NH Outside: Gardens Archives

Two months ago, if you were sitting on the patio overlooking my gardens, you would have had to peer in and around the canopy of apple trees to see the old piece of hand-painted barn board hanging from the wisteria-laden arbor. Barely legible, it read “Beaver Brook” with a darling silhouette of its namesake.

Beaver Brook rises in Chester and flows south 30.7 miles, passing through several small ponds and lakes. The brook forms the boundary between Londonderry and Windham, then flows through my backyard in Pelham. Eventually the brook crosses into Massachusetts and flows into the Merrimack River in Lowell.

Our property (and the house my husband grew up in) sits up quite high from the brook, but every now and then you can hear the mallards down below. If you are quiet enough and can ease your way down the steep, sandy embankment, you may get to see the turtles sunning themselves on fallen birches.

In September we were preparing to go off for a long weekend. As we looked around the yard to make sure we had taken care of everything before we left, we remembered the apples. For the first time in seven years, we had apples on our Cortland tree (though the McIntosh was looking sickly as it always does this time of year).

The Cortland, however, had never looked so good and showed no sign of disease, nor did the apples hanging from her branches. We ran off for the ladder, so we could pick them before “something happened to them.” Happy with our harvest, my husband and I packed our things and our three dogs, and set out to enjoy the Maine coast for three days.

After returning we performed our standard ritual of walking the gardens, checking in on the koi pond and the greenhouse. As we rounded the fence enclosing the vegetable garden, we were stopped in our tracks.

Oh no! Someone had come into the yard, cut the fruit-laden lower branches off one of the dwarf trees, and hauled them off. Horrified, I thought, “Who would do such a thing?”

I looked around frantically to see if anything else had been damaged. As my husband stood there trying to rationalize why someone would do this, I let out a scream. “Over here! Over here!”

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Our Cortland, although still standing, had its thick trunk whittled to a slender waist. Strewn about the lawn, chips of what used to be the tree’s trunk gave a clue. This was no human vandal, but a Castor canadensis and its large sharp teeth! Beavers (Castor canadensis) are the largest rodents in North America. They live in rivers, streams, ponds, lakes, or other wetland areas. They feed on a variety of vegetation, but the outer bark and cambium layers of fast-growing tree species such as alder, willow, aspen, and birch make up their principal diet. During the summer they eat herbaceous aquatic plants such as sedges and cattails.

They increase their tree-cutting during the fall to build up their food supply for the winter months, anchoring branches on the river bottom or bank near their lodges. Although there are many suggested ways to protect trees from beaver damage, not all have proven successful.

Looking for signs of entry, we walked the fence around our two acres, while my husband reminisced of his childhood here on the brook. He’d seen everything from great blue herons to great floods, but never a beaver.

Finally we headed towards the potting shed, which sits at the very edge of the steep embankment leading down to the brook. An old wrought iron bed rail, until now, had made do as a gate, to hold back an unwary visitor or a curious dog from the steep drop. But it didn’t keep the beavers out; the disturbed leaf litter leading down to the brook was the telltale sign they had been very busy hauling branches under the rail.

So today I was sitting on my patio. The Beaver Brook sign, still barely legible, but now clearly visible, swayed in the autumn breeze. The sunlight danced off the four-foot-high metal skirts that now adorn the remaining fruit trees. When I closed my eyes I could still see the shadow cast by the Cortland tree.

We decided not to cut down the Cortland completely, but to leave about four feet of trunk as witness to the story to be told. I will nurse the McIntosh back to good health, and I think one day I’ll give that old sign a new coat of paint. And maybe a stone Castor canadensis will find a home here.

By Cheryl Cravino, Master Gardener

Photo credit: Cheryl Cravino

Here we are again at the turn of another season. For me this a major point of the year; the harvests are in and the corn fields are stubble, haunted by mice and their kin.

Now I prize the rare days of October’s bright blue weather, a gift worth sapphires. More accurately, they are days of rubies and topaz, citrines and garnets strewn across the hills. I revel in the days of golden sun and towering white clouds soaring over New Hampshire’s mountains are the days brimming with life, and their brevity is a reminder to enjoy it while we can. Wring out the gusto!

It’s true that every lake and pond has a frame of reds, oranges and gold to bronze. Quiet summer days are gone. Blustery days bring whitecaps riding on the larger lakes, but there are those few still mornings when the colors are doubled at the water’s edge. Paddling quietly, moving on the water’s surface, I can cross reflections that disappear as I come to them, beckoning me on like a mirage in the desert.

But the mountains are where autumn’s treasure is on full display. Miles of roads and trails wind through our White Mountains to give unparalleled views over thousands of acres of color and an incredible variety of textures and topographies. I love to move through the deciduous forests from the bright softness of comparatively lush growth to the more austere, rocky slopes.

In these mountains every trail is cut by streams, clear water running from the rocks, seeping or leaping as it obeys gravity and finds its way down the slopes. The sounds of water offer a counterpoint to the rustle of leaves.

As I gain height the evergreens become more prevalent. The breeze has a more whispered voice. Shade holds a chill, but in the sunshine warmth melts through my jacket, sinking into my body. On such a sunny, slightly damp day, I climb higher still, where the balsams fur the rocky slopes, to enjoy the incomparable scent of balsam riding on the cool breeze.

I turn and look out to the northwest to the huge U-shaped valleys where once glaciers hung above like solid clouds and rivers of glacial silt scoured the land. I try to imagine it. I close my eyes and feel the cold wind, chill from the mile-high ice blowing past me. I open them again and it is our own bright and bold October in the mountains.

The views out over some of the glacier-carved valleys give a tempting idea of what the hawks and eagles see as they ride the thermals up the mountainsides. A huge bowl of brilliance, hemmed in by the old worn mountains of New Hampshire’s ranges.

I see how the colors follow ridges and valleys and notice the flaring scarlet of the swamp maples clustering where their roots trail into the dampest soils. Following the jewel-box of deciduous colors trailing up into the dark, spiky evergreens, I see how the evergreens infiltrate the gray of bedrock and talus slopes. I long for wings.

Previews of November’s bleak days come at the very tops of windward slopes where October’s gales have already scoured away the leaves on the few dwarfed hardwoods. Even the hardy evergreens are bent and stunted, edging rock outcrops worn as smooth as pavement.

Still, even in the grey of old rock, I sometimes find an echo of autumn’s colors, a hint of deep red, where actual garnets lie in the stone. I retreat quickly back to the next lower level patting the balsam needles as I pass, hoping to keep their fragrance lingering with me at least until I get home.

These October days of gold and garnet will be my treasure box in winter; one that I will open when the grey and cold gets oppressive. They will see me through until the next turning of the year.

By Carol White, Master Gardener

Hasn’t it gone quiet? The only natural sound seems to be the wind as it blows the leaves in swirls and sways the tall grasses. There are still birds around – sudden little flocks of chickadees landing in the elderberry bush, feeding for a bit, then moving on. They’re here, but so quiet. Even the blue jays move noiselessly through the trees. A shadow on the ground is the only indication that they have swept through the yard. I see a squirrel dash across the yard, but quietly. He hasn’t scolded in weeks.

The sunflower heads hang heavy with seed. They appear bowed in prayer. The bright yellow petals of the black-eyed Susans show only the cone-shaped centers now. The petals have all withered away. In the daylily bed, only Ollalie Keith stands tall and budding. All the other plants have been shorn of scapes and are now resting. The red leaves of the aruncus brighten a dark corner of the woodland garden.

Even the raspberry patch is quiet. The canes are bent over with ripe, purple fruit. The sweet aroma still draws the bees and wasps but they move slowly now. I inadvertently touch one while picking berries and it simply, slowly flies away. I fill a large bowl with the fruit, tossing a berry occasionally to the dog that sniffs around the ground-touching canes.

The other dog has discovered something near the daylily bed and can’t be tempted away. At last, my bowl full, I walk over to check out her discovery. She’s found a new hole near the corner of the stone wall. As always, I’m amazed at the perfect roundness of the hole. Only two inches in diameter, it is as round as a pipe and hidden in the grass. There are no piles of dirt nearby, not like the piles the moles leave around. I once saw a chipmunk come out of just such a hole so I presume a chipmunk made this one. Where is the dirt? How could it have hidden the entrance so well? When I think of the size of the animal and the tiny size of its brain, I’m in awe of what it has accomplished.

This past summer, we’ve been visited by several Northern water snakes. Their black skin is checked with dull red, black, and tan figures, most easily seen when they are digesting a nice meal. Dull from the warmth of the sun and the energy they need to digest, they lounge on the rocks around the vegetable garden. The bulging meal expands the skin, easily revealing the intricate pattern. I know the garden is riddled with chipmunk holes and tunnels, and I wonder if the snakes simply wait near a hole to grab a meal or if they move down into the tunnels to seek their prey. I think they dined well this summer, but I haven’t seen any snakes at all for weeks now. Are they already hibernating, wound around each other in some den?

The ground is littered with acorns, making walking dangerous for the unwary. I pick up empty caps and save them for the fairy houses I hope to make this winter. Perhaps I’ll also scoop up some of the acorns and set them aside to throw out when the winter snow has hidden all other food. I know the blue jays and the squirrels will enjoy them. I wonder if a bear or deer will come by tonight to feast on the acorns. Surely this is food they need to help them fatten up before winter comes.

The pine trees look so odd at this time of year. The old needles are turning brown. Before they fall off, they make a sad contrast to the green of the new needles at the ends of the branches. Once they are gone, the tree looks fine again, the spaces simply dark, not empty.

The needles fall on the lawn and the creeping thyme and the driveway and we rake them up. Some I’ll use in the compost bin throughout the winter to balance out the wet greens from the kitchen. Others I’ll save for an experiment in discouraging slugs from getting to the green beans. Some needles fall among the leaves under the trees and these we leave to compost and give back nutrients to the soil. The lush pile of colored leaves and brown needles are Mother Nature’s own fertilizer, one that has worked well for millennia. I kneel down to smell the aroma of earth and fall and the promise of regrowth come spring.

The air is chilly now. A frost has been predicted for tonight. My outdoor tasks for today are done. It’s time to freeze some raspberries.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

Some of my best ideas have come to me as I relax in my hammock, recovering from prying up rocks, digging holes and spreading heavy mulch. This particular brainstorm came as I contemplated an enormous apple tree under full sail of pink and white blossoms.

Underneath the tree, hellebores prospered near the trunk, and the drip line was hemmed with lamium. Very nice. But it lacked something. It lacked strength. It lacked purple, that’s what it lacked. Very good. Problem identified, now a solution. What would fill the intermediate space, provide the color, and be low maintenance. “Yes, please, low maintenance.”

Well, crocuses, of course.

Like most really good ideas, fulfillment came at a cost. I diligently saved my pennies, trimmed here and there, and by the end of July placed my order for 1000 purple and purple-and-white-striped crocus. Every time I looked at that apple tree I had to smile. It was going to be great.

I waited, waited, and waited some more. My corms were due the second week of September. I gave them an extra two weeks, then called the vendor.

The bulbs had been sent on schedule. Was I sure I hadn’t received them? Okay, I’ll never win prizes for my powers of observation, but I’m pretty sure I’d have noticed a thousand crocus bulbs on my front steps.

Another week later the package was located in upper New York state. I received constant notification of its inchworm-like progress from New York to Michigan. (Michigan?) From there to Connecticut and thence to Massachusetts.

Good grief! When the poor cardboard carton arrived another five days later, it looked as if it had been the focal point of a buffalo stampede. Somehow the corms hadn’t been smashed, and there were still exactly 1000 of them.

I placed them, one by one, in the soft, prepared earth, viewed the arrangement from all sides, did some rearranging, and began to plant. The sun set and still I planted. My back protested vigorously. My knees sang counterpoint. Still I planted.

The more frost-proof mosquitoes sang in my ears. I really thought about quitting, but I just couldn’t leave my carefully arranged crocus. I planted until every last corm had been lovingly tucked into its appointed spot.

Then I discovered that I really, truly, couldn’t get up. Nothing was working. Communicating, yes. Loudly. But I couldn’t force my back and knees to get me off the ground. What to do?

Yelling for help was out. I’d collect frost first. I rolled and crawled to the spading fork and used it to lever myself up. I then lurched the interminable distance between my garden and the house­a superlative imitation of Quasimodo, if I do say so myself. The next morning, I was unable to get out of bed.

The reminder of that evening in the garden stayed with me through the winter. Ah, but so did my mental images of the apple tree billowing over its carpet of purple crocus and hellebores. Ibuprofen and my imagination were my soul’s support throughout that long and snowy winter. I imagined my crocus, safe under the snow, putting out roots. Then as the snow melted and the soil warmed I made a dozen trips a day looking for new shoots.

The apple buds swelled. The hellebores bloomed. The only activity where the crocus had been planted was the appearance of dozens of dark, round, little holes. Holes where vole families, vole clans and entire tribes had wintered on my crocus.

My friend in the Air National Guard thought I was perhaps overreacting when I asked if he could arrange a practice air strike on my apple tree. Hah! Norse mythology had a serpent gnawing at the root of the tree that supported the world. I have news. The mythologists had it wrong. It was a vole.

I tried everything. Voles blew bubbles with gum dropped into their holes and made nests of human hair gleaned from the hairdresser’s floor. Rototilling merely meant redecorating to the voles.

“Nice place you’ve got here.”

“Yes, the landlady just rearranged the roof and walls.”

I also rearranged things. I moved. I have never planted another crocus, I have no apple tree. I encourage the feared fisher cats to come and prowl my flower beds. My only tangible memory of that hammock-induced vision is the twinge I get in my back any time I pick up a shovel.

By Carol White, Master Gardener

Rain, rain, and more rain. How well I remember the dry summers of years gone by. You won’t hear me complain.

There is something about moisture from the sky that no watering by hand or hose can replicate. Throw in a bit of lightning and thunder, and the world is suddenly a greener place. That something is the nitrogen-called “poor man’s fertilizer” by some-that results from the wonderful chemistry of our atmosphere.

Another result from all the rain has been a full-to-the-brim wet area in our backyard. My husband and his tractor created it when I complained that he had filled in an area where the cedar waxwings were coming for mud to make nests. Not far from that spot he dug out another bowl-like area about 10 inches deep at the base of a natural spring.

The original builders of our house must have thought the natural springs on this property a sign of good farming land. According to the history of our town, the original householder to live here had water for his cattle because of at least one of those springs, even in dry times.

This water has always drained into a culvert and further on down into the Rocky Branch of the Asquamchumauke (Baker) River. It still does, but now it stays for a time in a small, six-foot-in-diameter pond, a rain-garden by definition, design and default.

We did this in late fall. Winter followed and we waited. The little pond froze over, and snow fell on it and buried it. Then spring arrived, and time reversed itself: first the snow left, then the ice melted.

Then the frogs arrived. First, the peepers and their repetitive medley of hope, followed by birds swooping for water and mud for nest building: tree swallows, goldfinches, bluebirds, robins. Grasses with arching stems grew about and flowered over the pond. Then, the green frogs and their profound harrumphing chorus. The calendar of nature’s sounds.

Over April vacation, the grandkids and I experimented: Could a dozen goldfish survive the summer and eat mosquito larvae? There was some discussion and the pessimists among us hypothesized the fish weren’t long for the pond; the optimists prevailed.

So far, five stalwart survivors remain. Every day I check, and every day they rise to the surface around one in the afternoon, swirling and swooping, swimming in choreographed motion and military-like maneuvers. When the grandkids come over, they shake some feed into the water, but mostly the fish fend quite nicely for themselves. Later on, the fish return to the shade close under the bank and wait, perhaps for another optimal time to surface, to rest, to meditate.

One day, I observed a crow who perhaps thought the goldfish looked like a protein-rich meal for her noisy brood hopping about in our side yard. She flew over and landed on the far side of the pond. Instantly, the fish hid from view. She crooked her head to get a better view, but vanished they had. The crow paced about for a bit and left in what seemed like a huff.

A weekend ago, as two of my grandkids helped me work on creating a woodland garden, we discovered what else might be attracted by water: dragonflies. The first one I saw was a super-sized beauty with a lovely blue tail. I have not spotted that one again, but many others of varied hues and sizes zoomed back and forth as we worked.

Eleven-year-old Liam seemed the natural candidate to help spread wood chips. His idea to drag over a child-size garden bench made the area seem even more defined. His sister, Julia, 8, her creative juices flowing, designed a sign proclaiming “Nana’s Garden” with an arrow, in case anyone couldn’t find it on their own. She added colorful bees and butterflies just in case the real ones buzzing and flitting about needed encouragement.

A note of caution: I never leave my younger grandchildren unsupervised around this area. Water is tantalizing to children. Watching frogs, yes! Doing it alone, no!

Work remains to be done. I’d like to make some cement stepping stones with the kids. Six should do it.

Every day I wonder, are the fish and frogs still there? One day, I penned this haiku.

frog looks up at me
from his watery puddle
plop! Green legs pump fast

By Helen Downing, UNHCE Master Gardener

I don’t know what I expected, but I was a slightly disappointed when I got my first glimpse of the Alpine Garden near Mt. Washington’s summit. I didn’t expect to see Maria von Trapp whirling around a lush mountaintop of plateau-filled flowers, but I did expect to see more than the low-lying green patches around rocks and boulders.

On closer inspection, I saw a microcosmic plant world blooming in this inhabitable place. I’m awed so many of these plants, animals, birds and insects survive in this area’s most brutal weather. Some plants on this mighty mount have lived 100 years or more, and some are endangered.

I’d heard so much about this site, so when I read about a hike there in mid-June, I signed up. Rain poured the entire morning of the nearly three-hour trip to the meeting place. But, like magic, the rain disappeared as the 28 of us caravanned up the Mt. Washington Auto Road.

Our plan was to stop at two transition zones 2,000 and 4,000 feet before trekking down the trail to the Alpine Garden. The idea was to view different mountain environments at various elevations and observe the changes in the landscape as we climbed.

The lower elevation was mostly hardwood forests, thick with sugar and red maples, gray barked American beeches, paper birches and red oaks, all of which turn brilliant colors in fall and bring leaf-loving tourists. We saw yellow birches with peeling bark that glistened like metal. There was wild sarsaparilla, used as drink by colonists and American Indians. Sarsaparilla is sometimes confused with poison ivy, we were told, but the former has five leaflets with fine teeth running along is edges, while the poisonous latter has three leaflets with smooth edges.

As we climbed to the 4,000 foot zone, the hardwoods began to vanish and spruce and fir trees began to take over. Along the way, waterfalls sprouted along the roadside. The forest floor became rockier and the terrain was dotted with mosses, small pines and ferns.

The krummholz, meaning “crooked wood,” marks the 4,000 foot region. The balsam firs and black spruces here are dwarfed and look like broomstick freaks on the scenery. The black spruce, more of a blue-green color, is amazingly adaptable. In this zone, these trees lay flat along the ground and its branches root. This is a necessary adaptation in the alpine area, for if the trunk dies, the roots start new life.

Just down from the summit, our group caught the nearly one-mile trail to the Alpine Garden. This boulder-strewn trail, marked by five- to six-foot high cairns, was wet in spots and not easily traversable. About 40 minutes later, the trail flattened out, and before us was a swath of green among the lichen-embossed stones and boulders. We were warned not to step on anything green. It is important not to destroy these plants so future generations could enjoy them as well.

Among the blooms was the genuine arctic plant diapensia, whose white blossoms grow in tufts and which grows symbiotically with pink Lapland rosebay. There were alpine azaleas and rhodora, both of which are the same types as the larger shrubs budding below. The rhodora and Lapland rosebay are from the rhododendron family, and the flowers are thumb sized. There were little fingertip-sized alpine bluets white in the alpine garden, not blue colored as their relatives elsewhere. We also found skunk currant, whose red berries are edible, but whose fruit and leaves smell like skunk.

What impressed the group was that all this variety of plants could survive in this harshest of worlds, enduring excessive wind and extreme cold while we were there, swaths of snow still showed in some depressions. Their adaptability is key to their survival.

Coming down the mountain, we saw a bear and two cubs gamboling across a barren valley. We stopped a few times to photograph and admire the white-flower tipped hobblebush shrubs, painted trillium, and pink lady slippers orchid family members. What amazed me, a lady slipper lover, was seeing three white lady slippers.

I knew there were yellow lady slippers, and some colored both pink and white, but I never realized there were white lady slipper colonies. I guessed the whites were an aberration, but our guide Dana Sansom, a UNH associate professor, said she has seen vast colonies of white lady slippers in Jackson, N.H. She said they are a variety of the pink lady slipper, or Cypripedium acaule. After a 45-year absence, I moved back to New Hampshire three years ago. I questioned if this small state held any marvels for me. The discoveries of the white lady slippers and Alpine Garden were answers enough.

