About where inspiration comes from

Dear Reader,

Beneath Grimsby’s last remaining old growth oaks, near the fairytale Grimsby beach homes, grows a partly shaded garden. Its steel blue and burgundy foliage, highlighted by white margins, display annually on a carpet of black mulch. But as enchanting as are the globe blue spruces, Japanese maples and carpets of variegated hostas, what interested me most last Thursday was a small patch of fine bright green grass.

The grass, planted a few years ago, has established well in its sandy dry shade corner. Last Thursday it was already blooming. Atop thin little green stems sat little plaited dark brown tips crowned by halos of white fluff. It was good to see it was happy in its home.

This little native grass, sometimes called Oak sedge or Pennsylvania sedge, is in its element. When we were exploring design options, there was already a small established patch of the grass under the Japanese Maple, which itself stood under the towering White Oak. Dry shade is a demanding condition for most plants, so why reinvent the wheel? The fine green flow of the grass fit well within the design.

As the season progresses, other plants will poke through the grassy groundcover: tulips, then hostas, and on its sunny edge, echinaceas. The grass, like all groundcovers, is a canvas. The old White Oak, whose roots reach far and wide, may even appreciate the cooling moisture retention of the little patch of Oak sedge.

There’s another dry, shaded garden in Grimsby. This one is downtown, close to the Escarpment. You may have seen it if you’ve visited Station 1 coffeehouse’s back patio; it’s the slope behind it. Over the next few weeks its grassy, mossy surface will be welcoming a fresh batch of leafy residents.

When designing gardens, slopes require special consideration. Erosion is always a factor. Grimsby’s glacially deposited sandy soil makes this particular slope prone to it. This is why groundcovers are the first ones going in.

A large part of the slope is shaded due to the south facing wall of trees at the top of the hill. The situation reminded me of that other dry shaded garden on the other side of Grimsby. When there’s a shade loving native grass whose rhizomatous roots will cling to the sandy soil, which will provide habitat and food for native insects, and whose little spring blooms are adorable, why reinvent the wheel? Besides, it’ll pair well with the other goodies going in.

On another, unrelated note, as I’m writing these last words a few days after “last Thursday” became “the Thursday before last Thursday”, I had a think about why I’m writing blog posts in the middle of a gardener’s busiest season. There’s plenty of time in winter, when the ground is frozen and plants asleep. During a recent visit to north Burlington’s Hutchinson Farm, the same thought came up as they were writing fresh signs for their ever evolving catalogue of herbs, veggies and perennials. As it was said there, and rings true here too, “I could do the signs in winter, when there’s time. But the inspiration comes now.”

Garden inspiration has many forms. Back at the garden beneath the old White Oak, a new household member is making his mark. The retired racing greyhound has etched a dirt loop in the lush lawn around the sauna garden bed. I believe the mulched area may soon be expanding.

Wishing you garden inspiration, whatever form it may take. Take care,

Mélanie

About seasonality, manual sod cutters and tea.

Dear Reader,

There is such a thing as the perfect day for cutting sod.

I finally got a sod cutter the Saturday before last. A manual one – looks like an 1300’s plough with V-shaped handles, but instead of a share there’s a horizontal 12” blade attached to an equally wide roller. It works like a charm, if charms worked with a kick and a grunt. 

It is a significant improvement over the fork and hand hoe method, having tripled my work speed. The sharp blade slices soil easily and evenly. It’s counter-balanced by the weight of the roller, so when you put your body weight into the handles and lever the blade into the soil, it has some power. 

Over a few lengths, soil cakes up on the blade and roller, especially on a muddy day like the previous Thursday. That was a hot day, 15°C by midday, but Wednesday’s storm had left a layer of snow on the ground overnight, which only melted midmorning. This made the soil soggy and sticky. Mud is bulky, heavy and slowed me down. Regular scraping of the blade, roller and my boot soles helped, for which I used the indispensable ho-mi hand hoe. Progress was slow, but nonetheless quicker thanks to the sod cutter.

This brings me to last Monday, the day which made the sod cutter shine. It was sunny. Light clouds dotted a bright blue sky. There was a gentle breeze, cool but not chilly, perfect for the cardio/resistance hybrid workout that is cutting sod. The soil was easy to work; still moist yet drained enough to avoid sticking. It was like slicing into a fresh scone, slathering it with clotted cream and jam and eating it with fresh strawberries.

As early spring goes, the magical weather only lasted a few hours. By late afternoon the cold breeze turned into a chilly wind announcing cold rain, which came at nightfall as the freeze settled in. But by then, the tree circles were sod free and ready for mulch. 

I mulched Thursday, a day more alike Monday evening. It was cold and the intermittent rain eventually turned to snow. It didn’t matter though, the sod was cut, the circles were prepped, and mulching gets your heart rate up, so the cold was negligeable. I sweat through my base layers and paused mid-way to get changed. Stop moving for a minute in sweaty clothes on a cold day and get yourself a cold. I also made a fresh hot tea for good measure. Ginger ginseng, a new combination for me. The ginger gives it heat, and the ginseng, energy. I sweeten it with a little honey. So far, I love it.

