Gardeners Getting Together

 

There is a parallel universe in which, for $25, you can get an entire day of gardening education, including lunch. Last Saturday, I had the good luck to find myself in that universe.

Me, presenting. Double-click to see
at full screen size and resolution

Master Gardeners are a self-selected group of amateurs who take gardening seriously. They study for and have to pass a fairly rigorous set of courses to qualify; but that’s just the beginning. They start giving back through volunteering and through continuing education. The best part is that they’re almost always smiling.

In Kentucky, Master Gardeners are organized through the University of Kentucky Extension Service and, according to the KEMG website, sixty-three counties have programs. One of those is Hardin County where the Lincoln Trail Master Gardeners make their home.

This year, the Lincoln Trail Master Gardeners organized an event titled, ‘Can U Dig It?’ at the Hardin County Extension Service in Elizabethtown. The building is a palace. It has classrooms that will comfortably seat a hundred, state-of-the-art projection, soaring atria, and ample public spaces. Kentucky is a state that apparently takes agriculture seriously.

Valerie Hicks, looking
slightly frazzled

I had spoken in Kentucky quite a few years earlier at the state’s Garden Club Federation annual meeting. Someone remembered me from that event and thought it might be nice to offer some comic relief to close out the day. An energetic lady named Valerie Hicks got in touch and we worked out a special program titled, ‘Real Life Is Not a Walt Disney Film’. The presentation was promoted as telling the true story of two people on Social Security (and I am quoting the program) “doing what no one in their right mind should undertake: building a half-acre pollinator-friendly native plant garden that contains not a square inch of grass.”

Peggy Cornet at her presentation

I had several tough acts to follow, but the one that riveted my attention was one titled ‘Rooted in the Past 250 Years’. The talk was delivered by Peggy Cornet, who has the title of Curator of Plants at Monticello. Monticello is, of course, Thomas Jefferson’s estate in Virginia. Ms. Cornet took us on a tour of the garden and, more important, a tour of the mind of Mr. Jefferson; who was at least as interested in horticulture as he was in writing the Declaration of Independence. She shared with the audience his hand-written notes on blooming times and the plant specimens that most interested him.

My immediate reaction after her talk concluded was that I should fake a sudden illness and plead to be released from my speaking obligations. She was that good.

Me, peddling books

As I interacted with the attendees that day, what was most striking was their enthusiasm and energy coupled with the reality that these people were having an exceptionally good time. The laughter was unforced. The stories they exchanged were acknowledged with many nods of agreement and “I’ve been there, too,” expressions on their faces.

These were dedicated gardeners in their natural elements. It was an honor to be there, even though I was technically hired help.

 A few of the CanUDigIt? attendees

Except I never felt for even a moment that I was merely being tolerated. I was included in all manner of discussions, especially over lunch (ham on a croissant with lettuce, tomato, and smoked honey) where gardeners asked me how things were done in New England. I even had my own private wonderful tour guides – Keith and Karlene Well – who introduced me to home-made bourbon ball ice cream at Drewster’s, a local shop where the staff is as friendly as the product is delicious.  It was sufficiently delectable that I insisted on stopping there on the way back to the airport.

Perhaps the best part is that I can hope to have a repeat experience in just a few weeks. Another group of Master Gardeners, this one in McHenry County, Illinois (northwest of Chicago) has invited me to present at their ‘Gardenfest and Expo’ the second Saturday in April in Crystal Lake. While I’m not a Master Gardener, I do have a badge that says I’m a Master Gardener Groupie.  I intend to wear it proudly.

 

March Sadness

Enough already.

While the calendar admittedly says winter runs from December 22 (the winter solstice and shortest day of the year) to March 21 (the spring equinox when you can purportedly stand an egg on its end); the weather folks have a much more agreeable idea: ‘meteorological winter’ is the months of December, January and February. Meteorological spring begins March 1. Let the crocuses bloom!