By Pauline Pinard Bogaert, Master Gardener

When the daylilies had expanded to the point that some had to be moved into a new bed, we walked around the yard to find a good spot for another garden. The area we chose was awkward to mow, with sparse grass and sandy soil. I set to work removing the grass before amending the soil and transplanting the daylilies. It was the height of the summer a hot, sunny day with high humidity, and the work was hard.

I developed a sequence: dig up a clod, bang it against the side of a pail to remove whatever good loam was attached to the roots, and toss the remains into another pail for removal to the compost pile. Dig, bang, toss; dig, bang, toss.

Suddenly, as I was tossing another clump, I heard a call for help. Instantly I froze and listened intently. Silence. I looked around, but saw nothing. I knew I had heard a call for aid. The language wasn’t English and the voice wasn’t human, but there was no mistaking the intent of that call.

After a few moments, I returned to my labor: dig, bang, toss. Soon the pail of remains would be full and I’d take a break after carrying it to the compost pile. Without warning, it came again: a definite, plaintive plea for help. This time, I put down the tools and stood up, carefully surveying the entire area around me.

Then I saw them well down into the grass, nearly hidden. A garter snake, not large, but certainly ambitious, had slithered silently up behind a toad and grabbed one rear leg. Every few minutes, the snake would inch a jaw further up the leg and the toad would call out again. I cannot describe the sound; it was soft but clear. That amphibian was begging to be rescued.

What to do? I know I shouldn’t interfere with nature. The snake had to eat to survive, and a healthy snake can rid a garden of a lot of insects. But the toad was begging for help! How could I turn away?

Well, I did. I went up the porch stairs, opened the door and into the kitchen, down the hall to the study and grabbed my camera. Then I ran back out and took a picture! After all, how often do you see a scene like that one?

The photography accomplished, I looked around for a way to save the toad. Finally, I picked up the shovel and slid it under the snake’s head and lifted, hoping to frighten the snake so it would let go. Quickly the snake wiggled off and plopped to the ground, toad still firmly held. I tried again with the same results. That snake just slid off the smooth shovel, keeping its grip intact. I couldn’t think of any other way to free the frog without hurting the snake, so I tried again.

This time, the snake must have gotten fed up, or perhaps thought it wiser to get away. At any rate, it opened its jaw as it slipped off the shovel. In a moment it was gone, leaving behind not even a wave in the grass to show it had been there. Gently, I used the shovel to pick up the toad and, moving it in the opposite direction from that taken by the snake, I set it down on a large rock.

The toad sat there in the sun. I visually checked its leg for damage but saw no bleeding or obvious signs of problems. Deciding the creature needed some time alone, and I needed to put the camera away, I went inside. When I returned, it was still there on the stone but had moved slightly, so I went back to work. Dig, bang, toss. Another area completed and the compost pail was full. I carried it off to empty it. When I returned, the toad was gone.

My rescued toad didn’t ask for a kiss and didn’t offer me a wish. I already have my handsome prince, but it’s gratifying to know that one hot summer day, in the midst of clearing some land, I rescued a creature that lived to enjoy another day.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

Seeing a “new” bird or animal is an unexpected thrill. We have enjoyed two new bird sightings already this summer.

The first sighting happened recently in Franconia, when an unusual mewing sound caught our attention. The mewing turned out to be birds!

A woodpecker like bird was scampering up and down a white birch tree next to the high deck, just six feet away. Its coloring differed from that of hairy or downy woodpeckers. A quick check in our bird book confirmed we were observing a yellow bellied sapsucker, a member of the woodpecker family.

The sapsucker was industriously drilling rows of holes to get the sweet birch sap. Later we saw several more drilling away. These two had no red markings on their heads and speckled buff breasts the markings of juveniles. They had already learned to drill for food and were happily sucking out the birch sap.

Next we noticed bees flying about. They were obviously attracted to the sweet sap, too. And could it be? Yes, a humming bird! What a fabulous example of the interdependence of the flora and fauna of nature a little ecosystem right in front of our eyes, like a TV screen, but real. Watching this intertwined ecosystem reminded me of a favorite paperback book, Forest and Thicket, Trees, Shrubs and Wildflowers of Eastern North America, by John Eastman, with beautiful drawings by Amelia Hansen. Eastman not only describes a tree or plant, but gives its “lifestyle.” For white birch he notes that it “does not thrive where average July temperatures exceed 70 degrees Fahrenheit.” He also relates fascinating information about each plant’s “associates” and “lore.”

Eastman confirmed our amazing sighting in his chapter about white birch trees: “[A] pitted area of holes drilled in regular horizontal rows, usually fairly high on the tree, indicates the feeding site of the yellow bellied sapsucker. After drilling the holes, the sapsucker returns at intervals to lick up the exuded sap and any insects attracted to the flow. The ruby throated hummingbird is a secondary feeder. Though not the only tree ‘tapped’ by sapsuckers, white birch is a favorite.” I was curious to know more about sapsuckers. I discovered they breed north of the Nashua Manchester line here in New Hampshire. They like to nest in second growth woods.

White birch and aspen are tree species that sprout first in a cut forest, because they thrive in full sun. Sapsuckers like these pioneer tree species, but they need the older trees that are beginning to decline and have rotten centers. They excavate or dig out the punky centers for hidden and well protected nest sites. Obviously pecking holes in trees is the woodpecker’s unique adaptation. Woodpeckers may use the same tree for several years, but they excavate new nest cavities each year. They usually rear a clutch of five or six, incubating the eggs for 12 to 13 days and nesting for 24 and 26 days. In addition to sucking sap, they eat inner bark, insects, and fruits and berries. Our second “new” bird nested in the shrubbery next to our house in Amherst. Wood thrushes made a nest at the top of an overgrown lilac under our bedroom window.

We were alerted to the nesting activity by the lovely, flute like song of the thrushes. They started singing at sunrise, giving us a melodious alarm clock for a week or so. Then they moved on to other behavior that didn’t require singing perhaps incubation is quiet time.

Soon there were babies in the nest I could barely see by peeking through the dense cover of leaves. With the continuous rain this summer, the roof of leaves proved strategic. In early July we finally had a sunny Saturday. Not only were baby swallows fledging from their nest in the box in the garden, but we also heard lots of commotion near the thrush nest. A baby thrush was perched on a branch near the nest making a loud racket. Mother thrush paid no attention to the little ball of fluff, which eventually figured out how to flap its wings in the damp air. I didn’t pay enough attention either. Soon it was gone along with its mother, and the nest was empty.

I’ve just learned that bird nests next to houses are a bad idea because of bird mites. The life cycle of the mites coincides with the nesting schedule, and the mite population can explode just as the birds leave. With the birds gone, the mites can invade a home and bite humans to test them as potential hosts.

So I will cut back my lilac tree to shrub size to eliminate the perfect nesting site. The thrushes will find another location nearby, although maybe not so perfect for bird watching.

By Anne Krantz, Master Gardener and Tree Steward

I don't mind picking berries alone.

When my children were young, we’d take an annual field trip to the local strawberry patch. They started off crawling on the matted straw between the rows. I quickly picked berries while their attention focused at their handfuls of straw. When they crawled towards the strawberry plants, I watched them explore, making sure they didn’t eat any leaves or moldy berries. The few berries they picked left red juice dripping through their chubby fingers.

As they got older, berry picking became an adventure. We'd wait for the hay wagon to take us to our pick-your-own row of strawberries. When the wagon arrived, passengers holding their brimming baskets of berries took a big step down from the wooden cart. I looked enviously at them and thought, "Did they get all the good ones? Were there any left for us?” My children were more interested in being the first ones on the wagon.

Once everyone was seated, the tractor bucked into gear and slowly pulled us towards the picking area. We lurched back and forth as the wheels dipped into the pot-holed, dirt road. We passed several rows with people picking, but didn’t stop until we reached a strawberry sign with the number 5 on it. The kids bounced up and down anxiously waiting to get off the wagon. We jumped down from the wagon and were directed to our designated row. The treasure hunt had begun.

I usually walked down the row about half way before starting to pick. I wanted to be immersed in the patch rather than sticking to the edges. As she found her first berry, my Kelly would boast, “Look at how big this one is!” My son, Casey, would retort, “I found the biggest, bestest one of all!”

Sometimes the berries were right on the edge of the row and easy to find. But the best ones often hid in the center of the plant under the leaves.

I loved gently brushing the leaves and stems aside to see what treasures were hidden. When I found the perfect berry, I cupped it in my hand with the stem between my fingers and gently pulled. The berry snapped off the stem and made a crisp, pop sound. Perfect berries had a squeaky, red shine and were evenly speckled with seeds. The caps provided handles to hold onto as you bit into the garnet delight. The warm red juices burst into your mouth and left your fingertips stained with precious memories.

I knew the treasure hunt was over by my children’s pinkened lips and face, filled baskets, and whines of “I’m hot!” As I slowly stood up, my back also creaked it was time to go. So, we started walking back to the farm stand in our red-blotched sneakers.

As we walked down the row, I inevitably spotted another strawberry that I had to pick. So I stopped and picked it. Even though my tray was full, I thought, “Just one more.” The strawberry fields bedazzled me, and I was addicted. That was it-the last one. But then it happened again. I had to pick another strawberry. I averted my eyes, looking toward the farm stand, trying not to look down. I quickened my pace and finally exited, leaving thousands of unclaimed jewels behind.

Now my children are older, so I go picking alone.

Occasionally, I eavesdrop on child-parent conversations. “Look Mom! It’s two strawberries stuck together.” I continue to listen as the mother gives instructions on which ones to pick. “Now Zachary, make sure you pick the nice red ones. The green ones aren’t ripe and the black ones are rotten.” As the children emerge from picking, they remind me of my children with red-stained lips and red smudges on their white tee shirts. I remember that I usually had Kelly and Casey wear red tee shirts when we went picking.

One June day in the strawberry patch, I wasn’t quite alone. I walked to the end of the row, close to the edge of the woods. I’d never seen a snake while picking berries, but this day I heard a rustling under the strawberry plants. Scared of snakes, I feared the worst and quickly hopped back from the row. I watched and waited for my nemesis to slither out from beneath the plant and onto the straw.

The leaves rustled again. I prepared to run. Then out popped the furry, striped face of a chipmunk with a huge strawberry in its mouth.

It looked side to side as if checking to make sure all was clear. As it hopped off into the woods, I compared his booty to the strawberry I’d just picked. He picked a good one, but I smiled and thought, Mine was the biggest, bestest ever!

By Alice Mullen, Family & Consumer Resources Educator

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

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

Vegetable gardening is back in fashion. The desire for locally grown produce, combined with economic pressures, has inspired homeowners to dig up their yards. Already, seed companies are reporting shortages of popular seed varieties. Fortunately I bought seeds in February, and my plants are growing nicely under lights in the basement.

All this enthusiasm about gardening reminds of the huge garden behind our house when I was growing up in New York State. We owned the 50-foot-wide lot behind our suburban house, and it was devoted entirely to food production. Although the family Victory Garden seemed to be in decline by the time I came along, I remember the apple and cherry trees, the asparagus and strawberry beds, the path down the middle with the rows of vegetable beds on either side, and an old chicken coop.

My father was a county extension agent in New York State, so he knew what he was doing. I suppose he was under lots of pressure to “teach by doing” and felt he had to have a showcase Victory Garden. Lucky for us-lots of fruits and vegetables. My older brothers were more involved in the work. I especially remember my father’s fantastic tomatoes that he raised from seed. I have tried to carry on his legacy, but with dismal results compared with his shoulder-high jungle of tomato bushes loaded with beautiful fruit.

The need for food during both World Wars I and II inspired the idea of backyard vegetable gardens. Home gardening also provided a way for everyone to help the war effort. My sister-in-law, who grew up in Virginia, told me that her dad borrowed a horse and plow to till up their yard for a garden. Although he was a civil engineer, who knew nothing about gardening, she remembers they grew lots of vegetables.

I’ve read that USDA estimated that during World War II, Americans planted 20 million garden plots that produced as much as 10 million pounds of fruit and vegetables a year - more than 40 percent the fresh vegetables cosumed in the United States at that time. In 1943, American families bought 315,000 pressure cookers for canning vegetables.

Round III of the victory garden movement came just after the oil embargo in the mid 1970s. The TV show Crockett’s Victory Garden aired in 1974 at WGBH, Boston’s public television station. The 75’ x 75’ garden was dug just outside the studio in ground that was like concrete - a former flood plain full of construction rubble and most recently a parking lot. Crews removed rocks and brought in tons of topsoil, built raised beds built and erected a greenhouse. Jim Crockett’s gardens were incredible. A garden writer, Jim proved to be a natural on TV, and the show was an instant hit. He probably taught more people how to garden and grow their own food than anyone since.

Victory Garden round IV is poised to happen this summer, responding to economic pressures, a desire for greater local self-reliance, and concerns about food safety. The White House lawn now sports a vegetable garden. Unlike Mr. Crockett’s parking-lot garden, the White House lawn probably has excellent, well-drained soil that will be tested and corrected for any problems: texture, organic material, pH, nutrient deficiencies. There is plenty of sun at the site, access to plenty of water, and no shortage of labor for weeding, watering, and monitoring for pests.

New gardeners, take heart! There’s a real element of beginner’s luck in gardening. New gardens are the naturally the “first rotation” of crops. Insects may not find the new site, and diseases have not contaminated the soil with spores that move on to the next season. Deer may take a couple of years to zero in on a new garden, and the woodchucks may be slow to locate the new food source.

If you are among the seven million Americans predicted to start their first vegetable gardens this season, take it from an old hand: Start small and build on your success.

Begin with the easy crops: green beans, lettuce, broccoli, summer squash /zucchini, a few herbs, and of course, a few tomatoes. Look to experienced gardeners for help preparing your ground, selecting varieties to grow, and dealing with garden-maintenance questions you can’t answer.

You can always call the toll-free UNH Cooperative Extension Family, Home & Garden Center Info Line, Monday through Friday from 9:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. Trained volunteer staff, many of them gardeners themselves, will help you find answers to even your thorniest questions.
Happy gardening!

By Anne Krantz, Master Gardener and Community Tree Steward

Yesterday, the old wooden bench was still covered by snow from last week’s storm, its location found only by memory. Today, the entire top of the back is visible. Today also, the first stones of the vegetable garden’s raised bed have begun to peek out through the snow. I know that once the first stones are visible, they’ll absorb the sun’s warmth and the melting will accelerate. Soon, the entire south face will appear, as if by magic.

The metal roof of the three-season room resounds to the dripping of the melting snow off the back roof of the house. It sounds like rain and makes talking impossible. Each morning, the dogs wake a bit earlier, aroused by the sun leaking through the bedroom shades. In the evening, we leave the dining room windows uncovered while we eat. To watch the daylight as it lingers longer and longer is such a delight. We don’t need a calendar to know that spring is coming.

Last night, we left the wood stove empty. The day had been so warm we didn’t need to build a fire to heat the house. The room itself was empty as we all moved off to other rooms, no longer drawn by the heat and dancing flames. In the bitterest cold of winter, we seem to live in that one room. All the others feel cold by comparison. Last night, all were equally comfortable so we strayed to occupations in other areas.

The ski shop in town sends out emails starting with, “Spring skiing!” My friends and I find ourselves shedding coats as we glide along the groomed trails. Last week, we stopped for a while to watch a chipmunk on a tree. It seemed to revel in the warming sunshine and it too, noticing the different scent to the air. Spring.

The trees near the bird feeders are often now filled with flocks of finches. They sit there and chatter away. “Doesn’t that sun feel good? Shall we fly north tomorrow? I’m so glad she feeds us hulled sunflower seeds, aren’t you?”

Are they really saying all that? I don’t know, but it seems to me that their conversations must run along those lines. I know that soon I must bring the feeders in, well before the bears come out of their long hibernation.

On a snowshoe outing yesterday we saw rabbit tracks and deer tracks. The deer had come across the swamp and up into the woods behind the house. Suddenly the tracks changed dramatically from sedate, discrete hoof prints to widely spaced, deep marks, indicating that they had begun to leap through the snow, leaving long empty spaces between the tracks. I expect their white flag tails had flown up suddenly, alerting each other to danger. Had they spotted the bobcat, or had my wildly barking dogs frightened them?

The vernal ponds along both sides of the driveway are starting to melt. Down deep in the frozen mud, the frogs and salamanders are waiting to emerge and begin their mating rituals. The strengthening sun is warming down through the snow, melting the ice and unlocking the life hidden below.

The seed catalogs are all spread out on my desk, awaiting my belated, final decisions. Everything looks so good and tempting, but my garden space is limited; I must make hard decisions today and get the order out in tomorrow’s mail.

I wander to the back of the house to look out at the yard. Last fall, I stared to clear a new area and extend a stone wall around it. We talked about planting blueberries there, but there are several shrubs I’d like to buy as well. I know the birds will appreciate the blueberries as much as I will. Which of us will get the lion’s share? The partially finished wall called to me all late fall, but the frost had glued the stones to the ground so I couldn’t move them around as I wished. How soon will I be able to tackle that project? There’s no moving a wheelbarrow around in mud season!

As long as the snow holds out, I’ll snowshoe and cross-country ski. I’ll enjoy the winter for as long as possible. But I’ll also enjoy the warmer days and the strong sunlight. I’ll delight in wearing a lighter coat and thinner gloves. I’ll watch, as I go, for the first swelling of buds on trees and shrubs. I’ll note the behavior of the squirrels and birds and chipmunks. They know better than any meteorologist what’s happening and how spring is progressing.

Before long, the robin’s nest will once more be filled with chirping, gaping beaks. The nuthatches will come to the bag of dog hair I’ve hung out and pull out tufts for their nests. The frogs will fill the night air with throaty calls of love.

I’m not impatient for all that. I can wait. And I’ll enjoy the waiting and the watching for each sign of spring.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

What a wonderful way to begin a new year-three fluffy male bluebirds fluttering about outside our back picture window. If it weren’t for the glass, I could reach right out and grab them, they are so close. They flew in to our bird feeder near the window with a flock of assorted winter birds: finches, phoebes, titmice and chickadees.

I’ve seen bluebirds as late as Christmas in the past, but this is my first midwinter sighting. They are such a spectacular sight; their colors seem even more vivid against the drab trees and the bright white snow. “The blue-bird carries the sky on his back,” Thoreau wrote in his Journal of September 7, 1851.

Peterson’s Field Guide for Eastern Birds shows the northern edge of the bluebirds’ year-round range along the Connecticut and Rhode Island coasts and out to the Cape, so it isn’t as if they forgot to fly to South America. And these bluebirds looked perky and happy.

After great success last summer with a “full house”­both bluebirds and swallows successfully fledging their broods in our garden bird boxes and the wrens successful in their gourd house nearby, we added another bluebird box in the garden this fall.

Since bluebirds are insect eaters, I’m delighted to have them at work picking off the garden pests. Just days after we finally got the extra box up in November before deep frosts, five bluebirds stopped by to check out the boxes, and one actually sat on the roof of the new box. I have heard that they can be suspicious of a new box, so I was happy they’d at least perched on it. We carefully cleaned the three old boxes in the fall, removing the debris of sticks typical of house wrens and the softer nesting materials­pine needles, grasses and feathers of the bluebird. I read that it is important to clean out the boxes to remove parasites.

We learned just how important two years ago, when after brushing out the debris, my husband exclaimed, “What’s that? It just moved!” He was looking at a disgusting black blob about the size of a small bean attached to the floor of the box. Arrrgggh! We were looking at live blowfly larvae, a nasty parasite of bluebirds. Blowflies are often the reason a second bluebird brood is unsuccessful. The larvae (maggots) in the boxes crawl out at night to drink the blood of the little nestlings­the ugly side of nature!

Despite such predators, we’ve had bluebirds nesting in the garden boxes for about 20 years. They love our open field surrounded by shrubs and woods. Our gardens, with lots of fence posts, old sunflower stalks and some young Christmas trees, attract them because they can land and spot insects from these perches three or four feet from the ground. There’s lots of food for them in our garden, a good reason for not using pesticides.

They typically arrive at the bird boxes in March, when the ground is still snow-covered. But in spite of the snow, they get busy building their nests, beating out competing birds such as swallows and house wrens. This is the reason we have several boxes.

Last summer the swallows did arrive later and began swooping all about the boxes. I ran to the garden to shoo them away, but they swooped and dive-bombed me. Happily they figured out that they were to nest in the empty box and didn’t chase out the nesting bluebirds. The two species lived in peace and harmony.

