I can’t say that I fall into this camp, although by default, I did manage to get a good start with those things that overwintered or that self-sowed on their own. We still have chard, kale, spinach, and onions going strong; a lot of things have bolted into flower and are so covered with bees, I haven’t had the heart to cut them down.

Overall, though, my garden will be radically different this year. I have decided to forego the usual spring frenzy and give more support to our local growers and less to staking up falling tomatoes.  I mean, so much of what I do is just so fruitless!

However, it is hard not to question that decision after our recent visit to Paul Gautschi’s farm, followed by a few days of good weather.

Ha! What an understatement THAT is! Seriously, we are still reeling from the heat wave that blasted through here last week, propelling us into thinking, OMG, if I don’t get those tomatoes, cukes, & squashes in the ground immediately, it’ll be too late!

Work in garden or go kayaking?

Personally, though, I did not think that. We paddled our kayaks across calm waters to the Dungeness Lighthouse and back. It felt like a late summer day with nary a cloud in the sky. Perfect.

This little guy followed us

But now I am having Slacker’s Remorse. I mean, how could I NOT grow our own food after all these years? It’s not a bad thing to re-think our decisions, after all. There is something indescribably special about picking and munching something on the spot…. Certainly, a compromise is certainly in order here.

But is it too late??? (Quick Answer: Heck No!)

Sure, it’s a trick question on when to plant and when to wait. One of my favorite seed companies, Renee’s Garden, from whom I purchased last year an assortment of salad greens, cukes, sweet peas, sunflowers, morning glories and other flowers, all of which did really well, advises waiting until nighttime temps are above 50 degrees to plant tender veggies.

Good luck with that, I say! If you wait that long here, there won’t be enough time to ripen before the degrees dip back down along with the daylight hours.

The spring window for planting is when we all get a little nervous. Get it wrong, you might not get a second chance. We get creative with cold frames, cloches, raised beds, and pre-starting things like corn crowded in pots on windowsills all over the house (what are windowsills for, anyway? Isn’t that why they call it the spring window?)

Besides, let me remind us that it’s only mid-May, and even though Seattle topped 80 this last weekend, we were thinking we were suffering at approaching 75. It’s all relative. Normally, we’d be dancing if we topped 60. The onshore flows will ensure we get back to normal in no time, which means the wind that topped 40 knots yesterday is just a breath of fresh air compared with what’s to come. And I don’t know about you, but I usually count our average last frost date at April 15 – which always seems so late to me – seems like we wait forever for that magic number. Well, those recent sunny days brought some very cool nights, and I couldn’t help but notice that some of my plants got nipped – get this – on MAY 11!!! So it can – and does – happen!

The Soil Temp Answer:

Cliff Mass, my favorite weather guy, recently wrote about measuring the temperature of the soil and using that info in gardening. This makes a lot of sense to me.  The air temp, after all, is quite different from that at the top of the soil, which is quite different from what you find a few inches down, which is why I think my peas rotted. Or maybe the birds got them. Either way, if you wonder why something isn’t germinating, the soil temp could give the answer. Cliff provides a link to the Washington State University AgWeatherNet, which gives a daily reading of the soil temperature taken 8” down at numerous stations across the state. At that depth, the temps are undoubtedly more stable, but my first reaction was, “How useful is that? We plant maybe an inch down, not 8!” Still, it is a value that reflects trends, and you can adjust to your upper-level circumstances, accordingly. Which may vary widely, I might add, through the aforementioned creative use of plastic, rocks and concrete, old tires, & lots of etc. that wouldn’t normally be in a garden other than to create individual microclimates to your advantage.

Here is a chart that shows the required soil temperature for germination of various vegetables, which, in full disclosure, I stole from Cliff Mass. Note how the “practical” differs from the “optimal” by sometimes 40 degrees! I would suspect these are temperatures of the soil where the seed is, not 8” down under.

