


But I have to admit, there must be some delectable snacks hidden in her raggedy bark. There is a relentless stream of ants fixated on her bountiful offerings. And in the spring she tolerates a slew of tiny green caterpillars , which rappel from her unfurling fingers , hanging temptingly in the air from their silk ribbons.

I say temptingly because not a bird in the vicinity can resist scooping them up on a fly-by. I even saw a long-legged wasp carrying a wiggly one in flight. Granted I could hear her grunting with the effort but what a prize for the little ones at home!

Anyway my ash tree is here to stay, and I grudgingly cede that she earns her keep in the long run.

Busy nuthatch taking advantage of the Ash's bountiful fauna.



Scented Garden Birds

These birds don't mind being photographed!

The resident birds have come to expect their bug buffet after a watering, and they follow my path, tucking in as the disturbed beetles and wood bugs dash out from the shower, sputtering and stumbling.  We wink at one another, those birds and I, conspiratorial in our symbiotic ritual.  In what other place would I have such a perfect role?  I, enjoying each plant as it takes it's share of water, and the birds cleaning up the beds after me, clearing the excess populations.

It is an art the birds must learn, this garden-specific ritual.  From their fledgling flight the babies of our garden are led to exact locations at exact times of day and year.  "Over here is the birdbath. She changes it every two days when she waters.  After the insect snack we dip in." This is one of their instructions. 

This year one of the babies was particularly obstinate about fledging.  He hung onto the little perch outside his birdhouse all day, dashing back inside when mum or dad patiently would land there with him. 

Eventually though, later in the still-light evening, he made his attempt.  When I caught up with him he was fluttering around in the cherry tree, missing his landing and crashing through the leaves. I could almost hear his little heart pounding.  The others hipped and hoorayed loudly and fluttered close to him making quite a racket in the old tree.  Then they wafted down to the path calling to Junior, each making a big palaver about pecking in the thyme, exaggerating their task in the teaching of it.  I had just watered you see.

They have more patience than I.  I believe the little rascal was just seeking attention.  Once the rest got fully involved in the task at hand he quite capably floated down and took his place!  What a cutie though, with his little mouth markings that serve as targets for mum to feed, still on his cheeks. 

A busy Dad

See the little one on top of the frog?

Click to enlarge.  There is a bird at the edge of the bath.