Fledging is exciting to watch and I luckily caught fledging day for each of the three species. I’ve seen the bluebirds fledge before, although I wasn’t sure of the reason for all the twittering and fluttering about the box. Once they learn to fly, bluebirds leave the box and disappear into the surrounding shrubs.

I was working in the garden the day the swallows fledged, and it was truly a spectacular show. The parents chased the flock of young swallows about for what seemed to me an exhausting length of time, swooping in great arcs and circles with NO stopping. Of course I assumed that it would take several days for them to perfect their soaring techniques, and was waiting for it to happen the next day, but that was it. They were gone.

The wrens’ gourd house is attached to a tree branch so the fledging wrens flew about the tree branches making lots of noise as they perfected their flying skills. They, too, were gone in a day. So now I’m waiting for another winter bluebird sighting. One theory is that over-wintering bluebirds have the advantage of the best bluebird boxes in the spring. The first brood generally seems to be the more successful. So perhaps my bluebirds are so happy with their life here that they didn’t want to risk losing their homes by flying south for the winter. I guess they hide in the shrubs for the winter, surviving on berries and maybe frozen insects.

By Anne Krantz, Master Gardener & Community Tree Steward

Dancing with the weeds,
Swaying in time to nature,
Try a step, you’ll see.

"Why aren’t you out dancing with the weeds?” asked my husband.

Still embracing sleep, I lay in bed and took a few seconds before mumbling, “Too early. Later. Did you make coffee?”

It had been a few days since I'd begun weeding with a passion, and this day in particular, I had planned an early trip to the garden to really muck about. Weeding in cool fall weather is so much better that in the heat of summer.

And so, a few hours later than was my plan, there I was, involved in a sultry tango, with all those invaders of my perennial beds. As I pulled and clipped, my mind debated the relative virtues of the lively common vetch, the not-so-obedient plant, and the volunteer brown-eyed Susans. How were they different from the wild goldenrod I had saved from the lawnmower a few days before, the ox-eye daisies my husband always insists on avoiding as he mows, and the lush purple clover I just couldn’t find the heart to pull out from my beds early in June when they framed the volunteer Gloriosa daisies so perfectly? These weeds are all beautiful even though they don’t have the fancy breeding and pages in a plant catalog to laud their many good qualities. This year especially, fields and meadows have overflowed with goldenrod. Whether due to all the rain we had this summer or to some other unknown variable, they’ve been lovely and abundant. Considering that goldenrod is an under-appreciated native wildflower many regard as a weed, it’s no surprise that we still don’t see it in many gardens. This may be due to the old belief that goldenrod causes autumn hay fever, when in fact the culprit is usually the ragweed blooming at the same time.

But our native goldenrod (solidago) has been taken abroad and cultivated as a garden flower in Europe for many years; a few of those relatively new cultivars have come back to America. ‘Fireworks’ and ‘Golden Fleece’ are two varieties of cultivated goldenrod that pair up especially nicely with blue or purple asters. The former grows to four feet tall and the latter is a dwarf variety of 18-24 inches. There’s even a white form of goldenrod called silver rod, which blooms in August, though not as prolifically as its golden relative. These cultivated varieties have been bred to stay within the confines of our garden beds.

Speaking of asters, these native wildflower/weeds were cultivated in Europe before becoming popular in gardens and nurseries here. Close relatives, goldenrod and asters can also hybridize; varieties of these hybrid “Solidasters” have been around since the early 1900s. You may have seen them in florists’ bouquets and not even realized their true identity.

Another weed/wildflower of European heritage, common chicory (Cichorium intybus), deserves a place in our gardens. I happened to notice its clear blue flowers alongside a country road one fall. That cerulean color continued to dance in my mind’s eye until I knew I had to grow it. Chicory grows to three or four feet tall and blossoms from spring through fall. You can purchase seed from wildflower catalogs, or just go out and find some in bloom and save the seed. It's easy to germinate and never tries to spread itself about.

Finally, who can dance with the weeds in their garden without joining hands with common milkweed as it sends up its stems with sturdy green leaves? I certainly can’t, and so allow them to dance and sway in the wilder parts of my garden, where the taller, woody perennials grow.

Later in fall, I do-si-do from plant to plant looking for tattered, munched-upon leaves where I might find a Monarch butterfly caterpillar or two to put in a bottle. I'll feed the tiny creatures milkweed leaves until they burst out of their striped yellow, black, and white skins for the last time and move on to the next stage in their metamorphosis, forming green-and-gold chrysalises.

I give these precious packages of life to the children in our family, or neighbors who work with children, so others can witness this small miracle. I recently brought one to my 90-year old mother who doted on it and shared the experience with others in her assisted-living facility.

To watch the chrysalis open and a monarch butterfly emerge is gratifying, to watch it propel itself from its self-made container and glide confidently south to the mountains of Mexico gives me goosebumps. I have danced with weeds, and now we have come full circle.

By Helen Downing, Master Gardener

A Chinese philosopher developed the concept of “cup gardens.” The idea is similar to that of haiku: Using just a few words to capture an image or emotion, the poet leads the reader to a wider understanding of the universal aspect presented by the lines of the poem.

The purpose of a cup garden is the same. By placing a particular group of plants in a particular place, the landscaper or gardener seeks to arrest the viewer’s attention at this moment and spot. By focusing on just this one small garden, one begins to comprehend the larger world of nature.

Of course, the originator of the cup garden concept is Mother Nature herself. Take a walk in the woods or along a stream or near the wild shore of a pond or swampy area, and you’ll find a host of cup gardens, each one capturing in microcosm the universal truths of nature.

Over here, there’s a large, long exposed stone, green with vibrant moss. Look closely and you’ll see the moss has layers and variations of color. Run your hand over the top of the moss and feel the soft tickle of its elements.

The moss is the undergrowth of a miniature forest living in a cup garden atop this stone. Next are blue bead lilies. In spring, the wide, tapering leaves erupt from the moss, forming a circle around the stem, which holds small, bobbing yellow flowers. Later in the summer, through the miracle of fertilization, the flowers have become stunning blue beads of seed, reflecting the sky down here just above the forest floor.

Only a foot and a half high, a young hemlock towers above the moss and lilies, a giant compared to the life beneath it. Its branches sway in the gentle breezes and cast a moving shadow on the plants below. A dragonfly rests briefly on the top branch, its wings held open and ready for resumed flight, blue body brilliant against the clear, cellophane wings. Below, smaller insects scurry over the moss, searching for food, mates, or shelter.

Here on this one hard stone, the entire universe of nature throbs, its vastness compressed into one small cup garden.

Further on, there’s a small rise partially open to the sky. Moss and partridgeberry provide a colorful and textured surface, the round partridgeberry leaves contrasting with the upright stature of the moss. Growing through the ground cover are bunchberries, those miniature dogwoods. Only four leaves and a stem, their tiny flowers of spring have turned to brilliant red berries, giving Christmas coloration to a late July afternoon.

Several evergreens have begun the long, slow growth to become the “murmuring pines and hemlocks” of Longfellow’s famous poem Evangeline. You can’t simply pass this cup garden. Your senses are captured by the colors and sensuousness of the greens and red. You must stop and contemplate the whole of nature in this one small area.

A cup garden can also be temporary. Walk along the edge of a stream in the fall. The water is flowing now with autumn rains, gurgling over rocks and fallen branches. Trailing moss streams out with the moving water. Here in a quiet pool, a single red maple leaf floats. Nature has gently dropped it down for you to examine. A close look at the leaf reveals the color variations. What at first appeared to be simply red is really one color gently blending into a darker hue on this edge, while at the other end of the leaf, the shade is more orange. The brilliance is like a shaft of sunlight on the dark stream. Flowing water, rocks, leaf ­ all life encapsulated in one scene.

Even in winter, you can find cup gardens to delight and educate. Walk onto a frozen pond, and there you’ll find, standing all alone and surrounded by ice, a little island, a clump of last summer’s grass gently swaying with each soft breeze. It grows out of a hollow tree stump.

The edges of the stump are uneven, with hills and valleys, ragged evidence of years of decay. The sides of the stump still retain some bark, much of it covered with lichen, gray-blue and rough to the touch. It’s clear where insects have bored into the wood and left perfectly round tunnels behind.

Life and death, coinciding in the same substance, a lesson from one of nature’s cup gardens. Step outside and look around. You’ll find beauty and understandings to last a lifetime.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

The barn burned down a long time ago. The original stone well in front of the barn, right at our doorstep, provided water for over 200 years. During a long drought, it was replaced with a drilled well and filled in, leaving a large mounded scar right next to the house entrance.

For several years I have been digging in front of the barn foundation, removing the old well hump. Gradually I unearthed the north wall of the barn foundation. The large granite slabs are beautiful, with steaks of pink, gold and silver running like little rivers all through the wall. There are several gorgeous boulders with bits and pieces of glacial grandeur molded into them.

My plan was to plant a small welcome garden with old-fashioned herbs and flowers to greet those who came to my door. At first I set aside a small area to sit on­the pinkest, flattest stone. The mountains on the other side of the valley look lovely when seen though a mass of dark-red bee balm dancing with bees.

However, the more of the granite foundation I exposed, the larger the project became. I spent evenings and weekends on my hands and knees with a bucket and hand trowel, picking through the earth like an archeologist. During the years of digging, weeding and planting, I discovered lovely marbles, whole and broken bottles, forged garden tools, pieces of livestock tack and kitchen plates, crocks, and more. Untold stories at my doorstep.

As a Master Gardener, I dutifully had the soil tested. I dreamed of home-brewed teas from my front yard­mmm. The results came back from the UNH Analytical Services Lab with the following: Lead, Mehlich 3… 159 ppm Medium. Contact your local health care professional and have children under the age of six checked for lead in their blood. Do not grow leafy vegetables or root crops….Because lead levels are usually highest in areas near buildings painted with lead-based paints prior to about 1970….it may be possible to re-locate your garden to a less contaminated site.

My hopes of tasting and sipping from the welcome garden dashed, I’ve concentrated on plants chosen for their beauty and aromas. Although I brought in some new plants I had to have, most of them are transplants that thrived elsewhere in the yard. I often divided crowded plants, transplanting the divisions to the edges of the garden and assigning them the work of holding back the ever-creeping lawn.

Now dozens of multi-sized bees, brightly colored butterflies, and iridescent hummingbirds feast on this huge garden full of mature perennials. Their squeaks and buzz bring the joy of sharing to this garden. It's become too wild to sit in, so crowded I can't even get in to weed or water. The entire front of the barn foundation is just the backdrop glimpsed behind stems and leaves. My husband refers to the living colors mirroring the hues of the stone foundation as my “garden palette.” The perfumed mix of Anise, lemon thyme, spearmint, phlox, coreopsis, yarrow, and geraniums encourage you to stop a moment and sniff.

This spring, in the back, right next to the barn foundation, where I started the garden so many years ago, a large pink digitalis appeared. Many-stalked, it grew tall and proud all through the early summer. Someone must have planted it long before I moved into this colonial cape. I felt connected with this previous gardener, part of a continuum of all those who came before me and appreciated this garden spot in front of the barn foundation.

By Stephania Pearce, Master Gardener

Drawing by: Pamela Doherty,UNH Cooperative Extension

Over the winter, I began reading about making ponds and waterfalls. Visions of rocks started dancing in my head about the middle of February. I drew and redrew my plans. With my wife looking over my shoulder (no doubt contemplating the rocks in my head), I proceeded to lay out an ambitious rock project.

As the snow melted in late March, I was out on the slope in back of the garage with string and stakes, laying out the watercourse of the waterfall. I bought the necessary materials for the pool, water system, and electrical power for the pump. Then I waited a month for the ground to thaw.

Following the expert directions I found in books, I started from the lowest point. I set the preformed pond in place and backfilled around the upper perimeter. I left the lower side open and built a structure to contain the electrical supply.

A water feature in the yard undergoes constant transition. Now that warmer weather has arrived this season, I've realized I need to change the liner on the waterfall and move more rocks to improve the flow of the water.

Once I've completed the structural work, I'll add plantings to the fringes of the watercourse: astilbe and daylilies around the pond, sedum and vinca hugging the rocks along the watercourse, creeping thyme and alyssum emerging from the crevices between the rocks. As the season progresses, I'll add lights and potted moon-flower vines for night viewing.

In addition to keeping me occupied, the pond has become a center of gravity for my 15 grandchildren, ages 2 to 20, when they visit. Some of them go straight to the pond before they come into the house. Others come in the front door and briefly sit in front of the television set. But soon they become restless and exit at the back of the house, pausing briefly on the deck to observe the pond and waterfall from on high. Then quickly, they leave their vantage point and follow the waterfall to the pond.

I've provided a bench at the bottom of the slope next to the pond from which they can amuse themselves. Some merely sit and watch the resident frog (he's returned this spring). Others reach into the pond's cool reservoir and hum a quiet tune. The more active ones want to grab a stick and poke at the frog or the water lily. Occasionally, a child will insist on trying to catch the frog. Of course the frog has other ideas and takes evasive steps to avoid capture.

I've had to institute a few pond rules:

No squeezing the frog.
The frog stays at or in the pond.
Don't use sticks to abuse the frog or the pond lily.

After they've tired of the pond, I usually give the grandchildren a tour of my flower and vegetable gardens, where I encourage some supervised picking (though I insist they wash the vegetables before eating). Depending on the age of the child, I may offer to give one a ride in a cart pulled behind my garden tractor.

These activities tend to make the visits more pleasant for all of us. I think it also encourages my grandchildren to have more curiosity about the natural world outside and around their own home as well.

Finally, the care and grooming of the pond area provides me many pleasant hours doing something restorative to the soul. If I feel the need of a bit of shade, I step a few feet from the pond and sit down in the woods, find a fallen log next to a live tree and lean back. Absolutely no watches or cell phones allowed there!

By Bill Dawson, Community Tree Steward
UNH Cooperative Extension

These are the days to drink in the precious gold of autumn. As the sun slants low in the sky, the golden hues dazzle us in their brilliance. The black-eyed Susans in the garden flaunt their yellow petals at the wind, which replies by swinging them jauntily in the sunshine. Behind them, tall golden sunflowers nod their huge heads. Each day, the centers expand outward, enveloping the yellow petals until all that’s left are the seeds.

The chipmunks race up the tall stalks to stuff their cheeks with seeds. The chickadees are there too, often hanging upside down as they peck away. A bird releases one seed from its cradle then flies away to crack it open and feast. Are they the birds that have been here all summer long? Or have our birds flown south already and these are migrants from further north, happy to have found a feast to sustain them on their long journey?

Other birds are busy gathering seeds, too. Another flash of gold announces the goldfinch, and soon a small flock of finches is busy eating seedheads around the garden. I watch one bird land on a grass blade nearby and the light stalk sways nearly to the ground. Undeterred, the bird moves along to the very end of the stalk and nibbles on the seed.

The sun dazzles today. It lights up the fading black-eyed Susans and the heavily blooming sunflower stalks, and behind them, the pale gold of clumps of Karl Foerster ornamental grasses. A light breeze is music to the grass, which seems to dance with wild joy.

The goldenrod is buzzing as the bees cover the surface of each cluster of blooms. The bees seem to know that the oncoming cold will soon take the flowers, so they hurry from blossom to blossom. The bees themselves are a golden hue, as are the pouches of pollen on their legs. From sun to flower to bee to pollen, the circle of life itself is represented in the colors of this pigment we humans value so much.

I pick up a fallen maple leaf. The outer edges are a rich, deep red which subtly melds into orange and then gold. In the low sunshine, the colors speak of many things: of spring showers and slowly lengthening days, of the warmth of summer; of cool fall evenings with bright full moons.

On one edge of the leaf, a little grey spider eyes me, then hops to another part of the leaf further away. “Where will you spend the winter?” I ask him. He doesn’t answer, so I put the leaf down where I found it and hope he will survive until spring.

By Susan M. Poirier, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

Digging carrots from the garden in 80 degree weather just doesn't seem natural for the end of September. There were a surprising lot of carrots, considering I never got out there to thin them for salad as I’d promised myself I’d do.

So I suffer now. I spent the afternoon in the kitchen processing the carrots for freezing. Now, the non gardeners among you will be thinking “How nice! People out there are still preserving food.”  But the real gardeners will think, “Why doesn't she just put them in the root cellar”?

Well, these carrots needed to be processed because chipmunks or some other critter started eating the carrots at the top and went as far into the ground as possible, leaving a concave depression with all these little tooth marks and making those carrots no good for root cellar storage.

On the other hand, I'm not overly fond of cooked carrots. Thank goodness for my mother's old Farm Journal Cookbooks, which contain recipes from generations of farm wives. They knew how to preserve food: Take 12 pounds of carrots, etc. I wound up with candied ginger carrots and orange glazed carrots. I’ll be very happy this winter to take them out of the freezer.

The beets also needed gathering. Something bigger than a chipmunk had enjoyed the beet greens, and the roots themselves weren't as time consuming to process. I just picked out the ones that were split or nibbled on and cooked them. I stashed the rest away in a cool place to be brought out much later.

As the sun was sinking, I went out to get a few (I thought) beans for dinner. Lugging the full basket back into the house, I set about preparing them. These aren’t just any bean, but scarlet runners. My friend from England introduced me to this heirloom variety. They not only produce the most beautiful red flowers all summer and fall, but the beans themselves taste better than ordinary green beans. They are so beautiful many people grow them just for the flowers and don't even know how good they taste. You have to pick the pods before the beans inside start to swell. If you have to “string” them, they’re too old, fit only for the compost. 

I got them all cut up and didn't have the heart to do any more freezing that day. As my husband walked through the kitchen he casually asked if I was freezing them. I told him, “No, we’re having some hot for dinner and I’ll make the rest into a bean salad that should last the rest of the month.”

While I’m on the subject of heirloom varieties, the Brandywine tomatoes are hitting their full stride. We got them into the ground very late. Most years at this time the plants would be hanging down in the cellar slowly ripening their fruit away from the frosty outside air. Brandywines are so good! No other tomato beats their taste. And big! A couple of years ago I remember picking with pride the first ripe Brandywine. I washed it and sliced three half inch slabs that completely covered the bread for that first tomato/mayo sandwich. This particular tomato was so large I put the rest of it in the fridge and we had it for a salad that evening. I haven't had one that big in awhile, but I did bring one to share with my hiking group today. Everyone tucked slices into their sandwiches except for the one with the peanut butter sandwich. She ate her share separately.

The winter squash are still out there. If nothing has been nibbling on them, they go right into the cold room. No hassle. Thumbing though my gardening magazine, I found a lovely article on horseradish. Something else I’ll need to harvest before too long.

Have you ever tried to process horseradish? Oh, the tears you shed! After my first experience, my mother told me she used to hold the root outside a mostly closed window and grate it out there. Good idea. I'll put my food processor on an extension cord and see how that works.

My mother gave up canning and freezing well before she was my age. She lived though the time when you had to do it to survive the winter. She stopped when they moved off the farm and thought supermarkets were just great. Well, they are, but home grown food tastes better, at least to me. Knowing what went into growing the produce, harvesting it and preserving it for the long winter gives a feeling of security not just because I can have something to eat, but because I still know how to do it. Will the next generation have these skills?

By Carolyn Enz Page, Community Tree Steward
UNH Cooperative Extension

The fall precipitation has gotten me to thinking of puffballs and bird’s nest fungus. Autumn weather in New England is always a catalyst for mushrooms, and water may be the most important ingredient.

Fungi are neither plant nor animal, but ancient beings that have made up their own rules. This causes abrupt name changes whenever a mycologist discovers some new chemical contortion or connection. Any habitat with even a dribble of moisture has been colonized by some fungal form and there seems no reproductive method that they haven’t tried.

Hardly a matrix remains unchallenged by the astonishing array of fungal enzymes, and many plants over the millennia have made symbiotic alliances with fungi; some plants, including many orchids, can’t live without them. In trees, wood-decay fungi play a key role in producing beautiful, multicolored patterns in the wood called “spalting,” an embellishment especially prized by woodworkers.

Water may be the only commonality agreed upon by all species of fungi. Water awakens the microscopic, thready hyhpae, which comprise the main body of a fungus. This tangle of threads perforates what we persist in believing is solid ground. In industrious self-employment, these hyphae transform larger things into smaller things. These larger things are as varied as granite, trees, leaves, feathers, insects, shower curtains, and the contents of my refrigerator. The foam in brooks is most often a by-product of aquatic fungi.

Dampness finalizes a fungus’s plan to organize and send forth the familiar mushroom. A particle of evaporated water in an intentionally self-cooled mushroom cap catapults a spore on its journey out of the gill or pore off to a suitably damp new beginning or a desiccated and sorry death. The design is so precise that with all our apparatus we could not duplicate it. Even the shape of a mushroom cap is adapted to allow an appropriate air current to move the spore along its way.

