Extension News: May 2009 Archives

March is for skiing. The days are longer and warmer, the snow sometimes mushy but usually adequate, and you’re finally in shape. Then April. T.S. Eliot knew whereof he wrote. Mud, cold, late snow, teasing warmth.

Finally the yellow arrives. First the goldfinches appear at the feeders in bright new coats-yellow, enhanced by black wings. Evening grosbeaks, bigger than the goldfinches, but similarly dressed.

Daffodils-the first green shoots appear in a sunny, protected spot, then among the trees where they have naturalized. A warm day and they burst forth, first the bright yellow ones, later the more subtle narcissus, with yellow centers. The forsythia explodes in yellow, sunlight on a bush, seeming all the brighter on a cloudy morning.

The daffodils and narcissus are my special favorites. I am a lazy gardener. Once planted in a convenient spot, they come back and spread, each clump expanding, year after year, where you had forgotten you put them. Mine are in an open grove of deciduous trees, so the flowers bloom before the trees leaf out and their leaves have time to feed next spring’s celebration.

Of course not everything in spring is yellow. A clump of bloodroot suddenly creates a white carpet, -short-lived and glorious, in open shade by the stone wall. These are the progeny of a few plants borrowed from a neighbor’s property where they had taken over the site of a long-gone farmstead improbably located on the northern slope of a hill. A few crocuses come and go, also more or less self-perpetuating. Red trillium appears here and there.

But yellow dominates. The daffodils persist. They survive a late snow unscathed and they don’t object when I pick a bunch to bring some spring inside, although the woodstove continues its service. A branch of forsythia, brought in before it blooms, obliges by allowing itself to be forced a bit before its time.

As the early yellow fades, spring begins in earnest. The fruit trees blossom white, then drop snowstorms of petals; lilacs' perfume surprises. Tulips may bloom in all kinds of exotic shades, but they don’t persist and naturalize the way the varieties of narcissus do. The wild and naturalized and the cultivated mix and match. In open, rocky places ground phlox, once it takes hold, provides a welcome splash of color.

My garden isn’t the well organized, well-tended example seen in fashionable brochures and catalogs. It’s very much hit or miss. There’s less work that way, although sometimes I seem to spend most of my energy controlling the excess of the successful plantings. After the forsythia finishes blossoming, it must be restrained with the pruning shears or it will overwhelm its neighbors. In an open sunny spot, even the daffodils become too aggressive. Come fall some will be dug up and moved.

When someone has given me a plant, it gets planted. Some do well, some don’t. The wild and the planted mix, and the planted sometimes go wild. A late-blooming rhododendron, brought from my childhood home in Massachusetts, brings forth pale pink blooms in July, long after normal rhododendrons have completed their show. By now it’s July. A clematis that climbs a trellis on my deck is a shower of purple. A little rose bush by the stone wall is covered in pink blossoms. (I’ve gone to war with the wild roses, one of the few plants other than poison ivy that I challenge aggressively.)

The yellow persists. I plant tall yellow marigolds in the garden, supposed to ward off some pests. Black-eyed Susans flourish on the edge of the pasture and anywhere else that isn’t extensively mowed. A plant with daisy-like flowers appeared by the gate. I don’t remember planting it, but it faithfully reappears in late summer each year.

The gladiolas, dug up in the fall and replanted in May, look promising for late summer enjoyment. For some reason the red and pink gladiolas are the first to bloom. The last are the yellows, which continue until every last one has been cut and brought inside to brighten the dining table.

Then there is autumn. Yellow leaves are a splash of sunlight underfoot or gleam from the trees in the afternoon sun. The beeches, especially, hang on to their yellowing leaves until forced to release them by a cold snap or strong wind.

Only when winter sets in, late November, does the yellow disappear, except for the gleam of sunlight, low in the sky, warming the spot where my lab basks. But the yellow waits, under the snow, for the chance to burst forth again, when I’ve put my skis away for another season.

By Carolyn Baldwin, Wildlife Coverts Cooperator

At the age of 40, I thought my childhood dream of having my own pony had finally come true.

The truth is, I'd had horses in my life before, but they were never mine.

Before I was born, my parents left New York City and bought a 55-acre farm in Vermont where I spent my first five years. It was an ideal setting in my child’s mind; fields to roam, a pond for skating parties and swimming, and lots of animals for playmates.

I loved the horses best, but as the youngest I wasn’t allowed to ride them unless it was with someone older. That’s why I wanted a pony all my own. Forward 35 years.

On a cool summer morning I stood by a row of windows in my second-floor bedroom and looked out onto the back lawn toward the woods that led to a golf course. With coffee in hand I luxuriated in the feeling that comes when a soft dawn breeze, pungent with sweet pine, wafts through the screens and promises another beautiful day. The mist on the grass was thigh-high and rising. The only sounds were the birds chirping their morning calls.