The cold, wet weather stayed through the end of the week. I layered up. Base and mid layers, fleece and winter coat, hat and hood. Friday morning, I pruned a red twig dogwood hedge, then went over to the Hollow Gardens to prune the giant Kerrias. They love it there, sending their runners prolifically through the Fonthill Kame’s glacially deposited sandy soil. Happy with a morning shade and strong afternoon sun. Soon, they’ll bloom like cascades of yellow fireworks. 

As I was packing up for the day, a mist settled in like a cool English fog. The silhouettes of bare canopies beyond the Hazelnut fields, the forest’s edge, stood quietly against the pale grey sky. Under the tall lone evergreen pine was a shimmer of yellow. Even muted by the mist the yellow willow shone brightly, long thin branches draped from its trunk. 

Winter in the Niagara is mostly white, brown, dark green, red and tan. Tan like mowed corn fields and dead grasses, and like willows. Once spring comes, willows are one of the first trees to produce a lush flush of silver green foliage. The transition is fleeting. This spring, someone mentioned an in-between. There is a moment, like the subtle gentle pause between an inhale and an exhale, before the foliage sprouts, when the thin tan willow branches turn bright lemon yellow.

Among the fanfare of first signs of spring, the winter aconites, snowdrops, crocuses and daffodils, this brightening of branches may be subtle, but a sure sign of things to come. Joyous cascades of yellow, like the soon-to-bloom Kerrias, like the forsythias that are flourishing in Grimsby as I’m writing these words.

Happy Spring,

Mélanie

About preventing gardening injuries, sod removal and a late March ice storm 

Dear Reader, 

Last week’s weather was, as to be expected for late March, a mix of things. Light flurries, followed by a hot bright sun, then a cold wet wind brought rain which stayed through the week’s end. North of Grimsby, it was ice. Visually spectacular, but no time to relax for gardeners. Ice reveals the weakest branches. 

In a way, for gardeners, spring is like an ice storm. For gardening, I rely heavily on injury prevention, spending time in winter on cardio, strength, and flexibility. But the sudden stress of repetitive actions over long durations is like ice on a tree – immediately revealing. 

For example, one morning last week I woke up with a new stiffness in my forearms: only while rotating; the usual motions of my current asana sequence and rowing were unaffected. The ache disappeared within a couple of hours, after yoga and a row. A hot bath and a cold shower ended the day without any further aches. The cause of the issue may have been lifting large bins of yard waste or pruning an old mock orange hedge in need of rejuvenation, both of which I had done the previous day. Either way, I’m adjusting my morning warmup to include that rotating motion with light dumbbells. With repetition, weakness becomes injury, which would sadly interfere with the joy of gardening. 

Which brings me to the exercise paradox. Working out is hard work. When I do, I aim to break a sweat, enough so my body is thankful for recovery time. However, last week, the days I rowed before gardening facilitated gardening motions. At the end of those days, I even felt I had more energy left. It seems hard work makes work easier. 

I’m no expert on fitness and physical issues. I’ve only seen what trial and error has done for me and my full-time gardening business. This desire to gain strength and endurance has been here from the start; my gardening practice depends on it. It is a constant (yet exciting) process of why’s and how’s. Somehow, putting a body through stress, carefully and deliberately, makes the body adapt and increase its available output. Gardening motions need gardening strength and flexibility. I want to be ready for the ice storm. I’m working hard to make hard work easy, and so far, it seems to be working. 

This past week, in a Grimsby garden below the escarpment, I’ve been addressing a large Norway Maple issue: its deep shade makes the lawn underneath sparse, but removing it is finicky with all the roots. Near the tree trunk, I’ve been doing it by hand, loosening grass with a fork then separating it from the lovely Grimsby loam with a hand hoe.  Thankfully, forward folds, lunges (new this winter), rowing, and sitting meditation have made kneeling sustainable. 

That said, the adage holds – work smarter, not harder. I’m considering other tools and techniques for the tree periphery. A gas-powered sod remover would be excellent (it walks itself), if it weren’t for the surface tree roots. It’s also 300 pounds. A manual sod cutter requires some elbow grease, but I can carry it in one hand. We’ll see how it goes. That’s this week’s project, when the rain stops. 

Have a great week! 

Thanks, 

Mélanie 

About designing a garden for an interior designer and an architect.

A few years ago, I was invited to design a small front garden for the home of an interior designer and an architect. They brought to the table an aesthetic opinion on the garden space and language to communicate it (their drawings were immensely helpful). I brought plants and some knowledge of their change over time. 

Designing gardens, like music, movies, magic and endless others, is a time art. Time arts are designed in a time frame; Things can be arranged in order of happening, which allows for endless effects.

Some of the effects were planned. As garden design turned into garden care for the new front garden as well as the established back garden, I got to see them happen. The front garden’s short bergenia and sweet woodruff, tucked in the inner, home side of the garden, bloomed in spring, followed in mid-summer by the tall roadside periphery of Echinacea, Black Eyed Susans and Daylilies. The four Daylily varieties were timed to bloom on the outskirts first, then symmetrically converge on the center. It was fun to plan and fun to see. 