I am thinking in tonight’s rain about more unusual forms of fungus though. The bird’s nest fungi are easy to overlook. Very small, but quite common, they look like groups of quarter-inch cups, leftover dinnerware from some Lilliputian gathering. Each contains a few lentil-shaped “eggs.” These capsules contain the spores, and they are waiting for rain. A well-placed raindrop can propel one of these carriers a surprising distance—up to several yards—which is the point. Offspring must be sent off to fresh food supplies.

Some species of these miniscule nests eject “eggs” trailing sticky threads, which cause these reproductive structures to adhere to any surface they strike. With luck, one of these eggs, called peridioles, will accidentally become part of some herbivore’s meal, eventually left behind somewhere, complete with a ready-to-eat lunch.

Rain is also crucial for the continuation of many kinds of puffballs. Unlike the commonly depicted children’s-book mushroom, puffballs have neither gills nor pores to send their spores aloft. Instead, their reproductive dust matures within the protective sphere, a system that prevents premature drying. Expecting rain, a pre-ordained pore enlarges and opens on the upper surface. A few good smacks of a downpour and puffs of spore erupt into a stiff, damp breeze—perfect for starting more puffball mycelium to continue the process of decay beneath a lawn.

The deluges of this past month have caused puffballs galore on a baseball field I know. They glow in the moonlight like little Halloween ghouls arisen mysteriously from barren turf. Some are large enough for late-season myopic outfielders to prematurely explode them. Enough will have escaped intact, awaiting the rain.

By J. Ann Eldridge, UNH Cooperative Extension Wildlife Coverts Cooperator

In mid-October, begin raking (or collecting from neighbors) fall leaves and pine needles to replenish your supply of garden mulch. Keep working on winter firewood (split, stack). Begin storing large columns of cardboard hauled home from town dump to replenish spring mulch under the woodchuck fence.

Separate the best of last year's garlic bulbs and plant the cloves pointed side up about four inches apart in well-composted soil in mid-October; mulch heavily to prevent heaving. Amend entire garden planting area as recommended by a soil test. Spread and rake or till in compost, wood ashes (as needed) and either mulch or sow winter rye in all bare spots.

Get your stovewood under cover before snow falls. Maintain compost pile throughout winter.Haul kitchen scraps to the pile on snowshoes as needed. Haul wood ashes in covered metal container outside, away from your house. Save newspapers and cardboard for use as weed-suppressing mulches.

In early January, order pizza seeds to ensure good choice of varieties: tomatoes, bell peppers, hot peppers (optional), onions, basil and parsley. Late February, sow onions and parsley seeds under lights. Six weeks later, sow tomatoes, peppers and basil. Water seedlings as needed; keep full-spectrum lights on 12 hours a day.

In mid-April, begin hardening off onion seedlings, setting flats outdoors for gradually increasing periods of time. Around the third week in April (providing garden soil has dried enough), transplant hardened onion seedlings into amended soil, setting seedlings four to five inches apart. Remain vigilant with weed removal from onion beds throughout season. Acquire pickup load of aged manure from neighbors with horses. Begin new compost pile. Mix weeds and kitchen scraps with horse manure. Repair and mulch under entire perimeter of electric woodchuck fence. Test line. Ouch!

In mid-May, retrieve tomato supports and polyester row covers from garden shed, till under winter rye and (provided soil test shows need for lime) broadcast wood ashes over entire planting area at recommended rate. Begin hardening off tomatoes, peppers and basil. Plant non-pizza salad crops if desired: lettuce, carrots, Asian greens, snow peas, radishes, etc.

Memorial Day weekend: Spread old compost. Transplant hardened tomato, pepper and basil seedlings into garden. (To pre-burn the calories for, say, a pepperoni pizza, transplant cabbage, broccoli, eggplant, leeks; direct-sow bok choi, beans, carrots, kale, winter squash, cucumbers, zucchini, watermelon, and cantaloupe. Spread row covers over non-pizza crops as needed to foil insects.) Set stakes or other supports for tomatoes. Rigorously maintain mulch under woodchuck fence to prevent short circuits from weeds.

Mid-June to mid-July: Don bathing suit, periodically harvest pond weeds from backyard pond. Once soil has warmed, keep weeding or mulch entire planting bed with underlayer of hoarded newspaper topped with saved leaves, pine needles and pond weeds. Begin tying up vining tomato varieties. Water only if top two inches of soil dry out. (Non-pizza crops need rigorous daily monitoring for signs of insects and disease; e.g., check undersides of squash leaves for squash-beetle eggs; scrape off eggs with fingernail.) Remove garlic scapes as they form; eat in salads and stir-fries.

Mid-July through mid-August: Harvest garlic when all but three blades have begun turning brown. Set in warm, dry, well-ventilated space to cure. Begin daily check for early blight on lower leaves of tomatoes; remove any leaves with lesions. Pull row covers off cucumbers, squash and melons as soon as female blossoms appear to let pollinating insects do their work. Keep watering and weeding as needed. Make successive plantings of non-pizza salad crops.

Mid-August to Labor Day weekend: Remain vigilant with insect, disease surveillance activities. Harvest onions as tops begin falling over; spread to dry in protected area on old metal bedsprings (another raised-bed gardening strategy). Harvest tomatoes as they ripen. Can or freeze on weekends. Prepare some as pizza sauce, adding diced green pepper, onion and garlic, parsley, rosemary (see below), basil, thyme and oregano (from perennial herb garden).

Sometime in September or October, attend family reunion in Vermont. Shower brother Peter with effusive thanks for harvesting a load of rosemary branches from his Albuquerque backyard and carting them east in his golf bag.

September through early November: Harvest and eat or store all crops in timely fashion. Spread compost, sow cover crops in bare spots.

Ready for pizza? Fire up wood cookstove, remove sauce from jar or freezer, and simmer on stovetop. Prepare pizza dough. Make salad with seasonal ingredients. Build and bank fire to about 400°.

Assemble pizza. Add generous amount of pepperoni and sausage if you've also raised the pork and beef, grown your own wheat, and milked your own cow for the cheese. Slip pizza into oven, bake until cheese bubbles and browns.

Sit down, relax, and enjoy your nega-cal pizza.

By Peg Boyles, Writer-Editor UNH Cooperative Extension

I felt my nose twitch and an “oink” coming as soon as I glanced at the “truffles” listing in the field guide on North American mushrooms. Truffles are those ugly, knobby, strongly scented French and Italian delicacies often sniffed out by hogs and cherished by gourmands who will pay up to $2,000 per pound.

The closest I've ever come to eating truffles was a few thin slivers shaved on pasta, the cost of which thinned my wallet. Jeepers, I thought, if we have them here in the U.S. maybe I can scout some out for free.

My enthusiasm dispersed like a puffball fungus discharging its spores. Such tasty tidbits, I read a bit further on, are found only in Oregon. The two types found there are Fuzzy False (now there’s a clue) and Oregon White. The first resembles the costly champignon, but it grows above ground and not below a tree under the soil. Oregon Whites are thought to be as delectable as their European cousins to connoisseurs, but 3,000 miles is quite a trek for a truffle.

I don’t know when I first became interested in fungi. It might have been living two decades near Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, which proudly bills itself as the “mushroom capital of the world.” Or it might have been those times I was golfing, and mistakenly took a swing at one of those small, white spheres that pop up on grass after rain. In any case, they have always fascinated me, so when I read about mushroom seminar offered recently I immediately sent my check.

The class was given by a woman with 15 years of experience tramping over terrain hunting fungi. She goes to mushroom camp each year, she told us, mushroom earrings swinging to and fro as she talked. Our mycologist learned serious mushrooming by first identifying edible mushrooms, then the deadly ones, and then, she said, mock serious, those that make you wish you were dead.

Amanitas, are the nastiest mushrooms on earth and most will kill you dead, she said, glibly adding that the Destroying Angel will taste good only once.

We weren’t deterred by the glum toadstool talk and, when instructed to go out and bring back whatever we found, we eagerly set off with baskets in hand. Some of us chose to explore a nearby riverbank. It was hot and humid for September as we slipped down brush-laden hills and through thick fern fields, swatting mosquitoes and clouds of bugs.

During the period of our fungi foray, this part of New Hampshire was in a dry spell. Mushrooms thrive in moist conditions, so our findings were few. But we did come across one perfect specimen - a large cement toadstool decorating a homeowner’s lawn. We laughed at the irony when we walked by.

Among our finds: a blue-staining bolete that turned blue when scraped by our mushroom guru’s thumbnail. Boletes, she told us, will give you diarrhea and make you throw up.

Some findings had scary or descriptive names. Dead Man’s Fingers are black, finger-sized growths. The Pigskin Poison Puffball, sporting a rind-like surface, has a name that speaks for its toxicity. One participant thought the Straight-branched Coral was edible, but our expert squashed that notion. There’s only one coral you can eat, she said, and I’ve never found it.

She became excited when she saw the tiny, flat, button-sized Scarlet and Eyelash Cup fungi. They looked similar until a magnifying lens revealed that one had small hairs lining its edge. This caused a group member to quip that it had to be a boy fungus, because they always have the nicest lashes.

We found an Artist’s Conk, so called because drawings on its underside turn brown and can be preserved. We also found the Birch Polypore, which native Americans and ancient peoples used as tinder for campfires. The Alpine Iceman, Oetzi, had two polypores in his belongings when he was discovered in the Alps.

We found some edibles. Well, almost. Our expert said she loves puffballs, which she slices thinly, oven-dries and salts to eat as a snack. As she cut through the ones we found, she informed us that puffs are edible only if they are pure white inside. As they age they go from white to cream to brown. Our findings provided examples of the later stages.

Our mushroom master had brought along a Hemlock Varnish Shelf, a shiny, maroon-colored, kidney shaped mushroom she said was rumored to have magical properties such that if you drink a tea made from it you will live forever.

Now there’s a mushroom worth $2,000 a pound, I thought. I’m ready to hunt that baby down.

By Pauline Bogaert, Master Gardener

Digging carrots from the garden in 80 degree weather just doesn't seem natural for the end of September. There were a surprising lot of carrots, considering I never got out there to thin them for salad as I’d promised myself I’d do.

So I suffer now. I spent the afternoon in the kitchen processing the carrots for freezing. Now, the non gardeners among you will be thinking “How nice! People out there are still preserving food.” But the real gardeners will think, “Why doesn't she just put them in the root cellar”?

Well, these carrots needed to be processed because chipmunks or some other critter started eating the carrots at the top and went as far into the ground as possible, leaving a concave depression with all these little tooth marks and making those carrots no good for root cellar storage.

On the other hand, I'm not overly fond of cooked carrots. Thank goodness for my mother's old Farm Journal Cookbooks, which contain recipes from generations of farm wives. They knew how to preserve food: Take 12 pounds of carrots, etc. I wound up with candied ginger carrots and orange glazed carrots. I’ll be very happy this winter to take them out of the freezer.

The beets also needed gathering. Something bigger than a chipmunk had enjoyed the beet greens, and the roots themselves weren't as time consuming to process. I just picked out the ones that were split or nibbled on and cooked them. I stashed the rest away in a cool place to be brought out much later.

As the sun was sinking, I went out to get a few (I thought) beans for dinner. Lugging the full basket back into the house, I set about preparing them. These aren’t just any bean, but scarlet runners. My friend from England introduced me to this heirloom variety. They not only produce the most beautiful red flowers all summer and fall, but the beans themselves taste better than ordinary green beans. They are so beautiful many people grow them just for the flowers and don't even know how good they taste. You have to pick the pods before the beans inside start to swell. If you have to “string” them, they’re too old, fit only for the compost.

I got them all cut up and didn't have the heart to do any more freezing that day. As my husband walked through the kitchen he casually asked if I was freezing them. I told him, “No, we’re having some hot for dinner and I’ll make the rest into a bean salad that should last the rest of the month.”

While I’m on the subject of heirloom varieties, the Brandywine tomatoes are hitting their full stride. We got them into the ground very late. Most years at this time the plants would be hanging down in the cellar slowly ripening their fruit away from the frosty outside air.

Brandywines are so good! No other tomato beats their taste. And big! A couple of years ago I remember picking with pride the first ripe Brandywine. I washed it and sliced three half inch slabs that completely covered the bread for that first tomato/mayo sandwich. This particular tomato was so large I put the rest of it in the fridge and we had it for a salad that evening. I haven't had one that big in awhile, but I did bring one to share with my hiking group today. Everyone tucked slices into their sandwiches except for the one with the peanut butter sandwich. She ate her share separately.

The winter squash are still out there. If nothing has been nibbling on them, they go right into the cold room. No hassle. Thumbing through my gardening magazine, I found a lovely article on horseradish. Something else I’ll need to harvest before too long.

Have you ever tried to process horseradish? Oh, the tears you shed! After my first experience, my mother told me she used to hold the root outside a mostly closed window and grate it out there. Good idea. I'll put my food processor on an extension cord and see how that works.

My mother gave up canning and freezing well before she was my age. She lived though the time when you had to do it to survive the winter. She stopped when they moved off the farm and thought supermarkets were just great. Well, they are, but home grown food tastes better, at least to me. Knowing what went into growing the produce, harvesting it and preserving it for the long winter gives a feeling of security not just because I can have something to eat, but because I still know how to do it. Will the next generation have these skills?

By Carolyn Enz Page, Community Tree Steward

One of the delights and rewards of gardening is garden gluttony eating fruits and vegetables straight from the bush or vine. The cherry tomatoes I ate by the handful today were warm from the sun and sweet as candy. Earlier in the summer I pigged out on raspberries that went right from the bushes into my mouth, again warm and sweet.

I just returned from a visit to another garden where fall raspberries were just ripening again straight into the mouth. In fact this is the moment when I realized new meaning for the expression “hand to mouth.” In this case, hardly poverty and subsistence, but luxury and indulgence.

It’s difficult to choose the most prized “hand to mouth” food in the garden gluttony menu; blueberries are right up there. But homegrown peas eaten from the pods in early summer are a true delicacy, too. They are less common, as few people bother with the fuss of growing them. I grow them mostly to eat in the garden, a reward to keep me at the tedious gardening chores.

Growing up in the fruit belt along Lake Ontario north of Niagara Falls, I remember climbing the sweet cherry tree out back with my younger brothers, where we would balance precariously to reach to the furthest branches for the prized cherries before the birds got them. I’m sure my mother allowed this wonderful adventure because she realized it was easier than picking them herself. She also taught us how to pop the grapes into our mouths by pinching and slipping the skins off the Niagara and Concord grapes, leaving a trail of skins on the ground next to the vines. Again she put no limits on quantity consumed!

But things got even better. When I was about seven, Dad left his job as an Extension Agent and became a fruit farmer. The immediate and most obvious change was the introduction of a pick-up truck in our driveway (we didn’t move to the farm). We got to ride in the back!

Bushels of fruit came home in the truck. I can remember the peaches huge, fuzzy, brightly colored and juicy. Again no limit, except I remember the fuzz being irritating. Mother laid creamy, luscious pears out on newspapers in the basement to ripen. And then the apples arrived, so many kinds we hardly got excited. Mother made every apple dessert imaginable.

But in addition to the fruit there was a corn garden. During the season, Dad brought corn home every night and Mom presented huge, steaming platters to us five children. My two older teenage brothers had appropriate teen appetites and now I appreciate how relieved Mom was that she could fill them up on corn. I think I can remember dinners when that was all we ate, along with platters of tomatoes. Who needed meat and potatoes!

All this abundance and bounty wasn’t quite as wonderful for my mother who canned enough produce to feed the family all winter. Peaches ripen during the hottest days of August. We knew enough to stay out of the way when the canning days were in progress a hot, horrible job. The kitchen looked like a steam bath! Grandma sometimes came from far away to help. But Mom seemed proud of all the jars of peaches, pears, and tomatoes stashed away in the “canning closet” in the basement.

When we asked her what Labor Day was all about, we got the line about how that was just a contrived day of luxury for people who didn’t really work. Dad and my older brothers spent Labor Day at the farm harvesting peaches. That work didn’t look so bad to me my brother got to drive in the trailer loads of peaches.

One year we three little kids were taken to the farm during sour cherry picking a day off for Mom. Dad plunked us by a loaded cherry tree with branches drooping to the ground, and he showed us how to pull off the clusters of juicy red cherries he said something about picking clean and not leaving any and was gone. In no time it was obvious that this wasn’t fun. Sour cherries aren’t great eating from the tree. Furthermore the cherry juice was sticky and got all over our hands. Then it began running down our elbows...ugh!  We probably lasted an hour or so, but it seemed like a very long morning. I think we were taken down to the lake to swim and clean up at noon.

Back in the old days while we practiced hand-to-mouth garden gluttony, we were playing hard all summer long, and all of us were skinny from the non-stop exercise and stuffing ourselves with fresh from the vine fruits and vegetables.

By Anne Krantz, Tree Steward & Master Gardener

One day in late summer about a year and a half before my mother’s death, I took her for a short walk on the dirt road near her central Vermont home. Afflicted with Parkinson’s disease and increasing dementia, mom shuffled along slowly, using an old ski pole for a cane, wearing her faded denim hat with a gigantic fake sunflower pinned to its folded-back brim. (She always wanted the visiting tourists to know they’d met “a real Vermont character.”)

Suddenly she stopped and sucked in her breath, pointing to a spectacular roadside display of purple asters and goldenrod against a backdrop of tall ferns and towering hemlocks.

“Oh look!” she gasped. “How beautiful! No human hand could have created that landscape. Do you know why those flowers take your breath away, Peggy? It’s because they grow to suit themselves.”

My mother, Gertrude Alice Martin Boyles - an extraordinary human known to all as Trudy - allowed her three children to grow to suit themselves, though she tended us in such a way that she sculpted our deep interiors with her values.

From her, I got my frugality, my belief in self-reliance and the general competence of ordinary people, my work ethic, my politics, my love of words and, especially, my connection to the natural world and to the important work of home food production.

Unintentionally, Trudy also taught me to hold within myself the necessary tension between the awe of things that grow to suit themselves and the human need to tend things, to manipulate our natural environment to meet our needs.

Trudy grew up as one of nine siblings on a dairy farm, which helped explain why ours was the only house in the neighborhood with a huge vegetable garden and fruit plantings that extended around the house to the edge of our lot.

Decades before the word compost entered our common lexicon, we maintained a big fenced-in pile in one corner of the vegetable patch. Every summer, we planted, weeded, harvested and canned hundreds of jars of corn, shelled beans, peas, green beans, tomatoes, berries, applesauce, jams, jellies, relishes and pickles. We stored potatoes, cabbages, winter squash, beets, carrots and onions in the cellar. We foraged for dandelion greens, blackberries and wild blueberries. We raised chickens in the space over the garage we called “the barn.”

As a child conscript in the family food-producing enterprise, I hated the endless weeding, picking, shelling, peeling and canning, but most of it sank in. When I planted my own first garden I had a storehouse of knowledge about when and how to sow and tend and harvest.

I think about Trudy nearly every day, but especially on bright summer days like today, when she would rise before dawn, set bread dough to rise, and roll out two or three pie crusts before heading out to harvest raspberries (or strawberries or apples) and peas (or green beans or tomatoes).

When we’d come down for breakfast, Trudy would have half a dozen loaves of bread and a couple of pies cooling on the kitchen shelf and a dozen jars of jam boiling away in the canning kettle.

For 37 years, I’ve lived in the house and grown food on the land Trudy bought in 1969, when, driving home from visiting her daughters in Cambridge, she passed a house with a For Sale sign on the lawn and a white stallion galloping around on the hillside behind it.

“That magnificent white horse drew me in,” she told me later. “I took him as a sign, a signal that this was the place, a real place that could feed my grandchildren and teach them about the important things in this world.” She went into that house, sat down at the kitchen table with the farmer and his wife, and signed a sales agreement that day, paying for the place with insurance money my dad had left when he died five years before.

Almost every day for more than three decades, I’ve eaten something grown on the land Trudy bought that day. I spend most of my vacation days working in my bony hillside garden. I’ve done much of my most important pondering and grieving and raging and celebrating while tending my peas and cabbages and squashes.

Last year, we cut way back the size of the lawn we mow. This morning, I visited one of the overgrown areas. There among the tall grasses, I saw daisies and violets and buttercups, Indian paintbrushes, baby’s breath, and, sure enough, asters and goldenrods, poking through in bold self-assertion, growing to suit themselves.