As I turned to head downstairs, something by the edge of the lawn caught my eye. Having the eyesight of a mole I never trust my un-spectacled eyes, so I raced frantically to the bedside table, jammed on my glasses and checked the spot again.

A pony! A lovely brown filly, grazing on the tall grass no more than 60 feet away. All logic left my brain. It seemed my dream had come true; my prayers had finally been answered.

Not wanting to frighten the pony, I flew silently down the stairs to enlist my husband’s help in corralling her. Looking like a player in a game of charades I began gesturing madly and mouthing “There’s a pony out there.”

“WHAT?” he replied in full voice.

“Shhhhhhh. A pony! A pony! Over by the woods. Help me get hold of her.”

We stepped outside and simultaneously assumed a stealthy crouch­­as if that would work. The pony nonchalantly lifted her head, continuing her munching as we moved slowly toward her. Making no attempt to run, she allowed my husband to clip our dog leash to her bridle.

For one brief moment I allowed time to slip away. I was a kid again and it felt like Christmas. While I held the lead, Jay called the police to see if anyone had reported a missing pony. No one had.

“Can we keep her?” I asked, half joking, half serious.

“Ya, right,” came the reply. “Let’s think about this for minute,” he said assuming his scholarly voice. “If we can retrace her hoof prints we can probably figure out where she came from.”

Although the prints led to a small stream and disappeared, that was enough evidence to give Jay the brilliant idea that she must have come from the estate on the other side of the golf course. So sure was he of this that after letting me play a while with the pony, he set off to return her to her rightful owner.

Down the cart path they went, the pony making no objections until they came to the barn. She wasn’t the least bit interested in going inside, but the horses in the stalls seemed delighted to have her back. It took some doing, but eventually with persuasive pushing, pulling and cajoling she was safely “installed.”

Since Amy, the woman who took care of the property, wasn’t home, Jay left with a satisfied feeling that he’d done his good deed for the day. I hung back, a bit sad at having to give “my” pony back.

A week later Jay ran into Amy in town and told her about returning the pony.

“Oh my gosh!” Amy laughed. “I wondered who had put her in the barn - I came in after work and almost died when I saw her there. She belongs to the Gordons on the other side of town.”

“Really?” Jay said, “But the other horses seemed so happy to see her.”

“That’s because she’s in season and they’re all stallions!”

By Susan Ferber, Master Gardener

I know of no one who likes grey squirrels. They take over bird feeders, live in attics, and are considered an all-around pest.

But once in a while, a pest becomes an individual, a sympathetic individual, who captures your heart. Enter Stumpy the Squirrel.

Two years ago, shortly after I retired from high-school biology teaching, Stumpy appeared at my bird feeders with the other squirrels, eating my expensive “sunflower chips” and causing anxiety in my feather-lined heart. On second glance though, I noticed he was different, an apparent target of bullying. What was going on here?

Stumpy was missing half of his long, furry, squirrel tail. What had happened to him? He didn't seem to be the worse for wear, so I put him in my Oh, there's Stumpy file as the only gray squirrel I could distinguish from the rest of the horde. A squirrel I could use perhaps as an indicator for how long they stay in the same place and perhaps even how long they live.

Last fall, when I again had time to observe my backyard, there was Stumpy, now frolicking with his pals: fat, happy, and eating his share and more of the gold-plated sunflower chips. Winter three was coming up. I knew that one squirrel does not a population make, but Stumpy could still serve as a pretty good indicator about local grey squirrel life. In fact, life seemed not too bad in my back yard: great food, plenty of places for nests, friends to play with. But what about sex, I wondered? Was Stumpy ignored by the girls because of his tail? (Or the boys? I’d assumed Stumpy was a male, but I don’t really know.)

By midwinter, Stumpy's fur appeared a little less thick and full. He wasn’t frisky, but lethargic. There must be something wrong with him. With binoculars, I saw him close up, and what a sight! He had a patch on his right side that had no fur, with one big, red open sore on the skin.

What had happened? It was 15 degrees. I figured that might be the end of Stumpy. But how would I know? Do a squirrel inventory every day? Stumpy didn’t show up on a regular basis. I went searching for information.

A local veterinarian told me Stumpy might be suffering from mange, a mite infection. Or he might be biting and irritating an itchy spot. As winter is stressful on all wildlife, Stumpy’s tail problem, possible mange, or even feeding on contaminated bird feed could all have contributed to his appearance.

Following the habits of grey squirrels may not seem exciting, but I did want to see how Stumpy fared. I set up a blog to record my Stumpy watch. In response, a college friend suggested I trap him and take him to a recovery center. Hmmm, not sure about that one.

When I showed Stumpy’s picture to my next door neighbor, his comment was, “Oughta be shot for eating my bird seed.” Not what I really wanted to hear. Our four-year-old granddaughter followed Stumpy and wanted to make him into a princess.