So no – it’s not too late to plant things like peas and spinach (optimum at 70), and yes, I’ll have to try again with the pod peas (not listed on the chart, but place it in line with spinach and parsley), and I will pass on the okra, thank you very much. What – 95 for pumpkins? It’ll never happen – but we DID get pumpkins last year – so take this info however you want.

The point being, don’t let admonitions make you think you can’t. Throw caution to the wind! (I do it so much, I should install a wind tower!)

Whether to plant or not to plant: Maybe it’s also about weighing what is worth the effort for the return. Pod peas, for example, are just SO GOOD fresh and too expensive in the stores! Herbs? Who can’t have a little pot of thyme and oregano on their porch?  Basil takes a little more effort, but it’s a spendy gourmet item in the markets if you like fresh pesto, which I do, I do. If you get ripe tomatoes, you grow justified bragging rights, and more power to ya.

For those of us with time and room, we can continue planting stuff all the way up until fall – garlic being a prime example of something to stick in the ground in October. I usually wait until later this month or even early June for potatoes so they are ready just in time for a fall harvest and storage, but I see some volunteers are already up, which will give me an early crop (and yes, those were the ones that got hit hardest by the frost, but they are making a comeback). Potatoes might be cheap, but if you consider commercial growers kill the tops with weed killers to facilitate harvesting, I think they’re worth either buying organic or growing your own if you have space.

So do not be dismayed by the calendar and whatever you haven’t been able to accomplish! All it takes is a few days of sunshine and the soothsayers are out there predicting drought and pestilence. But hey, we only get an average of 17” of rain here anyway – and the pests, well, they, too, are part of the world we live in. Some are like weeds, underappreciated for the role they play.

I just remember how last year never seemed to warm up until mid-July – and yet, when I look back at the pictures from last year’s garden, I am blown away by the sheer amount of biomass! Despite day after day of cold temperatures, heavy rains, unrelenting wind, and outright neglect by yours truly when I disappeared for a full month about this time – my garden hung in there. I came back in late May to a garden full of weeds and started planting anyway – and all this stuff still managed to grow. Most striking, the pod peas, sweet peas, beans, squashes, and nasturtiums, which just seemed to clamber over everything, and the spectacular sunflowers towering overhead. Check out this photostream:

2011 – it was a hard year and also a good year. What’s in store for 2012? In the garden, it’s just beginning!

So Plant ON, Plant People!

Spring Equinox Sunrise on the Olympics - the view from our backyard

We have reached that turning point, all things being equal, which, of course, they are not – when day equals night and darkness turns to light.

When the sun hits the sky and the temps climb toward 55, we Vitamin D-starved souls in the Pacific Northwest throw off our clothes and dance in circles and raise our hands to the sun in praise.  “Let the wild rumpus start!”

Even though true outdoor heat is still just a warm dream for those of us who can’t escape to a tropical sandy beach somewhere, it is now officially Spring, folks, and that is definitely worth capitalizing and celebrating.

The Equinox Paradox

We all know it eventually happens every year, and yet how it comes about exactly is still a convoluted mystery to many of us. The Vernal Equinox marks that day when, as the world turns, we will see more and more daylight. Most of us mark the date as March 21. The truth is, however, we missed the real balancing point already. For those on the East Coast, it was yesterday. For us, it was even earlier, on the night of March 19. In fact, those who know these things say that spring technically arrived this year the earliest since 1896.

How can this be? How could this important event quietly happen when the great majority of us were sleeping? How can we all think the equinox is on March 21 when in reality, it only occurs on that date maybe 30% of the time?

The truth is, the equinox is simply a moment in time when the sun is neither more above, nor more below – but right at – the “celestial equator” – a term I find amusing because it sounds like there must be a middle of the universe out there, but is really just the idea of the Earth’s equator projected outward. We Earthlings traditionally like to think of ourselves as the center of the universe, after all.

You can blame the Gregorians for the differences about when this happens (actually, it was the Pope, but we’re not going to go there). As we were leaping over the last day of February, we were playing catch-up to an imperfect system that says it takes 365 days to dance around the sun, when it actually takes about 365.25, more or less.