By Peg Boyles, Writer/Editor

One of my favorite childhood activities was making dollies from inverted hollyhock blossoms in my grandmother’s garden. The blossom becomes the skirt of the doll; the body and head come from imagination or whatever’s available by scrounging the garden, lawn, orchard, or driveway. Unripe blackberries made great bodies as did small native strawberries and small dropped peaches and apples. Sometimes the head was a single Cosmos blossom; other times the head disappeared under a flower bonnet of sweet peas.

When I was seven, our house burned to the ground. We lost everything: our beds, books, clothes, shoes, and toys. We lived with my Quaker grandmother in her third-floor apartment while the house was rebuilt. She allowed me to eat parsley from her garden (after I learned not to squash her parsleyworms, the caterpillar of black swallowtail butterflies), and to pick single hollyhocks.

Hollyhocks still rank among my favorite flowers. I bought seeds of two kinds Alcea rosea and A. fificolia as “old fashioned single hollyhocks.” Both form low rosettes of ground-hugging leaves the first year from seed. Flower spikes emerge the second year.

The leaves of A. fificolia resemble hands or maple leaves on the flower spike while Alcea rosea retains the same rounded, scalloped leaves of the rosettes; foliage of both species are covered with fine hairs. A. fificolia is a grayer green and slightly hairier. Deer detest the foliage.

In my stony, bony, heavy clay ground, I double dug the soil, amending it profusely with composted cow manure and building caches of the stones, before the seeds were planted.

Double digging is an English invention to promote aerobic exercise and enrich the soil. You dig and remove the soil to a depth of one spade; loosen the sub soil to a depth of another spade and enrich with compost, then replace the first soil on top. Ten or fifteen years amending the soil by layering composted cow manure and mulch over all the beds has produced a soil friable enough to support hollyhock seeds sown by chipmunks and chickadees. Some years, they plant more than I do. In sandy soil, hollyhock seeds planted early in a spring garden sometimes will bloom late in the first year.

Alcea rosea tends to bloom in the dark reds, burgundies, mahoganies, true reds, deep pinks, and “black” (really very dark red). It also blooms first and is a true biennial in my garden, with a first- year rosette hugging the ground and a second year bloom stalk of flowers. The black one has blossoms twice the diameter of the others, and is the least robust to self-perpetuate, so I have to reseed it myself. Some have lighter colors of pale yellow or white in the center. These pale centers are called “eyes,” and they appear to watch over the garden and house.

Fificolia has a paler palette of sorbet colors: strawberry, raspberry, peach, apricot, cantaloupe, lavender, creamy lemon and white. Some flowers have an inner ruffle, a second layer of petals in a different hue. Some are so pale they can be distinguished from pure white only at high noon. Fificolia tends to return to bloom for two or three years if the stalks are cut to ground level before the seeds set in round rolls resembling donuts.

When frost hits, hollyhock seed rolls shatter and forests of seedlings spring up to be culled. These seedlings are mostly Alcea rosea, which will bear the red flowers. Many seeds retain the same color as the parent plant.

One year, I confess to being the Martha Stewart of hollyhocks. I punched holes in my old business cards, threaded strings, and labeled the plants with the most desirable colors. In the fall, I collected seeds of the labeled plants, destroyed the old bed, and reseeded with the darker colors nearer the house fading into the paler colors in the distance. It gave a false sense of depth to the bed.

That was the year I reread the work of Gertrude Jekyll, the famous 19th century British garden designer, several times to grasp her concept of color and order in a perennial bed. After a hundred years, Jeykll’s advice about drifts and sweeps of colors still rings true.

In wet years, in full sun, hollyhocks reach nine feet with multiple flower stalks, beginning to bloom before the Fourth of July and continuing to Labor Day. Following Jekyll’s admonition that the bed depth is two thirds the height, a six foot wide bed is a minimum for hollyhocks. My largest perennial garden is the leach field for our septic system, so hollyhocks add height on the edges.

Mature blossoming hollyhocks attract bumblebees, lady bugs, hoverflies, butterflies, chickadees, humming birds, nuthatches, and chipmunks. They offer height and a wide a palette of colors. They bring a touch of nostalgia. They contain no known noxious toxins, so they make great dolls or imaginary ice cream for tea parties. Plant hollyhocks and enjoy!

By Cheryl Grabe, Master Gardener

They began arriving in the mail before Christmas—mail order seed catalogues with their lavish photographic displays. The catalogue writers use superlatives: “biggest,” “best,” “largest,” “sweetest,” to describe perennials, annuals, fruits, and vegetables. Every tomato has that “old-fashioned flavor.” Corn has “mouth-watering” sweetness. Potatoes grow “as big as your hand.” Which catalogue holds you spellbound and dreaming of a bountiful garden this year?

Every winter as I study these catalogues, I try to weed the misinformation from the catalogue descriptions. Despite these efforts, the catalogues lure me into trying new products and varieties.

Over the years, I’ve discovered heirloom tomato varieties—Brandywine, Zebra, Purple Cherokee. Their incredible flavor puts newer varieties to shame, even though most heirloom varieties have little disease resistance, and some produce oddly shaped fruits.

My curiosity also drew me to Sugar Snap peas when they had just come out. I’ve grown them ever since, as they require little effort to grow or pick, and they taste delicious. My inclination to try new vegetables also added sugar-enhanced corn varieties to our table and delicious, hardy Asian greens like mizuna and bok choy.

Here are some of the vegetables I’m dreaming of for 2006:

“Micro Greens”: Don’t feel bad if you’ve never heard of these, neither had I until just recently. Micros are the first delicate seedlings of vegetables and herbs: beets, cress, kohlrabi, celery, pea sprouts and spinach. In just a week or two after planting, you clip the young seedlings and use them as garnishes, as the main ingredients in a spring salad, or as a base for a roasted vegetable like grilled fennel or roasted beets. Obviously, this will require intensive succession plantings as with mesclun mixes. I may try creating my own blend from leftover seeds from last year, or look for specialty blends in catalogues.

Delfino cilantro: This herb earned recognition as an All America Selection for its flavor and fern-like appearance. Ready in just four to five weeks, this is another plant that deserves succession planting. People I’ve talked to seem to love it or hate it, but it could become a staple for salsa-holics. When cilantro goes to seed, it’s called coriander. I plan to harvest good crops of both leaves and seeds to use as seasonings.

Big Mama tomato: The supplier suggests “fire-roasting” this indeterminate paste tomato on the grill and using it to make bruschetta to spread on thick slices of fresh Italian bread. Yum!

Purple Haze carrot: This sounds like a great conversation veggie, purple on the outside, orange inside. The catalogue tells growers to serve Purple Haze raw to retain its color. The kids in my life are going to love me for this one!

Ruby Queen sweet corn: Can you imagine? Sweet corn that turns red as it ripens! Some catalogues recommend steaming to retain Ruby Queen’s color. I can hardly wait for this one.

In addition to new vegetables, I want to try more ornamental grasses in my perennial border and elsewhere. They are a great way to make sure the garden has something to please the eye after frost shrivels the heat-loving annuals, and snow begins to cover the perennials.

Miscanthus sinensis “Graziella” is an ornamental grass I’ve heard will spread, and I certainly hope it will in my garden. I planted a pot of this cultivar in a raised bed last summer, and it still looks great. Now in the middle of winter, it is a beautiful shade of golden beige against a background of snow. The tall feathery plumes, or culms, of Graziella are as graceful as its name.

Although I spend many pleasant hours curled up with my seed catalogues, come spring, I also like to visit some of the excellent nurseries in my area. My idea of a good trip is to drive off with a large plastic tub in my trunk in search of new and different plants I can add to my ever-increasing garden or put into patio containers.

My only caveat: Remember each plant or packet of seed you purchase is going to mean time on your hands and knees. Those tiny little transplants become big in no time, and often we have weather in New Hampshire that prohibits early planting. Finding space to hold these new plants while you wait for warm weather can become a problem especially as they grow larger. Often, a few new plants provide more than enough satisfaction in the long run, and less frustration in the present.

So, get those catalogues out, brew a pot of tea, pull a blanket over your knees, and dream and plan. After all, spring is just a few cold days and a whole mud season away.

By Helen Downing, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

Date

When Shakespeare penned his famous lines: “What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” he must have been on his way to a marketing meeting. Statistics show that gardening is the number one hobby in the United States; nearly 70 million households participate annually.

Even more staggering is the variety of plant life gardeners have to choose from, and new cultivars are hitting the market all the time. From “Barbara Bush” roses and “Snow Queen” hydrangea to “Big Boy” tomatoes and “Tom Thumb” popcorn—who comes up with these names?

Learning the language of identifying plants in the world-wide botanical community would probably earn you about three credits at any Land-Grant university. Centuries ago, folks with an interest in flora and fauna recognized the need for a global means of identification. Carolus Linnaeus, a Swedish fellow, developed a system using Latin as the root to naming all plants, which has become the International Code of Botanical Nomenclature.

The rules are very specific for proper identification. Every tree, shrub, vine and flower that has been found around the world has a unique botanical name, but few of us garden hobbyists refer to a summer squash as a Cucurbita pepo. We remember their common names like the names of old friends.

As it turns out, a rose isn’t just a rose. Like people, roses have defining characteristics and personality traits. We personify them with names like “Ronald Reagan,” “Graham Thomas” and “Barbara Streisand.” And yes, in 2000, plant breeders introduced the “William Shakespeare,” one of the David Austin “English” shrub roses.

And it’s not just roses. “Princess Diana” is a dahlia, “General Eisenhower” a tulip, and “Fat Albert” a blue spruce. Plant breeders have great hopes for plants like “Rock Star” pumpkins, “Queen of the Night” morning glories (yes, they bloom at dusk!) and “Dinnerplate” dahlias.

Back to the original question, “Who comes up with the names?” Sometimes it’s the researcher, who may be a university professor or a home gardener, but often it’s a marketing person. UNH plant biologist Brent Loy told me he’s produced hundreds of experimental pumpkin, squash and melon hybrids. Most of his varieties that made it into commercial production were named by the seed companies, although they did like his choice of “SnackJack” for the snack-seed pumpkin he developed.

I contacted seed companies popular with home gardeners to ask how they name new plant varieties. Flannery Higgins, media relations director for Johnny’s Selected Seeds in Maine told me they have no formal naming process. Researchers often choose names but occasionally the company hosts contests among employees. A researcher named the new specialty melon “Serenade” while listening to Mozart’s Serenade No. 13. (Perhaps the “Bolero” carrot has a similar history?) The “Diva” cucumber, named in an employee contest, went on to become a 2002 All-America Selections Winner.

Burpee Seeds in Pennsylvania works similarly. Don Zeidler, Burpee’s director of direct marketing, told me the story behind the company’s popular “Big Boy” tomato. One of the breeders in the field exclaimed to David Burpee, “Who's the big boy with the tomato?” The toddler was Burpee’s son Jonathan. That was more than 50 years ago, and “Big Boy” is still a top-seller.

Plant names often give conspicuous clues about a plant’s color, appearance or flavor. Examples from Johnny’s catalogue include “Tendersweet” cabbage, a thin-leafed variety, and “Tom Thumb” popcorn that grows on 3½-foot plants. Burpee has a tomato called “Fourth of July,” which is ready to pick by Independence Day, and sunflowers called “Sunforest” that grow 10 to 15 feet tall.

While many plants are named to honor individuals, others are labeled for the folks who developed them. The New Hampshire farmer, Tom Fox, for example, cultivated “Tom Fox” pumpkins. Countless more may be named after relatives, lovers or, perhaps, just wishful thinking. I found a pea named “Payload,” a tomato known as “Mortgage Lifter,” and Brussels sprouts called “Prince Marvel” (maybe that one has a better chance of getting past your kids’ noses).

As it turns out, a home gardener developed “Mortgage Lifter” in the 1930s. Burpee offers the heirloom tomato and, according to the story in its online catalogue, the fellow grew four of the biggest tomato varieties he could find. He cross-pollinated them over six seasons and bred a cultivar that was not only immense, but tasty, too. The name came from his success at selling the plants for a dollar apiece, and in six years, the garden hobbyist paid off his mortgage.

Perhaps I’ve piqued your curiosity about the variety of plant names you’re finding in seed and nursery catalogues and garden centers across the region. If you are looking for a specific plant, however, your best bet is to learn its Latin name. Several plants sometimes share the same common name.
For more information about the International Code of Botanical Nomenclature, visit the web site of the Brooklyn Botanic Garden at www.bbg.org.

By Jackie Bower, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

Date

Gardening is and always has been my source of emotional nourishment. The locations, tasks and companions have changed over the decades. The motivation has not.

While I was growing up, no one in my family was interested in the yard, let alone gardening. My father was busy supporting a family and my mother considered yard work something someone else should do. My mother’s way to pacify her active girl toddler was to place her in the yard with a spoon.

The year I entered grade school, my father built a ranch house on the site of an old asparagus field, flat and stripped of any landscaping. Once the ranch was complete, he decided it was time to put in a lawn. Not to be outdone by other lawns, he set out to locate the perfect pile of manure to fertilize the yard.

We went to an old dairy farm in town. The farmer showed my father what appeared to be a modest pile of cow manure. Dad told him to deliver the load and spread it on our small yard. The next day the entire front yard was covered with two feet of cow manure. It seems Dad had seen only the above-ground part of a manure pile stored in a pit five feet deep.

Dad attempted to till the manure into the ground, but the tiller tines weren’t long enough to reach the soil. He solved the problem by adding new soil on top of the manure and planting grass seed. It took weeks for the manure to settle enough for us to walk on the lawn. The neighbors weren’t pleased with the smell. The following years, our lawn produced crop after crop of beautiful mushrooms.

There were formal gardens and yards to view as I walked to and from school. I extended my walks to include more roads or paths just to see the gardens. Once during such a walk a wonderful elderly lady welcomed me into her garden. Her house was old, as were her garden ornaments and plants. We had a chat, she gave me some marigold seeds, and I became a gardener.

I began to dig garden areas around my house and used my allowance money to purchase more seeds to plant. The garden became a place of escape when emotions became volatile. Tending it was a chore no one ordered me to do, but the one I liked the most.

My high school guidance counselor lived next door. Of course she’d had direct sensory exposure of our well-manured lawn and for years had watched me gardening in my yard. My preference for the world of plants and insects led the counselor to place me in the agriculture education track at school. Insulted to have their daughter placed in the agriculture track, my parents sent me to various private schools that became my home over the next five years.

College brought glimpses of my future as a gardener. I visited the home of a professor, an old house with gardens visible from the windows. The home’s rough interior mirrored the struggle for survival outside. The place was comfortable and welcoming. Sitting at the kitchen table, looking out the kitchen windows, I watched the professor’s birdfeeders and noticed how flowers in his wife’s gardens fed wild visitors.

My first husband came from a farming family. This relationship began a 10-year foray into the “back to earth” phase of my gardening experience. A small farm supported us with goats, chickens, geese, rabbits, and a three-acre organic vegetable garden with a roadside stand. Life was a cycle of planting, harvesting, birthing and slaughtering. We counted our riches in good weather and health. It wore us out.

When that man and the organic farm were no longer part of my life, I found I still had the need for a home with a space to garden. Another marriage and an old home on 10 acres allowed for the space; however, years of career building and graduate school kept any extra time for gardening to a bare minimum.

The years since then have brought me to my present stage of semi-retirement and a back yard of small gardens located so I can view them from the windows in my old home. Now I spend many days on the back porch, lulled by the heirloom flowers in my backyard gardens. My husband and I discuss other forms of entertainment—boating, kayaking, motorcycling—but no one moves.

I no longer plant vegetables in my gardens. To do so would make the critters and insects enemies to be controlled or defeated. There are plenty of small farms around to provide us with fresh produce. Instead, I plant mostly old-fashioned flowers chosen for their hardiness in this location and soil.

Only what survives stays. I keep what the insects and birds enjoy. The colors, forms, smells, sounds, and the feel of these spaces produce the emotional nourishment I’ve sought from gardens all my life.

By Stephania Pearce, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

A few weeks ago, my garden looked as if something green had rained on it overnight. The soil around the tomatoes, peppers, and cucumbers was blanketed with thousands of tiny seedlings that, upon closer inspection, I easily identified as purslane. The fleshy stems are reddish in color and the dark green, paddle-shaped leaves grow in pairs along the stem. This succulent plant doesn’t grow very tall but spreads quickly and can form a dense mat.

Who peppered my garden with this interesting but annoying weed? As it turns out, I did! A little research revealed I had unwittingly gotten good at all the methods for propagating purslane: seed broadcasting, root division, and stem cuttings. That mid-July morning, my garden looked like I was going for the purslane plant record in a single plot.

Portulaca oleracea , common purslane, also known as pusley, pigweed, fatweed, and little hogweed, is an herbaceous annual that’s found in most corners of the globe. Some folks call it a vegetable or an herb since it’s a common item in their diets. Americans often blaspheme it as a weed, probably because it is so prolific. Purslane will grow just about anywhere, from your lush, well-composted flowerbed to the gravel on the edge of your driveway. Although it does like plenty of sunlight, purslane isn’t picky about soil conditions

For those on the weed side of the argument, mulching is probably your best bet for eradicating purslane. Its season runs from July until the first good frost, as sunlight and warm soil temperatures are critical to seed germination. Because purslane emerges so much later than most other broadleaf weeds, early application of pre-emergent herbicides may be ineffective.

Purslane is easy to pull out by the roots when the soil is wet. It has a taproot with lots of secondary rootlets and, if you break the root, it will regenerate a new plant (a propagation method botanists call root division). If you’re trying to weed when the soil is dry, you will likely end up with a handful of plants and roots that remain firmly anchored in the ground. Use a tool that will help loosen the soil so you can do the job right the first time.

Like me, perhaps you use weeds to fight weeds, by adding weeds to the mulch you use to smother other yet-to-emerge invaders. But toss purslane plants back onto the dirt or an existing mulch cover and even broken stem pieces will find a way to take hold all over again. Even if conditions are dry enough that the foliage eventually shrivels up, chances are the plant will have used its moisture reserves to develop more seeds. Bottom line–remove purslane plants from the area you are weeding.

Purslane’s amazing ability to produce seeds, even on death’s doorstep, is the reason this plant is so prolific. It produces a single, little yellow flower at the ends of its stems. The blossom remains open only briefly, but the resultant seedpod is filled with tiny seeds that can remain viable for decades. The seeds germinate close to the surface when soil temperatures reach about 90 degrees Farenheit. You may eradicate your current crop by hoeing, only to find that your hoe inadvertently pulled seeds to the surface that had been too deep to germinate. Those seeds are minute , so don’t expect to see them. You’ll know you brought seeds to the surface if you have a new crop of seedlings in a few days.

Despite its reputation in this country as a pest, there is some good news about purslane: It’s edible. Purslane is often compared with spinach and used similarly. It’s been on menus in other parts of the world for about 2,000 years, but not many Americans are tossing it into their salads and stews. On paper, purslane looks like a highly nutritious vegetable, high in potassium and magnesium, as well as vitamins A and C. It also contains higher amounts of Omega-3 fatty acids than any other plant. However, like parsley, chives, spinach, and rhubarb, purslane is also high in oxalic acid, which binds with prevents the body from absorbing calcium and other minerals. So, if you do enjoy purslane’s mild, tangy flavor, use it in moderation.

Native to India and the Middle East , purslane has spread around the world. Cooks in many cultures use its tender, succulent leaves raw in salads, cooked alone and or with other vegetables, or added to soups and stews. It has a slight mucilaginous quality that helps thicken stews. Latin cultures call it verdolagas and frequently cook it with eggs. Some cooks actually pickle the thick stems.

If you like the looks and ground-covering habit of portulaca oleracea , several seed catalogues carry cultivated varieties. Apparently the leaves are larger and more lush, but the plant is equally invasive.

by Jackie Bower, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

Vines with trumpet-shaped, pale pink and white flowers and deep green, heart-patterned leaves wind up around the lilacs at the edge of our garden.

“Morning glories,” my wife calls them.

“Bindweed!” I reply.

Farmers who see the plant twisting around a struggling corn seedling might say, “Devils-vine.” It’s just a matter of perspective.

Discerning botanists will tell you that even the most noxious invasive plants often have a few useful, redeeming qualities. Not one to try and categorize plants as either good or bad, I like to look at it as a realtor might, as a matter of “location, location, location.”

Whether you think of a plant as a welcome abundance or a noxious infestation, it’s important to know just what kind of plant/weed you’re dealing with. For plant-hunters with an urge to do botanical identification, this time of summer is ideal. That’s because many plants are now showing distinctive reproductive structures (flowers, fruits and seeds) that make the task simpler.