As the winter wore on, Stumpy appeared, though not regularly. When I did see him, his skin looked better, and his appetite was great. As squirrels aren’t herd animals, his solitary appearances didn’t seem abnormal.

Perched on a tree branch during a January snowstorm, Stumpy looked shocked at having to go through 12 inches of snow to the birdfeeders. Instead, he went back up his tree making noises whose meaning I could only imagine.

On a sunny but cold March day, Stumpy sat on his branch again, with his injury facing the sun, seeming to just enjoy the warmth. I startled him and he ran around the back of the tree and disappeared. I could see his naked skin and his injury were still there, but he seemed none the worse for it.

Now it’s May. The trees have leafed out, the grass is up, and I continue to see Stumpy at the feeder every couple of days. Amazingly, most of his fur has grown back, except for a small spot, and he looks fat and happy. But a number of other squirrels, including a red squirrel, now seem to be afflicted with the same skin condition.

What I’d taken for granted, the presence of grey squirrels just outside my window, has turned me, an experienced science teacher, into to a humble observer. It’s given me the awareness that my condo backyard is not just as a grassy knoll mowed all summer by noisy machines, but an inspiring and thought-provoking corner of our planet with its own secrets and mysteries.


By Suzy Martin, Master Gardener and Community Tree Steward

We had one of those warm spring days yesterday, so I went out to the garden looking for lily of the valley pips. These lilies were originally in my mother’s garden, and they’ve done some traveling in the 20 plus years I’ve had them.

Mom gave me lily stock to plant in my rock garden at my then new home in Pennsylvania. When we moved back to Manchester three years ago, I brought some of that stock with me to plant here. So they’ve come almost full circle, now growing just a few blocks from where they originally started.

They always flower around my mother’s birthday, which also happens to be close to Mother’s Day. The flowering is one of the times I think of my mother. She loved gardening and had an extensive garden-albeit a bit rambling-in our backyard. She was always puttering out there, and planted helter skelter whatever bargain she happened to buy or whatever someone gave her.

She never read a book about gardening’s fine points, just followed her instincts. She loved to take anyone who visited on a tour of her garden, whether they wanted to tour or not. She would talk about what was growing there, or complain about what failed to grow. And like the patch of lilies she gave me, she gave others what she tired of or thinned out.

Lilies of the valley grow from rhizomes-long, thin, horizontal growing, roots. The tuber has buds, called pips, which grow up as two wide bladed leaves and a stalk from which hang richly fragrant, bell shaped flowers. The ones my mother gave me were pink, a cultivated sort with the botanical name Convallaria rosea. I treasure them, not only because Mom gave them to me, but because they are less common than the white.

I’ve loved these flowers since I was a girl. I used to walk to and from school each day and along the way I passed a mansion. Near the mansion by the side of the road grew a large, wild area of these woodland natives mostly found in northern climates all over the world. At the first sign of spring, I would glance each time I passed to see if the pips were showing.

When the flowers finally bloomed, I would pick a sprig and swipe it under my nose to take in the smell all the way back home. It’s a favorite fragrance at many of the perfume houses too. The bottled smell can cost a little or plenty, depending on who is bottling it and where. A quick check on the Web shows an Italian perfumer selling it at $40 for a 1.7 ounce bottle, but give it a French name-Muguet du Bois-and a 1.5 ounce bottle of cologne costs $55. As a teen, I bought lily of the valley cologne at the five and dime store for $2 or $3.

On May first, Labor Day in France, it is tradition to offer these flowers as a good luck charm for friends and loved ones. Lily of the valley has been Finland’s national bloom for 42 years. It is also a favorite crest or coat of arms for many families and societies. Symbolically the flower means sweetness, a return to happiness and humility.

Lily of the valley goes by many other names including “May lily,” “ladder to heaven” and “May bells.” It is also called “our lady's tears,” because legend says when Mary’s tears fell to the ground at her son’s crucifixion, lilies of the valley grew up from the spot. A similar tears- turned- to- flowers legend refers to Eve after she was driven from the Garden of Eden.

Over the years, these small tubers can become an unruly patch. They may smell divine, produce great perfume and have national or religious meanings, but the entire plant is toxic. You’ll experience a health crisis if you eat this plant. It affects a person’s whole body, including the eyes, stomach, heart and nervous system.

This downside of the lilies also reminds me of my mother. While we got along for much of the time-I lived elsewhere for most of my life, and that was probably why!-we would have an occasional spat. With the cold passing of time and a few sunny phone calls, the storm would pass. We’d be talking again.

My mother died five years ago in August. I know these mother daughter quarrels sometimes happened, but I no longer remember the cause. What I most remember, especially in mid May, is the happiness I feel when I see my mother’s floral legacy blooming.

By Pauline Pinard Bogaert ,Master Gardener