But other effects were unpredicted. They’re what keeps me coming back to gardens season after season, year after year. Last week I did a spring cleanup at this garden. It had been hot for a few days, high teens, even twenties. NOTL is always a few degrees ahead of Grimsby, so the yellow crocuses were already deep in bloom. We had planted them last fall to extend the back garden’s bloom time.

This back garden lines the private back road, and continues as a narrow strip on the other side of their driveway. Miscanthus and Karl Foerster are the background, Black Eyed Susans and Japanese Bloodgrass are the foreground, and the crocuses are sprinkled along the front edge.

The garden wears its dry grasses over the winter, for mass, texture, structure and that lovely tan colour. This early spring, for the first time, the grasses cast their long slim shadows on little yellow crocus petals. When the occasional strong gust of wind blew through, they moved like brushstrokes on a canvas, like tiny elusive eclipses. The awakening garden, wispy and bright. A first touch of spring on the thawing ground.

Every year, cutting down the dead grass stems left behind a carpet of large round tan polkadots on aged brown mulch. Not that it wasn’t a nice early spring garden. I’m a fan of tan with brown, and its rough texture is grounding. But bringing in crocuses has changed it. Rough to soft, dull to bright, dead to alive, winter to spring. This year, that little pop of yellow is something different.

So what’s the takeaway here… A little bit goes a long way? Plan ahead and notice what happens? Take away what you like. Mine is that I enjoy designing with designers. We may specialize in different fields, but we share, if not a common language, common dialects. We, on some level, understand each other. And that allows us to make yellow crocuses bloom on a winter carpet.

Happy Spring, gardeners! 

Thanks for reading.

Mélanie

How I became a gardener

Summer Sundays are introspective. I spent the last one sitting in our garden, eyes half closed, half open, watching the halo of pollinators crowning the towering, flowering Joe Pye weed.

I’m attempting to master the difficult art of sitting still. I’ve already vacated my lawn chair to get a little table, then iced tea, a large book on charcoal barbecuing, and a second, smaller one on the tiny lives of mosses. Eventually persuaded by lethargy, I observe the want of anything else pass by like the sparse clouds dawdling across the blue sky.

Beyond Joe Pye’s blooms is a deciduous tree canopy. Both are cloud shaped; one light purple, the other dark green, synchronously swaying in the breeze. I’ve been looking for a way to introduce this gardening blog, a space meant for answers to the many gardening questions I field as a professional gardener. And here, in the synchronicity of clouds, the large green one, the small fuzzy purple one, and the cloudy thoughts floating across my mind, I’m finding a hint of a beginning.

I didn’t intend on becoming a gardener. If you asked my younger self what she wanted to do when grown up, she might have said to write film music. Or perhaps to bake. The future was far and filled with endless options. Time passed. I wrote music, I baked for a coffeehouse, but the wind blew, the clouds flew across the everblue sky, and after seven years of study and work in Waterloo, I moved to Niagara.

There is something about Niagara; the air, the glacially deposited soil, the inescapable microclimates of the Escarpment… it makes magic happen in gardens. Just take a stroll down quaint Niagara-on-the-Lake on a summer evening, a walk along the plentiful orchards on fall apple days, or even in the middle of winter, clinging to dislodged escarpment boulders along the Bruce Trail, see evergreen ferns enjoying a sunny winter noon. Niagara’s gardens are impossible to ignore. I fell in love.

I found my way to a college at the base of the Escarpment, an introduction to caring for plants. Planting, growing, hedging, splitting, transplanting, designing gardens. I grew my own business, Mélanie’s Gardens; a name and frame for the gardens I care for.

The sun hides behind a cloud, the clouds of pollinators crowning Joe Pye dissolve into shade. The bees are still there, I just can’t see them. I know where I was, where I am, but how did I get here? What was the southerly wind which carried me here, why did I stay? And, in the spirit of lethargic introspection, what is love, anyway?

Like the purple Joe Pye clouds juxtaposed with the giant green cloudy canopy, gardening made sense to me. I transplanted the time-based art of writing music into time-based planting designs, adapted the craft of kneading dough to working soil. But it was all transferable, what did I unearth in gardens I hadn’t found before?

Gardening breathes to the rhythm of seasonality. There is only so much time for spring cleanups. Seedlings waiting for last frost.  Deadheading to be done before seeds ripen. Once winter comes, so comes rest, a balance known by nature since the dawn of plants. My thoughts follow suit, ideas followed by reflection, clouds by sky.

Perhaps that’s what made me a gardener, the space between doing, when between garden work I watch the world unfold around me. Seeing it all buzzing, floating  like clouds across the still blue sky. I still don’t know what it is, but I’m in it… in love.

So, you ask, how did I become a gardener? In the passage of clouds, I seem to have found some clarity. Wanting to create, I grew a garden. Needing rest, I set down a lawn chair on a sunny summer Sunday and stayed still until the sun set and the evening mosquitos ushered me back inside.