A working knowledge of botanical structures and terminology is helpful. Many with whom I’ve walked Coös County meadows have been subjected to the old rhyme, “Sedges have edges, rushes are round, grasses have nodes from the top to the ground,” as a way to distinguish the stems of these quite-different plant types. Then, for the graze-able grasses there’re those auricles and ligules (little ears and tongues) we need to know about.

Old botany texts can often be bought inexpensively at library book sales and flea markets. A reasonably-priced book I used when teaching a botany course a while back is Botany for Gardeners by Brian Capon. It’s still readily available and an easy read as well.

A well-illustrated plant identification guide is also a must. My most-used, dog-eared reference, usually somewhere in my pickup, is Cornell Press’ Weeds of the Northeast by Uva, Neal, and DiTomaso. First published in 1997, it quickly became an essential tool for practicing botanists. Along with a photo of the plant in full bloom, the book also includes photos of seedlings, seeds, leaf details, and other key features. Accompanying descriptions detailing end-of-season characteristics, similar species, and habitat add to its usefulness. It seems I’m always adding more botanicals to my book collection.

An understanding of a plant’s preferred habitat can tell us a lot about it and the land itself. For instance: buttercups in a field or moneywort in a garden typically indicate wet soils and poor drainage. Conversely, yellow and orange hawkweed, or rabbit-foot clover indicate droughty, low-fertility ground. Check with your local County Conservation District office for soils maps, which will detail the physical characteristics of soils in your area.

With practice, these references can help plant enthusiasts identify the families most weeds (or interesting specimens) belong to. Are they annuals, biennials, or perennials? Broadleaf weeds or grasses? How do they spread? Answers to questions like these will give you some clues about how best to manage troublesome weeds.

Cultivating (mechanically or with a hoe) seed-reproducing annuals, such as purslane may eliminate them. Not so with weeds such as perennial quackgrass, which will sprout from the pieces of the rhizomes you spread with your hoe or cultivator. An agronomist I know calls quackgrass “the grass that sews New Hampshire soils together,” in tribute to its aggressive root system. (Note: some people still call it witchgrass, but there’s also an annual witchgrass—one of the problems arising from the use of common plant names, versus their Latin names. The Latin name for quackgrass is Elytrigia repens)

Conflicting or duplicate plant names, along with the difficulty of precisely identifying their genus and species, make foraging for wild edible plants risky business. Over-confidence can prove deadly. A family of very familiar plants—the Umbelliferae , or carrot family plants, are a good example. This same family that includes the edible garden carrot, parsnip, and parsley also includes the deadly poison hemlock, an infusion of which Socrates drank to commit suicide. Can you tell the differences between poison hemlock and Queen Anne’s Lace, the wild ancestor of the garden carrot?

For identification of potentially toxic or injurious plants to livestock, a good reference is Poisonous Plants of Pennsylvania, published by the Pennsylvania Department of Agriculture. Livestock owners should have a copy of Merck’s Veterinary Manual on hand. In addition to plant descriptions, it offers information on symptoms, poisonous principles, and more. I’m often surprised at how many plants cause problems for livestock.

My general outlook on pasturing animals safely is to look at ways to improve the stands of cultivated grasses and clovers necessary for proper nutrition, discouraging anything else in the field through good management practices.

If you’d like to see how one farmer has worked hard to accomplish this, join us up here in Coös County Wednesday, August 10, for an afternoon-in-the-field Pasture Meeting. Call 788-4961 for more information.

by Steve Turaj, UNH Cooperative Extension Agricultural Resources Educator

You don’t need a rototiller to make a new garden. We used a no-till method to create a 17' x 8' oval flower garden on the northeast side of the Alexandria Historical Society building. If you have a few of the right items, a little time and a little labor, our method will work for you, too. In the process, you’ll improve your soil, minimize soil compaction, discourage weeds, improve water retention, and create an inviting environment for beneficial soil microorganisms.

First, pick out the site. Knowing the exposure to sunlight over the growing season will allow you to choose the best plants for the environment. To get an idea how much of each type of plant you will need, mark and measure the size of the plot you plan to develop.

Now gather a supply of newspaper large enough to cover the entire garden area with a layer six sheets thick. Collect the black print pages only, no shiny inserts.

Have access to a large amount of composted manure or other finished compost. If you don’t make your own, you can purchase it bagged from a local garden supply center, or in bulk from a nearby compost facility. The UNH Cooperative Extension fact sheet Purchasing Compost contains a list of New Hampshire composting facilities. Many New Hampshire towns produce leaf-and-yard-waste compost at their local solid waste facilities and give it away to residents.

Finally, you’ll need a layer of topsoil (any ordinary dirt will do) and a two-inch layer of organic mulch: pine needles, shredded leaves, grass clippings, or shredded bark. When you’ve collected all the above items and have a nice day with rain expected overnight, it is time to start the new garden.

If the grass has started to grow, mow it very close. Then lay six sheets of newspaper over every speck of the ground. The paper will block the light and prevent the grass or any weeds from growing. Wetting the paper as you go will make it stay where you put it.

Then spread two or three inches of the compost over the damp newspaper. On top of that goes an inch or two of dirt, topped off with a layer of mulch.

Now just sit back for a month and let nature take over creating a ready-to-plant garden. The time is essential for the earthworms and other organisms from the soil and compost that live in the ground to begin decomposing the various organic items. While you are busy planning what to plant, they will be working to prepare your planting bed.

Whether you plant annuals for season-long flowers, or perennials for long-lasting structure, having the plants in mind and knowing their requirements before you go to the garden center to buy them will ensure a better outcome.

Although annuals are easy to raise from seed, with a new garden it makes more sense to start with plugs or transplants. Use a plant catalog or book to find out how big your plants will become, so you’ll give them enough room and so you don’t buy too many.

Lay out your design beforehand. Set tall plants in the back if you’re planning a border garden, or a garden that will be seen from only one side. If your garden is along a path, placing small plants in front will allow taller plants behind them to be seen. Just try to imagine how you want it to look.

When the month has gone by, your new garden bed should be ready for digging. Use your small spade to make the three-inch-deep holes to receive your transplants or plugs. (Plugs are what the little started plants are called. You “plug” them into the soil and they grow into a big plant.)

Make sure to give your plants enough space to allow them to grow. Wait until any chance of frost has passed in your area—in central New Hampshire that typically means after Memorial Day. Covering tiny plants with newspaper or old sheets every night to protect them gets tiring quickly, and you risk losing everything to a frost.

After preparing our garden plot, we laid out our plants like a braided rug: nine bright pink geraniums in the center with 18 dark coleus plants circling them. An outer circle of 30 yellow French marigolds completed the rug effect. The colors were effective, the plants were happy, and we were able to over-winter the geraniums for the next year. When the frost threatened in the fall, we removed the plants and put in daffodil and crocus bulbs. It gave a great start to the garden the next spring.

So, give a new garden a try. Almost any color or type of plants will work. Just consider how much less work your garden can be if you let nature help you do it without a rototiller.

By Judith A. Kraemer, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

“Dot, what are we doing that for?”

“Dot, why do we need to make the fuzzy white stuff on the pumpkin leaves go away? Can I spray the milk on their leaves?”

“Dot, how long do we need to do it for? When we get through doing this, will we ever do it again?”

A teacher pipes up from across the garden, “Evan, wait for Dot to answer the first question before you ask another one.”

 “Dot doesn’t mind. She always answers them,” Evan replies, and he starts right in again with his questions.

When I was approached about working on a children’s gardening project in the summer of 2002, I tackled the task by looking back into my own childhood.

I grew up on a vegetable farm, so gardening was integrated into the fabric of daily life. I asked myself how I learned what I know and soon realized the truth of the old adage “we learn by example.” A lot of what I learned came from countless hours just watching a loved adult do a job, while we talked about something entirely unrelated.

“Nana, Peter isn’t sharing the wheelbarrow. What are you doing?”

Nana, who was always doing something that needed to be done, answered my question without stopping her chore. “Tell your brother I said to share with you. I am thinning the radishes. If we leave them too close together they won’t get nice fat radishes on them.”
 
Of course, it would take two or three visits back to Nana to make Peter share the wheelbarrow, and in that time I continued to ask questions and watch what she was doing.

At some point, I’d try thinning radishes, or whatever task was at hand, and, voila! I could do it myself!

On a family farm, all members are needed to get things done. Just being with adults I loved and joining their activities at what ever level I could manage gave me a great sense of accomplishment, a feeling of being a part of something important.

It didn’t matter what the job was, I was recognized and made to feel as though I’d made a difference. For example, when I was little, I was notorious for squishing the strawberries when I picked them. Although I hated that I was taking so long to learn to do it “right,” I always knew those squished berries were important.

How? I would bring them to my grandmother, who would turn them into jam. When I arrived with the squished berries, she’d put both hands on her cheeks and exclaim in Italian, “How special these are! I know how much love is in each one.”

Growing up on the farm, I loved the sizes, shapes, colors, textures, and smells of the natural world. I loved hiding in the corn, looking at stuff under rocks and boards, building fairy houses out of sticks and stones, having tomato fights with my siblings, and making figurines out of corn husks that I dyed with plant juices.

Statistics tell us that 90 percent of the 43 million elementary school children in the United States, are two or three generations removed from the farm. How will our children develop an appreciation for the natural world if they have no memories of it? How will they make sound decisions about our natural resources? Why should they care about nature if they don’t love it?

Plant-based education is a way to change this situation.

In the summer of 2000, the ”Growing a Green Generation” project got underway as a collaboration among three UNH units: Cooperative Extension, the Plant Biology Department and the Child Study and Development Center (CSDC). Our goal: to develop a curriculum that any caregiver, teacher, or parent can use, regardless of their level of horticultural experience.

The CSDC involves UNH undergraduates studying early childhood education, so this project focused on the question, “What can young children learn down a garden path?

We’ve learned together that children can learn to read, write, and communicate down a garden path. They can hone their gross and fine motor skills. They can have positive interactions with their peers and the adults around them. They can observe—and even consume—their natural surroundings through touch, hearing, smell, taste, and sight. They can experience joy in their environment by letting the juice of a ripe tomato run down their chins, and by sitting in the shade of a sunflower house or a bean teepee. And when the world is going too fast, a garden can offer solitude.

Human development experts tell us the most lasting lessons are learned in the first five years of life. I have no doubt that my early experiences on the farm “grew me up green” and enabled me to raise my own children green. I hope the body of gardening activities provided in our “Growing a Green Generation” curriculum will foster in other children the same fond, lasting, positive connection to the natural world. Look for “Growing a Green Generation” at the UNH Sustainable Horticulture Web site.

By Dot Perkins, UNH Agricultural Program Coordinator

The trees haven’t yet donned their autumn foliage, but already we are surrounded by color—field after field of bright goldenrod yellow. Sadly, most of us aren’t overjoyed by the splendor of nature’s golden paintbrush, steeling ourselves against the beauty of the goldenrod flowers and unjustly accusing them of causing hay fever. While stuffy noses and watery eyes are undeniably a problem at this time of year, little of the pollen causing these symptoms comes from goldenrod.

Hay fever sufferers are at the mercy of dry, dusty pollen blown about by the wind, which comes mostly from others plants also now in full bloom, such as ragweed. But ragweed flowers are so small and drab most of us don’t even notice them.

We have little to fear from goldenrod flowers. Goldenrod pollen is too heavy and sticky to be blown about by the wind. Instead it is carried about by the countless insects who visit the goldenrod plants to feast on the goldenrod’s abundant pollen or nectar, or—in some cases—each other.

Goldenrod blossoms teem with insect visitors. Many types of beetles feed on yellow pollen grains. As these beetles scramble about, the pollen clinging to their bodies fertilizes the goldenrod flowers, helping, rather than harming, the goldenrod. Unfortunately, one of these beetles, the innocent- looking black-and-yellow-striped locust borer, lays her eggs on black locust trees. Her larvae chew tunnels in locust branches. Infested trees often die outright or become so weakened they may snap in a windstorm.
 
Bees, butterflies, and moths also visit goldenrod. Beekeepers find their beehives filling with dark goldenrod honey this time of year. Southbound orange-and-black monarch butterflies pause frequently along their migration routes to sip the high-energy goldenrod nectar. You’ll need to look closely if you want to find a goldenrod stowaway moth feeding on the goldenrod nectar. This moth is small, and its orange-streaked yellow wings blend well with the yellow flowers. However, you’ll find the equally small, black-and-yellow lichen moth easy to spot.

Natural predators abound on goldenrod. Oddly shaped, yellowish-green ambush bugs wait patiently, hidden among its golden blossoms until an unsuspecting insect comes into reach of their powerful front legs. In the blink of an eye, the ambush bug has seized its prey, rammed its sharp-tipped, soda-straw mouth parts into its victim’s body, and begun sucking out the body fluids.

A much daintier predator is the little, pale yellow goldenrod spider. But don’t waste your time looking for a goldenrod spider web; this spider is a hunter, not a trapper. The goldenrod spider moves sideways, crab-fashion across the goldenrod flowers stalking its prey with all the stealth and cunning of a lion hunting in the jungle.

I find the gall-makers the most fascinating of all the insects found on goldenrod. The inch-long spindle-shaped galls commonly seen on the upper half of goldenrod stems serve as home to tiny moth caterpillars. The more rounded stem galls contain the young of a tiny fly. The young insects spend the winter inside the galls, surrounded by food, sheltered from the weather, and hidden from most predators.

But their lives aren’t worry-free. All too often other tiny insects move in to share the gall makers’ snug homes and may even eat the defenseless gall-dwellers. Also, hungry birds may tear open the galls to get at the tasty insects inside.

A less familiar but very common gall is caused by a tiny fly who lays her eggs on the very topmost bud in a goldenrod flower cluster. When the egg hatches, whorls of stunted leaves and flowers overlap and clump together around the immature fly forming what is called a goldenrod bunch gall. While unsightly, none of the galls seems to be harmful to the goldenrod plants.

Now that goldenrod hybrids have been returned to the U.S. by the English, why not consider planting at least one? Plant breeders have developed many new varieties. Once you plant some goldenrod, you too will be able to watch the fascinating array of insect life visit your garden.

By Janet Schmidt, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

Date

I can’t dispute the wisdom of Winnie-the-Pooh’s creator. Potatoes, especially when harvested small, before their natural sugars turn to starch, are a humble delicacy known for their rich, distinctive flavors.

The “sweet corn” of the potato world, many of us remember “new potatoes” fondly as an essential ingredient in Grandma’s famous creamed-peas-and-new-potatoes, served alongside a piece of poached salmon on the Fourth of July.

Digging through my potato references to prepare for a workshop on growing small “gourmet” potatoes, I couldn’t help but be impressed with this mundane vegetable’s remarkable history.

In New England the potato’s chronicles began in 1719 with plantings by Scotch-Irish immigrants in what is now Derry, New Hampshire. Potatoes adapted to our soils and cool climate. By the 1880s Coos County farmers were producing 3,000 acres of potatoes, mostly to supply starch used in spinning mills. Throughout much of the 1900's table-stock potatoes provided a valuable cash crop for the county, one that fit well with dairy farming. The potato’s history, of course, goes back a lot farther.

It’s generally agreed that potatoes originated around 400 B.C. in the high mountains of South America, where indigenous farmers preserved the tubers by mashing them and spreading them on the ground to producean early freeze-dried product they called chuno. Along with corn and beans, potatoes were staple foods of the Incas long before the arrival of Spanish conquistadores in the 1500s. Recognized for their nutritive value, potatoes were soon introduced into Europe by the Spanish. By 1573 potatoes were used to feed hospital patients in Seville.

An odd-looking underground vegetable that grew suspiciously from “roots,” rather than seed, the potato had a checkered European experience. Most considered it a food fit only for the poor, those of low birth, and animals. Frightful maladies of that era were also attributed to this possibly poisonous plant, leprosy, syphilis, and madness among them. Like tomatoes, which had similar market resistance, potatoes are members of the deadly nightshade family. (Curiously, tobacco, also in the Solanaceae family, didn’t seem to have that problem.)

Perhaps the potato’s reputation had something to do with a banquet once held for the local gentry by Queen Elizabeth I. Instead of using the unwholesome-looking tubers, the chefs cooked up and served the plant’s toxic tops. Banquet-goers promptly became deathly ill and potatoes were thereafter banned from court.

Flummery (wheat cooked in spiced milk) and fruenty (boiled oatmeal and bran) might have remained a dinner-table mainstay, rather than evolving into today’s breakfast food, if not for A.A. Parmentier. Botanist and soldier, Parmentier was captured by the Prussians several times during the course of the Seven Years’ War. While in prison, he was fed and apparently developed a taste for potatoes (German peasants having been forced to grow them by Frederick II since 1744).

Returning to France, Parmentier convinced Louis XVI to let him use a sandy plot of land, where he established a lush potato plantation, which he kept under constant armed guard. (Removing the guards at night encouraged curious thieves to run off with the tubers and replant them elsewhere.)

Parmentier also convinced Louis and Marie Antoinette to wear potato flowers on their clothes and in their hair, starting a fashion trend soon imitated by other aristocrats. Potatoes, now served at court, became upscale. Herbalists further helped their popularity, heralding potatoes as a health food that could cure diarrhea and tuberculosis, although the plant also acquired a reputation as a dangerous aphrodisiac.
 
In America, both Ben Franklin, who once attended a dinner at French court where 20 potato dishes were served, and Tom Jefferson, were early proponents of potato culture. Jefferson may get the credit for inventing French fries, which he served at the White House during his presidency.

And so, the simple tater’s influence can be traced through history. As a staple food introduced to prevent starvation, potatoes themselves, or near-total reliance on them, helped cause the Irish Potato Famine in the mid-1800s, when a fungal disease destroyed entire crops.

During the Alaskan Klondike Gold-Rush miners thought potatoes worth almost their weight in gold, because of their high food value and rich Vitamin C content. Potatoes also became the first vegetable grown in space by NASA, in experiments intended to feed astronauts on long voyages or in extra-terrestrial colonies.
 
What’s next for the humble pomme de terre? Inventor Henry Ford once said there was enough potential ethyl alcohol fuel in an acre of potatoes to power the machinery necessary to cultivate it for the next 100 years. From the looks of gas prices, I think I’ll be planting more potatoes this spring. No, I won’t be turning them into tractor fuel. But I figure the more food I produce for myself, the fewer trips I’ll have to take to the grocery store.

By Steve Turaj, UNH Cooperative Extension Agricultural Resources

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

Date

If you decorate your home with greenery for the coming holiday season, chances are you’ll include a few sprigs of Ilex, popularly known as holly, among the trimmings.

The custom of decking our halls with boughs of holly dates back to the Druids of ancient Britain and Gaul, who hung holly over their doors at Yuletide as a shelter for woodland spirits. The Druids believed the spirits would take shelter in the holly and bring good to the household during the year. Later, Christian symbolism included the belief that the spiny leaves and red berries were a reminder of the crown of thorns and the blood of Christ.

The early English settlers brought the custom of decorating with holly to the New World. The native American holly was one of the first plants sighted by the Pilgrims. Native Americans planted evergreen hollies, their symbol of courage and eternal life, around dwellings for protection. Today, when holly decorates our homes during the winter holidays, we associate it with celebration and good cheer.

Unfortunately, over the years holly has been typecast as a symbol of the Christmas season. That’s a shame, for holly is a plant we can enjoy in the landscape year ’round.

Hollies come in many forms: trees or shrubs, deciduous or evergreen. Mature hollies can range in height from less than three feet to more than 30 feet. Holly berries come in shades of red, white, yellow and black. They all prefer a soil that is neutral or slightly acidic.

More than 300 varieties are found worldwide. Here in the U.S., we grow American, English and Japanese hollies most commonly, but not all of them are hardy in New Hampshire.

One of the hollies commonly used for winter decorations—Ilex aquifolium, the English holly with dark, spiny green leaves and clusters of red berries—isn’t hardy in New Hampshire. It is usually grown and shipped in from the West Coast.

The so-called “blue hollies,” however, will survive our winters. These were hybridized by Kathleen Meserve in the 1950’s on Long Island. World-renowned for her work with the blue hollies, Meserve crossed English holly with the prostrate Ilex Rugosa holly to produce a cold-hardy plant.
Blue hollies are dense plants with glossy, blue-green foliage, red or yellow berries, and purplish  or chartreuse twigs. Commonly available cultivars include Blue Prince and Princess, Golden Girl, Blue Maid, China Girl, and China Boy.
           
The native hollies Inkberry (Ilex glabra) and Winterberry (Ilex verticillata) are both hardy. You’ll frequently find these hollies growing in swampy places. Inkberry is an evergreen shrub with black berries. Winterberry is a deciduous shrub (loses its leaves each fall) with showy red berries that hang on the plant into January and attract birds. Winterberry cultivars Afterglow, Winter Red, Red Sprite and Sparkleberry are noted for their abundant berry production.
           