For the past two years, New England has abided by the ‘meteorological’ calendar. In fact, winter – at least precipitation-wise – was almost a no-show. My snow blower was dutifully hauled out and placed its ‘ready for duty’ position at the front of the garage where it gathered cobwebs for three months. We never had enough snow to matter; and what fell, invariable melted in a few days. We had worse winters in Virginia.

The view, of lack of it, from the
screened porch during the blizzard.

While it isn’t the winter of 2014-2015 (120 inches of the white stuff; the last of which didn’t melt until mid-April), this winter has produced about 60 inches of snow. And, the temperatures in February were much below-average 20 out of 28 days. I was greeted on the first day of meteorological spring by two inches of fresh snow. I was welcomed this morning by temperatures in the low teens. As this is written, the outside mid-afternoon temperature is all the way up to 28, and the little weather widget in my computer says to expect one-to-two inches of snow tomorrow.

The snowblower on skis.

Admittedly, we did get some melting over the weekend. As readers of this blog know, for environmental reasons, we do not have an asphalt driveway. We want the precipitation that falls on the property to stay on the property; not go down a storm drain. The asterisk to this otherwise agreeable declaration of eco-friendly awareness is that snow blowers are designed for asphalt and concrete. Put one to work on a surface covered with pea gravel, oyster shells, or stone dust, and you will be rewarded with a spray out the chute of, yes, snow; but also, the aforementioned gravel, shells and dust. Which you will be picking out of your garden for the next four months.

Down to bare slate

My snowblower is mounted on short lengths of skis, elevating the machine’s maw about two inches above the surface. As a result, it leaves the gravel in place. It also leaves two inches of packed snow. On Sunday, it was warm enough to (almost) completely melt the snow on the driveway. This morning, the driveway was again coated in white. I shoveled the sidewalk down to bare slate. I just grumbled at the idea of hand-shoveling the driveway.

Medfield, which is southwest of Boston, had two big storms last month: 16 inches at the beginning of February and 24 inches in the Blizzard of ’26 on February 22 to 24. The snow from both storms is still there. If I go out the front door (I say ‘if’ because apparently it is against the law to use your front door in New England, though it is tacitly agreed you must shovel the sidewalk), I walk through a two-foot-wide trench that still has two feet on snow on either side – and this is after compaction.

The trench to the feeders

In fact, I have multiple trenches on the property; suitable for my own private re-enactment of the Battle of the Somme. There is one from the side door of the garage to the bird feeders 20 feet away. And, of course, the snow has to be dug away from the feeders so as to thwart our high-IQ squirrels that would otherwise leap from the top of the snowbank onto sunflower-seed heaven. There is a side spur that leads ten feet to our home’s generator because, if the power goes out and the generator goes on and finds its outlet vent is packed in snow, it will promptly shut itself down, negating the purpose of having spent $11,000 to have uninterrupted power during a storm.

Yet another trench leads from a corner of the driveway down four steps and ten feet to get to our composter bins (which also had to be dug out).  And a final trench leads from the garage side door twenty feet to the driveway because, if I am taking a bag of kitchen scraps to the composter, I don’t want to have to unnecessarily put up the garage door; allowing frigid air to further freeze the pot-bound shrubs and perennials huddled in a corner of the garage against the quasi-warm wall of the house.

Did I mention digging out the mailbox?

I am all too aware I am grousing about what are politely known as ‘first-world problems’. On Cape Cod, there are still 50,000 people without electricity more than a week after the last flakes fell. World Central Kitchen has set up food wagons in Yarmouth and Hyannis. I should count myself lucky and shut up.

But this is the winter of my discontent. It has gone on too long and was too ferocious to appreciate. My Wednesday walking group cancelled several weeks because of the cold or excess of snow (and on one memorable week, we walked through thigh-deep snow for 90 minutes before admitting defeat). And the seven-day forecast? Snow, rain, and overnight lows below freezing.

Basketball fans are getting amped for March Madness. Me?  It’s March sadness.