Other hollies hardy in southern or coastal New Hampshire are the Japanese crenata and American opaca. Hardy to zones 6 and 5, respectively, these do best in more protected locations. Japanese varieties can withstand a root temperature of 26 or 27 degrees F before damage occurs. The blue hollies, on the other hand, can tolerate a root temperature of 12 degrees F.
           
When growing hollies, remember that they bear their male and female flowers on separate plants. If you want berries, you’ll need to plant a male holly nearby for bees to pollinate female plants, which produce the berries. One male plant will usually suffice to pollinate an entire hedge of female plants.
           
One of the nicest aspects of hollies is that most are moderately fast-growing. That means that normally you should be able to prune off some holiday decorations in December without ruining the shape of the plant.

By Margaret Hagen, UNH Cooperative Extension Agricultural Resources Educator

This time of the year I become impatient for that first bit of fresh green or bloom. Since I know I’ll have to wait another month or more for Mother Nature, I usually try to do something to push things along. Most years, in addition to forcing spring-flowering bulbs in my refrigerator, I help some branches come alive before their time. I like to try many different species.

My basic strategy involves hoodwinking the branches I’ve cut from nearby trees and shrubs into thinking spring has come, by providing the warmer temperatures and longer hours of light that trigger the flowering response in spring-flowering plants. Known as “forcing,” this process requires very little time and effort. At this time of year, almost any material can be forced to flower in three to four weeks. The closer to the actual outdoor blooming date, the shorter the time necessary for indoor forcing.

I’ve found a host of flowering shrubs and trees suitable for forcing. Horse chestnut, pussy willow, shadbush, redbud, Cornelian cherry, spicebush, flowering quince, forsythia, spring witch hazel, bridalwreath spirea and magnolia produce the most spectacular displays. Fruit trees such as apple, plum, cherry, pear, peach and apricot also make lovely bouquets. The branches of almost any shrub or tree, including oak, birch and maple, are interesting to watch as they develop leaves and flowers indoors.

I wait until outdoor temperatures rise into the mid-to high 40’s before collecting my branches. I choose branches full of plump buds and prune them on a slant, cutting lengths of up to three feet long. Formed last summer, these buds are ready to burst into bloom. Flower buds are often fatter, rounder and sometimes a different shape than leaf buds. Flower buds also tend to be more numerous on younger wood.

For easier arranging later on, I choose stems the thickness of my little finger, using sharp pruning shears for a clean, quick-healing cut. Although pruning branches in winter won’t harm the plant, I try to prune evenly to retain the plant’s balanced shape.

After a winter like this one, I may not get as many blossoms as I’d like. The balmy weather of December and early January will have stimulated the buds of some woody plants to break dormancy and lose some of their winter hardiness. The long and bitter cold snap that followed in February and March may have killed the flower buds on some species. Even if I don’t have flowers, I know I’ll at least get sprays of foliage for my efforts.

After I’ve collected the branches I want, I bring them indoors and immediately plunge the stems into a deep pail filled with water; sometimes I even put them in the bathtub with a few inches of tepid water. I leave them submerged for a few hours—even overnight—so the stems and bud scales can take up as much water as possible. This makes the process of bud unfolding much easier for the flower.

Next, I place the branches in a bucket of water, adding a flower preservative to help them last longer, and set the bucket branches in a relatively cool place (60-65 degrees F) to develop. Higher temperatures will cause the buds to develop rapidly, but size, color and quality may be sacrificed. To keep the water from smelling bad, I change it once a week. I occasionally mist the developing branches with water from a spray bottle.

Branches need light for forcing, but not direct sunlight. Heat from direct sun is too intense, and often drying. I try to keep in mind the springtime conditions that promote flowering. “Thinking spring” helps boost my spirits, too.


Witch hazel and forsythia can take as little as one week to bloom; flowering fruits such as apple and cherry can take up to four weeks, and lilacs can take five.
When the flower buds have developed enough to show color, I remove the branches, arrange them in vases and put them on display just as the flowers begin to open. Arranging the branches with other spring flowering plants, such as daffodils and tulips, or with green foliage, provides a stunning contrast. The flowers and leaves will last longer if you can move them to a cool location at night.

So, why not bring the first breath of spring into your home as you watch a few slender branches burst into leaf and flower while snow still covers the landscape. It will help replace those still-fresh memories of frozen water pipes, non-starting cars, and extra layers of clothing with the hope of certain spring.


By Margaret Hagen, UNH Cooperative Extension Educator, Hillsborough County

3/14/07  

A New Hampshire family can eat well and healthfully all winter from a big summer vegetable garden without the fuss and cost of canning or freezing, simply by planting (or purchasing) storage varieties that will keep all winter. Old-timers termed this food-storing strategy “common storage.”

Humble and homely, the underground crops: carrots, beets, rutabagas, parsnips, potatoes, garlic and onions provide the foundation of the stored-food winter diet. Late-season red and green cabbages, kale, and Brussels sprouts offer up salads and cooked vegetable dishes. And the majestic winter squashes, mashable, roastable, stuffable, and suitable for a variety of tasty deserts, shape and round out the vegetable menu.

Most New Hampshire households no longer plant food gardens, but more of us could. And a lot more Granite Staters could pre-order a specified amount of storage crops next spring from a local grower, or join a community-supported agricultural venture (CSA) that offers winter storage crops in bulk.

Whether you grow, buy or trade for your winter vegetables, store only those varieties our grandmothers called “good keepers,” the ones that mature late and contain less water than their summer cousins.

Some tips for common storage:

Brussels sprouts and kale: Late-season varieties store well right in the garden all winter long. Mark the rows or beds with a pole so you can dig ‘em out of a deep snow. Harvest as needed.

Cabbage: Cabbage keeps best under conditions of high humidity with a temperature between 32-40 degrees F. Store only perfect, insect-free, unblemished heads whose leaves show no signs of disease. Keep the cabbages directly off the ground, on pallets or shelves. An old-fashioned root cellar with a dirt floor works best for cabbage and root crops, but inventive gardeners have used insulated bulkheads or outside storage boxes, dug pits in the ground, or built earth berms for the purpose. Humidify the environment with boxes of wet sand, old sawdust, or soil in the storage space.
    
Carrots, beets, turnips, rutabagas and parsnips: Dig root vegetables after the first frost, but before the ground freezes. Dig carefully to avoid damage, selecting only well-formed, mature, disease-free roots for storage. Cut back the foliage to within an inch of the root. Store in a cool (34-40 degrees F.), location in wooden boxes or plastic crates (I use cheap plastic laundry baskets), in single layers sandwiched between layers of fresh, damp fall leaves. Sprinkle the boxes occasionally with water to create the moist environment needed to prevent the roots from drying out.

Garlic and onions: You should have harvested garlic bulbs in late July and air-dried them out of direct sunlight for two or three weeks. Cut off the dry tops an inch from the bulbs and store the bulbs in mesh bags in a cool (below 40 degrees, but above freezing), dry place.

Harvest storage onions when the tops fall over as the “neck” region of the onion plant begins to dry out. Leave the harvested bulbs in the garden a day or two, covered by their tops to prevent sunscald. Then set the onions in a cool, well-ventilated location, preferably on screens, to dry. When the tops have dried, cut them to within an inch of the bulb and store the onions in a mesh bag (old pantyhose work well, too) in a cool, dry location. Reserve “scullions”—onions whose necks don’t seal—for immediate use.

Potatoes: Harvest when soil and air temperatures cool down, taking care not to damage tubers. Cure the potatoes in darkness at 45-60 degrees for a couple of weeks, then store in a cool, damp place at 34-40 degrees, in darkness. Discard any potatoes with green skins. Potatoes stored at higher temperatures or in the same room with apples may sprout early. Remove and discard any sprouts that do form.

Winter squash (including spaghetti squash): Cut squash from the vine with at least an inch of stem when green stems turn tan and woody and the rinds have lost their gloss. As long as the weather remains above freezing, leave harvested squash outdoors a few days to cure; the cut end of the stem will heal and the rind will harden.

Store only perfect, unblemished squash on a pallet or a few layers of old newspaper in a spot with a uniform temperature of 50-60 degrees F. and moderate humidity—under the bed in an unheated guest or utility room, or in a dry, unheated cellar or closet. Check squash often and discard any fruit with soft or moldy spots.

By Peg Boyles Writer, UNH Cooperative Extension

10/25/06

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

It’s hard to imagine the field of spectacular yellow sunflowers that bloomed in a four-acre field at UNH’s Kingman farm will end up as fuel for Dorn Cox’s farm equipment and feed for his pigs, beef cattle, and chickens.

Cox, a family farmer from Lee, joined forces with UNH Cooperative Extension and the manager and crew of UNH’s Kingman Farm earlier this spring to conduct some applied research into the feasibility of using locally produced sunflowers to make biodiesel to help power the region’s farms.

Biodiesel, a fuel manufactured from vegetable oils, has attracted a lot of national attention as a domestically available fuel for engines that ordinarily run on petroleum-derived diesel.

 “I wanted to grow my own sunflowers, but we have a certified organic farm and I couldn’t get organic seed this year,” says Cox, who’s already using the biodiesel he processes from waste cooking oil collected from local restaurants to power some of his farm equipment. “I approached John McLean, manager of UNH’s Woodman and Kingman Farms, to see if he might have land available.”

Cox and McLean brought the idea to Becky Grube, UNH Cooperative Extension’s sustainable horticulture specialist. Becky also found the idea intriguing, and the three embarked on a pilot project to evaluate how sunflowers perform in this area and to test the feasibility of small-scale oil pressing.

“The project will measure the yield of oil, the feed value of the meal that remains after the oil has been pressed from the sunflower seeds, and the food quality of the oil,” says Cox, who has a degree from Cornell in international agriculture.

Grube took to the idea immediately. “Because they’re in a different plant family from most of our important cash crops, sunflowers might make a good rotation crop for many New England growers,” she says. “Plus, they can be planted with equipment that many farmers already have. Dorn used his two-row corn planter to plant the four acres at Kingman Farm. Also, sunflowers have multiple uses. The oil has excellent culinary properties and the meal that remains after pressing makes a nutritious feed for cattle and other livestock.

“Several questions remain, which we hope the pilot project will help to answer,” she says. “Will harvest and pressing for oil production be cost-effective and feasible on a fairly small scale? Will sunflower yields be sufficient to make them economically viable? Will the climate permit harvest of quality seeds without pest and disease problems?”

“The project is a model of farmer-driven research and teamwork,” Grube says. “Dorn proposed the idea and used his planting equipment and labor to sow the sunflowers. I contacted Land O’Lakes/Hytest seeds, who donated seeds of five hybrid varieties likely to be adapted to this area. John and the rest of the UNH Farm crew, including students, prepared the ground and have weeded and mowed around the plots. Seth Wilner, the Extension educator who manages the USDA Sustainable Agriculture Research and Education (SARE) grants program in New Hampshire came up with a small grant for the project.”

“The experiment got off to a slow start, with the heavy rains this spring delaying the first planting until mid-May,” says Grube. “The second planting was delayed to mid-June. Hopefully the harvest will go off without a hitch.” If the harvest is successful, Grube says the team hopes to broaden the project and evaluate the economics of sunflower oil production by other local growers.

Cox has ordered a small oil press from China that should arrive any day. He plans to harvest his crops in late October and press them in late fall. “We’re just waiting for the seeds to dry,” he says.

He’s also begun fabricating a mobile biodiesel processing unit that will turn out about 80 gallons per hour. With such a machine, Cox says, “A couple of weekends each summer would produce all the fuel our operation would use in a year.” He plans to exhibit the processor at fairs and other venues so people can learn more about biodiesel technology.

As for his experience working with the UNH farm crew and Cooperative Extension, Cox says, “They’ve been fantastic. Within a couple days of approaching John [McLean], we had a project up and running.”

By Peg Boyles, Writer/Editor, UNH Cooperative Extension

9/20/06

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

Some gardening tasks I can almost say I enjoy because of their contemplative, even meditative qualities. These are chores I do over and over, and while I do them, I can put my mind on automatic pilot and just go.

Doing these tasks in the early hours of the morning, even before the sun has popped up, makes for a calming, focused start to my day. At that hour, the bluebirds chirp, the turkeys and their flocks of young walk by, grazing on insects; crows stop to search for grubs, and the early commuters drive by with that curious Puritan work ethic we prize, but try to forget when we are practicing garden Zen.

One task that qualifies as garden Zen for me is deadheading the daylilies. Letting the old flowers hang and dry always reminds me of dirty old socks—not a pretty sight. Growing daylilies means flowers in bloom all season long. I have early, mid-season and late daylilies. They’re in my dooryard border, my raised perennial beds, my old-time, original-to-this-homestead beds, and my backyard-daylily-and-nothing-much-else bed.

In other words, I can find daylilies to deadhead most of the summer and into the early fall. To deadhead I either attach a basket to my belt to hold the spent buds and use floral scissors to clip the buds, or just use my fingers to pick them off and return them to the ground below to decompose.

Deadheading lilies can get messy, as the spent flower buds are sometimes spongy and give off excess liquid. The task also requires a deft touch, a perfect snap, to avoid taking unopened buds by mistake as I remove the flower and its now-pollinated seed pod. I like to get this done early in the morning to clean up the display and show it off all day.

I don’t forget to stop and smell the flowers, as some daylilies are fragrant, such as lemon daylilies and the hybrids developed by a local nursery owner, which have a delightfully fruity fragrance. I have to remember to check my nose when I’m finished. It may be pollen yellow!

Another job I consider Zen-like is picking the Japanese beetles and rose chafers off plants they use as launching pads to the rest of my garden. In my yard, the beetles launch primarily from the asparagus and rhubarb beds, which are both substantial. (At a former house, grapevines and green beans were the preferred stopping off places. I try to forgive and forget, but perhaps there’s also a hint of revenge involved in my beetle-picking activities.)

I can pick beetles easily at dusk and in the early morning hours. The beetles are in a torpor at those times. Simply putting a can under a beetle-infested plant seems to be enough provocation to send many of the pests plunging to the bottom of my Italian tomato can with a satisfying “plink.” I hold my hand loosely over the top, but few beetles make much effort to escape. I shake the can to make sure they remain at the bottom and every now and then walk over and feed the contents to the chickens that have been standing by their fence anxiously pacing.

Chickens love beetles. I find that by picking this way, I can prevent a lot of the damage to my roses and old-fashioned hollyhocks while they are in bloom. I need to be especially vigilant about collecting beetles during hot weather, when they are most active. Thus, I prefer the early morning and dusk for the coolness those hours provide.

I keep a couple of caveats in mind while picking Japanese beetles: 1. I try to make sure as I reach out to grab a beetle that it isn’t a bee. Bees working the asparagus collect highly visible orange pollen that builds up on their bodies. Two Japanese beetles mating look about the same size as one bee. As I get into the picking mode, I may relax too much as I reach out to grab a beetle. I haven’t grabbed a bee yet, but I can see it as a distinct possibility. 2. I wear an insect repellent or netting. While so intent on the beetles, I may not be able to avoid a sneak attack by mosquitoes, black flies, deer flies, or gnats. Either possibility can end the state of calmness I’m trying to cultivate.

Depending on which time of day I’ve selected to perform my chores, I may now be ready for a shower or an early morning cup of coffee. I relax and enjoy. The only thing that matters is the here and now.

By Helen Downing, Master Gardener, UNH Cooperative Extension

08/08/06

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

All it takes is one chance planting of a species favored by butterflies to hook you into trying to attract these lovely, ephemeral creatures for a lifetime. According to an old saying, “Butterflies go where they please and please where they go”— the crown jewels of a beautiful garden. And by planting the right flowers in the right place, you can invite a variety of butterfly species to dwell in your garden.

Adult butterflies come for the nectar, which they sip through their tongues. Butterflies tend to favor plants with large petals or strong stems that provide a perch. Plants with large petals include members of the genus Compositae,such as asters, black-eyed Susans, coneflowers, zinnias, marigolds, cosmos and daisies.

Other good nectar plants have a flower head that consists of smaller blossoms on stems, such as butterfly bush (Buddleia), lantana, butterfly weed, borage, lavender, mints and phlox. Butterflies tend to avoid the showy double flowers, since these are often low in nectar supplies. And since a heavy fragrance appeals to butterflies, it’s best to stick to the old-fashioned heirloom varieties more than the faint-scented, modern cultivars of the same flower.

Purple and lavender flowers seem to be the most attractive to butterflies, followed by pinks, whites and yellows. If you decide to make a few plantings to attract butterflies, keep in mind that large masses of a few nectar flowers are most effective. You’ll attract more butterflies with a bed of coneflowers than you will with one or two coneflowers mixed in with other plants.

Butterflies are sun-loving insects, so choose a site in full sun if you can. It’s even better if the site is protected from strong winds by a wall, a hedge or some shrubs.

Adult butterflies generally live for about two weeks and much of that time is devoted to reproduction and egg-laying. To lay eggs, the female butterfly needs a proper host plant that will nourish her larvae. Host plants are often quite different from the plants adult butterflies use as nectar sources.

Since most butterflies travel only a few hundred yards from where they grew up as caterpillars, it behooves you to plant or encourage a few host plants. You may come to welcome caterpillars you once thought ugly, or even frightening, once you understand that attracting the local butterfly population you’ll also increase your chances of hosting the next generation of butterflies in your garden.

Some of them feed on the leaves of common trees and shrubs, such as aspen, poplar, willow, hawthorn, basswood, wild cherry, birch, ash, mountain ash, Amelanchier, dogwood, meadowsweet, viburnums, blueberry and sumac. Others prefer foods we commonly consider weeds—milkweed, nettles and thistles.

If you live in a rural area, these wild plants are probably already in plentiful supply. If you don’t and you want to supply these larval foods, plant some, or let them grow in obscure corners of your garden or hidden behind your specimen plants. Dill, parsley, fennel, caraway and anise provide larval food for a variety of beautiful swallowtail butterflies.

Occasionally, you’ll find caterpillars, some of them impressive in size and coloring, munching the foliage of prized ornamentals, herbs, or vegetable plants. In some cases, you can gently move the larvae (wearing gloves) to a less visible part of the plant or to another less–visible plant of the same species in your garden.

Butterflies are extremely sensitive to pesticides, even “organic” pesticides (for example, the bacterial insecticide Bt, Bacillus thuringienseis, targets butterfly larvae), so limit or avoid their use if you want to attract butterflies into your garden. Never spray between 10 and 3 p.m., when butterflies (and honeybees) are most active.

Here are a few suggestions for flowering plants that will attract butterflies to your garden:

• Annuals: Alyssum (blooms summer to mid-fall), Cosmos (mid-summer to fall), Heliotrope (summer), Marigold (summer into fall), Nasturtium (late summer), Salvia (summer through fall) and Zinnia (midsummer to fall).

• Biennials: Red clover (summer), Queen Anne’s lace (late spring through fall), Sweet William (spring through early summer).

• Perennials: Asters (late summer to fall), Bergamot (bee balm - summer through fall), Butterfly bush (midsummer to fall), Butterfly weed (summer through fall), White clover (summer), Coreopsis (all summer), Purple cornflower (late summer into fall), Hollyhock (summer), Lavender (summer), Lupine (late spring to early summer), Phlox (all summer), Black- eyed Susan (mid summer to early fall), Salvia (summer into fall), Shasta daisy (summer), Thistle (late spring through fall), Violet (spring), Yarrow (mid to late summer). 

By Margaret Hagen, UNH Cooperative Extension Educator, Agricultural Resources

07/14/06

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

Did you know a roadside weed, Verbascum Thapsus, or common mullein, can serve as a valuable garden accent and useful herb?Why not watch for it this coming summer to see if it’s something you’d like to grow in your garden?

The word mullein derives from the Latin word mollis, meaning “soft,” referring to the soft leaves covered with tiny hairs. Mullein is a biennial with velvety leaves up to a foot long, which arrange themselves in a pretty rosette, low to the ground in its first year of growth. The second year, a long, spear-shaped flower stalk appears, with pale yellow flowers opening sporadically throughout the summer months into fall. The stalk can reach heights of three to eight feet, depending on the type of soil it grows in.

Mullein, a native of Europe and the temperate regions of central Asia, naturalized here in the United States. The plant is resilient to Mother Nature’s wrath, does well in poor soils and hot, dry weather, and will survive temperatures as low as 30 degrees below zero. Found in wasteland and along roadsides, it will gladly reseed itself once you’ve established it in your yard.

Mullein is a practical herb that has a long history of practical use. For example, some Native American tribes used the large, woolly leaves to diaper their babies. Some tribes smoked the dried roots and leaves to treat asthma. Taking advantage of the mucilage and anti-inflammatory compounds within mullein leaves and flowers, they used the leaves as bandages to help soothe inflammation, relieve pain and protect injuries.

During the Civil War, soldiers used mullein for treating chest colds, bronchitis, and asthma when they ran out of conventional medicines. Tea made from the leaves or flowers can be used to treat.
 
The tall flower stalks were dried and dipped in tallow to use as torches as far back as Roman times. The dried leaves and flower spikes make good tinder. They are highly flammable and are usually readily available for starting a fall campfire.

The leaves and smaller rosettes can be pressed for craft projects and the dried leaves and flowers are also useful as filler for potpourri.
 
If the flowers of the common weed don’t make mullein appealing plant for your garden, gardeners now have some 300 species of Verbascum available in many colors and branching stalks that make impressive garden accents.

In my garden, I enjoy transplanting the tiny rosettes to places of honor to enjoy the soft gray leaves and pretty rosettes, pinching back the flower stalk to make a lusher base plant. That way my grandchildren can reach in and caress the leaves as they meander through my garden.

By Madeline Perron, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

6/30/06

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

A walkway of irregularly shaped stepping stones led to a side door of the house I grew up in. Between and around those stones grew woolly thyme that bloomed and attracted bees all summer. When I stepped on it, crushing the leaves, it released a wonderful fragrance.

What I remember most (besides the bees, which always frightened me), is the resiliency of that thyme. No matter how many people trampled it, the fragrant plants never looked beaten or worn down.
           
I’ve always been interested in groundcovers for their different textures, colors, forms, and—let’s face it—their utility. There’s nothing like the dense, glossy leaves of European ginger to keep the weeds out. And, who can resist the delicate flowers of Epimedium nodding in the breeze or the way the wind ripples over its heart-shaped leaves? For years, professionals have been telling us to replace all or part of our lawns with moss or a variety of native plants and groundcovers.
           
Ground-covering perennials can help replace a lawn, fill in spaces in a pathway, hold the soil on a slope, absorb excess water under a faucet, or spill over the bricks in a patio. Some companies make planting “walkable” ground covers easy for even a novice gardener, offering plants whose tags tell you how much traffic a plant will bear, the amount of sun and/or shade tolerance it has, and how to grow it.
           
For lightly-trafficked areas, you might choose Roman Chamomile (Chamaemelum nobile) instead of grass to form a lawn. When walked on, the chamomile exudes a wonderful fragrance. It will also thrive in well-drained soil in spaces between patio stones. This is not a particularly tough plant, so make sure it gets planted away from main traffic areas.
           
Another group of plants for light traffic areas is the sedums. Individual plants are tough and indestructible. They need very little water and even less attention. They like good drainage and hot, sunny sites. Under these conditions they spread rapidly. If walked on more than a few times each week, they begin to look unkempt. Look for varieties of Sedum hispanicum, for Sedum acre or for Sedum spurium ‘John Creech’. Miniature stonecrop (Sedum requieni) is the exception. It can take the heaviest foot traffic.
           
For areas in which you walk once or twice a day, you might want to try ajuga (“bugleweed”). It does well in sun or shade and comes in an amazing array of colors and variegation. Apiga ‘chocolate chip’ is a small, tight groundcover with leaves that resemble chocolate chips in color.
           
Creeping Jenny or Lysimachia will also do well in areas with moderate traffic. It likes moist areas with partial shade, but will tolerate harsher growing conditions. It has leaves the size of a nickel and spreads by runners. Lysimachia nummularia ‘Aurea’ has gold foliage. Lysimachia japonica ‘Minutissima’ has super tight evergreen foliage. Unfortunately, this one is a slow grower. Other creeping groundcovers that do well in areas of moderate traffic include Mazus reptans “Alba” or Purple, a bright green, low-growing mat that spreads quickly, as well as many of the speedwells (Veronica species) and Labrador violets.
           
For areas of heavy traffic, thyme is a great survivor. It tolerates being walked on several times a day and has a wide range of leaf colors, including golden, variegated, and different shades of green. Flower color varies from white to pale pink to deep purple. Look for white or red creeping thyme, woolly thyme, miniature thyme or Thymus x citriodosus ‘Doone Valley’, a type with green and gold variegated leaves that develop a hint of red in winter.

Irish moss, Sagina subulata ‘Irish Moss’, which forms a dense carpet, also bears heavy traffic.
           
To get started with stepable groundcovers, follow these suggestions:

• Pick the right plant for the right spot. Make choices based on how much sun/shade you have, how moist your soil is, and how much foot traffic you will have.
• Calculate the number of plants to buy by measuring the size of your planting area (or the spaces between your stones or pavers) and dividing it by the spacing recommended for the species you’ve chosen to plant.
• If you have tight spaces you can divide the plants to fit them.
• Plant at the same depth as the soil line in the pot.
• Water well after planting; continue to water on a regular schedule until plants are established.
• Once your plants have become established, keep them contained by mowing or edging.  
        

By Margaret Hagen, UNH Cooperative Extension Agricultural Educator

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

4/7/06

Topsoil. Some biologists call it the most precious stuff on earth. It takes nature 500 years to make an inch of it.

In the past 30 years topsoil has become a hot commodity in New Hampshire, removed by land developers and sold to meet the swelling demand from homeowners and businesses looking to establish or improve lawns and gardens.

Land scarcity in many areas, combined with new building techniques, allows construction on steep, rocky sites once considered unbuildable. This makes importing topsoil the only option for home or business owners who want a lawn or garden on those sites.

The soil you buy might have come from recently-cultivated farmland, from a recently clear-cut tract of forest land, or from a long-abandoned field. It might contain herbicide residues that could inhibit germination of some of the plants you want to grow. It might be full of roots and rocks or undesirable weed seeds.

A vendor might even have adulterated the original topsoil with a lot of additional sand, adding commercial wood ashes to darken the final product. On the other hand, some topsoil vendors manufacture a superior growing medium, amending native topsoil with just enough wood ashes to bring its pH into the optimum range for lawns and gardens, then adding compost to boost the soil's water- and nutrient-holding capacity.
Like most states, New Hampshire has no regulations defining quality standards for topsoil or governing its sale. To protect yourself, experts suggest learning as much as possible about the soil you plan to buy before you buy it. Consider it worth your time. After all, you can't take this product back to the store!

This list of guidelines from experts will help boost your confidence that the topsoil you buy will grow good vegetables, fruits, flowers, or a nice lawn:

• Know your supplier and ask about the source of the topsoil he or she sells. If a vendor has advertised an "amended" product, ask for the 'recipe'-in writing.
  
  
• If you plan to buy your soil from a garden or landscape supply center, ask the vendor for the product's test data. If the vendor hasn't had the product tested, ask for a small sample and have it tested yourself. Call the UNH Cooperative Extension Info Line (1-877-398-4769, Monday-Friday, 9:00 a.m.-2:00 p.m.) for information about soil testing.
  
  At the very least, soil experts say, the soil analysis should include pH (a measure of the relative acidity of the soil) and soil texture class (a classification based on the relative percentages of sand, silt and clay particles in the soil).
  
  While you can raise or lower a soil's pH and add nutrients, you can't realistically change a soil's texture. Look for a texture classification of loam or sandy loam. Soils with a high percentage of sand won't hold water or nutrients well, while high-clay soils won't drain well and can become extremely difficult to work.
  
  
• If you haven't seen the topsoil, ask if the vendor has screened the loam to remove rocks and roots. For the right price, you might find yourself willing to rake them out yourself if the price is right, but it's definitely something you'll want to know about up front.
  
  
• Don't buy a product that has a chemical smell or other off-odor. Vendors might have adulterated the topsoil with petroleum-contaminated soils or other potentially toxic waste products.
  
  
• Occasionally, topsoil stripped from former farmland may contain herbicide residues that could hinder crop germination. If you have concerns about residues, take a soil sample home, plant a few seeds in it and see if they germinate well. Herbicide residues can affect some crops but not others, so plant a variety of different seeds, especially if you plan to plant a vegetable garden in this soil. The process of test-germinating seeds will also help a prospective buyer determine if the soil is infested with difficult-to-control perennial weeds, such as quackgrass or thistles.

Whatever its source, the topsoil you buy may lack organic matter, important for holding moisture, improving soil structure and retaining plant nutrients. Add plenty of organic matter in the form of compost and animal manure. Make sure to compost manure before adding it to soil that will grow food crops, or plant a cover crop and turn it under before planting vegetables.

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

4/06/06

Despite the rock-hard ground outside, the sun’s strength optimistically proclaims the official return of spring. So today, I scooch into the attic in search of my seed-starting equipment.

After saturating the “soilless” soil mix with water and spooning it into little plastic cells, I divvy up the seed packets, assigning each to the indoor neighbors it will have as it grows in the flats for the next two months.

I regard with awe the various forms of my seeds: teensie round balls, wispy threads, papery amorphous particles. The tiny black seeds that will grow into aromatic and lush basil—about the size of the period at the end of this sentence—store much information: the size and shape its root, stem, and leaves will take;  instructions for manufacturing the phytocompounds that combine to deliver the taste I know as “basil.”

Somehow, every year, these minute dots transform themselves into the flavor of summer: basil on fresh tomatoes and a bit of mozzarella, basil leaves tucked into sandwiches, pesto atop veggie burgers, tossed with pasta, dolloped atop a strip of salmon, grilled with chicken and vegetables. Mmm.

I move to the next packet and the next and the next. Each year I try something new, an experiment or different variety. A three-dollar packet of seeds yields twelve or fifteen, fifty or even a hundred healthy plants, a good deal.

Last year I explored the world of amaranth, planting five different varieties and creating a somewhat messy, but vibrant veggie garden. Amaranth grows into gorgeous five-foot tall plumes of vibrant magenta and golden flowers. The Mayans grew it as a wonder food, serving the leaves as a tasty and nutritious vegetable, with the nutty-flavored grain providing much of their nutrient needs.

Once the Mayans were “conquered,” the Spanish invaders banned growing amaranth and the grain all but disappeared. Now, thanks to heirloom seed collectors, amaranth is available again. I haven’t yet figured out how to separate the grain from the chaff, and much of last year’s harvest sits in a big tub in an unheated storeroom. However, I’ve already chosen a spot for this year’s crop.

Broccoli heads my list of challenges for 2006, as I plan to guard that vegetable with vengeance. From the groundhog. Last year, I bought a six-pack at my favorite garden store. Within a week, it had been nibbled to the ground. I bought another six-pack to replace the damaged plants. Soon, twelve broccoli plants grew. Again, Grover moved in and pruned them. They began growing again.

Working from home allows me to monitor the site a bit. How many phone calls did I handle while sitting in front of Grover’s bunker, seething and throwing pebbles. We had lengthy conversations, as he sat within a wall of boulders I am unable and unwilling to disassemble. He had found a heavenly home, safe and near a great, replenishing food source.

I tried a primal growling-shouting-flailing of arms, stewed up and sprayed a nasty mixture of cayenne and other spices. I tried jumping-jack firecrackers. We bought a Havahart trap. Gil marked the territory as his. We even set up our solar-powered radio near Grover’s hole, hoping that news of the world would chase him away.

Making the site undesirable seemed the best thing to do in this situation. We tried. But mostly we shared. Still, from our 12 plants, we did manage to harvest a little broccoli; in fact two baggies sit in the freezer still, right next to that pesto. This year the broccoli will grow in an undisclosed location. Shh.

I plant tomatoes in containers, each with a fragrant, yellow marigold and a spindly shadowed dill plant. I find that companion planting makes an amazing difference. Since including a dill plant, I haven’t seen an evil tomato hornworm. As I sprinkle tomato seeds into the planting cells, I think about the yummy dehydrated tomatoes in stir-fries, salads, and pasta dishes. I glow when I look at the jars filled with last year’s tomatoes stewed and sitting on the pantry shelves—sixteen quarts left at the end of March.

I move on, sowing flats of cilantro and parley, celery, dill, fennel, cumin, angelica, feverfew, chamomile, and Swiss chard. I’ll sow many more vegetables directly into the garden once the soil thaws.

Today, I finish with a whole flat of cosmos. These pert and cheery flowers are my favorites; they grow readily in the soil outside and I’ll toss another few packets of seed there when the soil warms. However, I don’t want to wait for their dainty grace until midsummer. I want them blooming as early as possible.

With more than 300 seeds now germinating, I feel optimistic about spring. Each year my garden expands into different spots on our property, as well as into a wider variety of containers. Despite my concerns of the loss of local control over many of our food sources, I feel empowered by producing food for my family.

And I appreciate the way my garden connects me to the earth and its creatures - yeah, even to Grover and his relatives.

By Laura Richardson, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

3/24/06

Unfortunately, the science of pruning remains a mystery to most of us. As a result many gardeners either neglect the task of pruning trees and shrubs entirely, or, exhilarated by the first breath of spring, haul out the shears and indiscriminately hack away at everything in the landscape.                      
Of the two options, the first is preferable. Most trees and shrubs will attain their natural size and shape with very little pruning. But proper pruning can do a lot for your landscape:
         
Remove dead, broken, diseased and dying wood. Prune as soon as you detect damage, regardless of the time of year. The most common damage seen after a long winter is breakage, the result of windstorms and the weight of snow and ice on branches.
         
Dieback at the tips of branches is another familiar sight. It can happen after a sudden, hard frost during a prolonged, too-warm autumn, or when a late spring frost occurs after tender, new growth has begun.
          
Left dangling, dead or broken branches can become hazards. They also provide prime points of entry for insect pests and diseases.
         
Prevent trouble. The friction created by rubbing limbs or crossed branches can tear bark and cause serious wounds. The solution is to remove the least desirable of the two limbs rubbing against each other. Remove either the smallest or the least attractive of the two limbs. A V-shaped crotch presents another source of potential trouble; it may split apart during a storm. Either eliminate V-shaped crotches or support them with cables.

Balance the ratio of branches to roots. When you transplant a tree or shrub, you’ll leave many roots behind, no matter how much care you take. To make up for this inevitable root loss, you may need to shorten or thin branches by about a third. Use this as a general rule of thumb, not a necessity.
         
Rejuvenate. Yellow- or red-twigged dogwoods valued for their colored stems are examples of plants that require regular pruning. The new spring growth provides the brightest color. When plants are well established (after three years or so), cut a third of the oldest canes to the ground early each spring before new growth resumes.
         
Forsythia, lilac and weigela also require renewal, but not for the same reason. These shrubs will bloom better and be more shapely and manageable if a third of the oldest wood is cut to the ground at three-year intervals. In the case of lilacs, thinning also helps keep these flowering shrubs free of pests. The oldest wood of lilacs is more susceptible to infestations of borers and scale insects.
           
Maintain or develop desired size and shape. You can minimize the need for pruning by giving trees and shrubs enough space to start with. Before you buy a tree or shrub, check the growth habit and ultimate size to make sure the mature plants will fit the space in your landscape you’ve planned for it.
           
The most beautiful woody plants are those encouraged to develop to their full potential. This is done by providing the right space and then pruning selectively to preserve the natural form. A too-big plant in a too-small spot will always look restricted and uncomfortable, no matter how much pruning is done.
          
The reasons for pruning often dictate the timing. However, most trees and shrubs can be pruned whenever it is convenient for the pruner. Maples and birches are notable exceptions to this rule. They "bleed" profusely from bark wounds when pruned in February and March. If possible, delay all but emergency pruning for them until late spring or early summer. Try not to prune in late summer, as this often stimulates tender growth which can be killed by early fall frosts.
         
Because pruning can be done more quickly and efficiently if there is no foliage to obstruct your vision, early spring before the leaves unfold is a good time to prune most deciduous plants.

For specific information on pruning trees and shrubs, check out these fact sheets on the UNH Cooperative Extension Web site:

• Pruning Deciduous Shrubs in the Landscape
• Pruning Evergreens in the Landscape
• Pruning Shade Trees in the Landscape

By Margaret Hagen, UNH Cooperative Extension Agricultural Resources Educator

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

3/9/06

“Sarviceberry’s what we call it,” he explained, “as you can see it’s one of the first plants to flower come spring. Up here in the hills of West Virginia, folks that died in the cold of winter weren't buried until the ground warmed up enough. When the proper time for their funeral ‘sarvices’ arrived, these were the flowers they used.”

Up North we call this small tree Juneberry or Serviceberry (botanical name Amelanchier arborea, an apparently close western relative Amelanchier alnifolia, known as “Saskatoons”). Another popular name is Shadbush, since their masses of aromatic, white flowers blossom at the time when shad ascend our New England rivers to spawn.

Having fished for shad in the lower reaches of the Connecticut River, I can agree that this is a time worth noting. Funny how tying a plant's name to a special event trains the mind to watch for its appearance. I seldom miss seeing “Sarviceberry” when its bright white flowers light up our drab spring woods.

These Amelanchiers have long been recognized as an important, early-ripening fruit for birds and other wildlife. Native Americans and early settlers once pounded the dried fruits into a pemmican high in Vitamin C.

Since the 1950s, breeding programs in western Canada have sought to enhance the best attributes of selected wild plants. Now grown as a commercial crop in place of blueberries (to which they bear some physical resemblance), the new varieties have produced some impressively high yields. The fruits have an interesting flavor, though their seeds make them less desirable for fresh eating than blueberries.

Their extreme winter-hardiness, wide adaptability to different soils/conditions, along with their long life and ornamental value make Amelanchiers worth considering for New Hampshire gardens and home landscapes.

Yet another sign of spring: the sudden appearance of wild-food gatherers, buckets in hand, heading into a greening meadow or searching along tree-lined streams. I can't help but wonder if our passing tourists, speeding by in a hurry to get to some destination or other, are thinking, “What are those people up to?”

Why, collecting fiddleheads! These well-known culinary delicacies, start appearing ready for harvest sometime in early to mid-April. The only edible fiddlehead comes from the Ostrich Fern, Matteuccia struthiopteris.

Fiddleheads may well be one of the state foods of Maine (right up there with lobster). They're so much esteemed that Maine Extension publishes information about their proper gathering, cleaning and cooking. Correctly identifying the edible ostrich fern fiddlehead is essential. Quoting the Maine bulletin:

“In the spring, the ostrich fern's distinctive ‘fiddleheads,’ the young, coiled fern leaves about an inch in diameter, are mostly green, but have brown scales. Nearly all ferns have fiddleheads, but the ostrich fern's are unlike any other. These fiddleheads have a paper-dry, parchment-like sheath that usually has started to peel. Most other fern fiddlehead sheaths are fuzzy or wooly.”

The fact sheet contains this warning: The Center for Disease Control (CDC) has investigated a number of outbreaks of food-borne illness associated with fiddleheads. The implicated ferns were eaten either raw or lightly cooked (sautéed, parboiled or microwaved)…. Although a toxin has not been identified in the fiddleheads of the ostrich fern, the findings of this investigation suggest that you should cook fiddleheads thoroughly before eating (boil them for at least 10 minutes).

Cankerwort, swine's snout, blowball, pisenlit—all these strange names have been used to identify that wild green most of us call the dandelion, Taraxacum officinale. After a long winter of bland diets, dandelions were a welcome addition (of variety and vitamins) to springtime meals in earlier days. The plant serves the same purpose for many rural people today.

A native of Eurasia, the dandelion may have been intentionally introduced into America for its
nutritional and medicinal value. In fact, the officinale in its species name comes from a Latin root that originally meant “workshop,” but gradually evolved to mean “pharmacy,” or any use for the practice of medicine. .

I can’t emphasize strongly enough the importance of precise identification of any wild plant you’re gathering for use as a food, beverage, or home remedy. Most of us are a generation or two removed from the country folk with long experience of wild food-gathering. Mistaking a poisonous plant for a useful one can have serious health consequences. Some plant families contain many look-alikes, some of which are edible and others that are deadly.

To begin learning, check your local library for reference materials—field guides and botanical keys, or buy a couple of good field guides. A couple of volumes from the Peterson Field Guide Series could get you started. Try A Field Guide to Edible Wild Plants and A Field Guide to Medicinal Plants and Herbs Of Eastern and Central North America.  For information and recipes, check out Maine Extension’s online fact sheet Edible Wild Greens in Maine.

A final note: Remember, land management factors, such as heavy fertilization (which might cause nearby wild plants to have an excess of nitrates in their leaves), or pesticide residues can also affect the safety of plants growing in a particular location. Know the history of the land you forage from.

by Steve Turaj, UNH Cooperative Extension Agricultural Educator

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

3/31/06