Of course, you also have to factor in that the Earth is not a perfect sphere (like many of us, a little fatter around the middle) and it tilts (as many of us do after 5), so if you’re looking for that perfect 90-degree angle to the sun, you might have to wait.

If that’s not enough to make the Earth wobble on its axis, don’t forget the pull of the moon and other planets, also in perpetual motion. I think I feel them tugging at me right now, in fact.

Moreover, if you are looking for that moment when daylight and night are exactly the same, consider that sunrise is defined by when the first edge of the great yellow orb rises on the horizon (I’m assuming at sea level, which we don’t see here, because there are a few mountain ranges in the way), and it sets when the last bit of sun (not the center) sets in the west (coast is clear! we get fantastic sunsets here!).

But also remember that refraction throws everything off even more. Our atmosphere bends the light. Which means, when we think we are watching the sun rise or set, we are actually watching an illusion. Do not confuse this, however, with the Green Flash, which is a real phenomenon, not just something exalted by dancing substance-infused individuals, names of whom we won’t release here.

Throw in the kink with Daylight Savings Time, something I’ve never quite understood the logic in.

Obviously, the magnolia knows it's spring!

Ok. We get it. The Equinox came and went while we were sleeping. Most of us didn’t know and didn’t care what time it was. What matters is, it is officially Spring. People east of the Mississippi have been thinking this for months – and if it’s warm there now, you gotta wonder how they’re going to suffer through August. For us in the Northwest, though, we’re in another La Nina chokehold. According to Cliff Mass’ weather blog (one of my favorites, nerdy person that I am), in the last month, only 4 days have been at or above normal. Everything else is pulling down the bell curve. The mountains and every skier on them have been inundated with snow, and avalanches have been a serious risk that has cost lives.

For us in the lowlands, however, it’s just another dreary day until you get a glimpse of those first snowdrops of the flowering kind. Daffodil bulbs are bulging, also a good sign. Pussy willows – who does not adore them? It’s a feel-good time of year, despite the wind and rain.

On the practical side, the equinox is a great opportunity to take note of where the sun is in relationship to our gardens.

For example, in the middle of winter, it was interesting to look at the melting snow and see which areas melted first and which last. I would have thought the morning sun would have melted the eastern side by midday. The reality, however, was that the sun was so low in the sky, that it did not get above the row of tall firs bordering the neighbor’s property across the road to reach that side of our house. By afternoon, when it was higher in the sky, it was on the other side of the house, which then cast a shadow to the east. I might not have otherwise thought of this little microclimate staying so cold and wet. In the afternoon, despite all the tall trees on our northern side of our property, the snow melted quickly and everything dried out. Thump on head! It faces south! Whereas the southern side stayed cold and dark and was the last to thaw, because we built a fence alongside the edge of the road to block the traffic noise, so now the “south” side was actually on the north side of the fence, which kept everything in the shadows.

Everything changes a little later in the year. Now, as I write this at 9:30 a.m., which, technically speaking would be 8:30 a.m. if we could stay in one timeframe (we’re not “saving” anything with daylight time! What was Benjamin Franklin thinking? I believe it’s a conspiracy that coincides with the Ides of March!), the sun is already high above the neighbor’s row of trees and shining on a little clump of daffodils, which are just loving it.  Two hours from now, though, it will be directly behind a big fir tree, and the flowers will be in the shadows again, at least for a few hours.

The fact is, the light and its availability is always changing. Here at approximately 48-degrees latitude, the sun doesn’t really rise in the east and set in the west all year long. In the summer, it rises more in the northeast and arcs high across the sky to span nearly 270 degrees to set in the northwest. In the winter, that arc is lower and smaller.

So how do we apply this information?

We can become more aware of where the sun is at different times of day and year. The equinoxes and solstices are good points to mark those differences and maybe make a map of different garden areas, how the light changes, and how microclimates are created in the process. We can plot the arc of the sun at various times of the year – lower in winter and higher in summer and how it changes from one month to the next – along with other structures and plants that might alter the availability of that light – and then better determine the best place to plant something so it can reach for the light it needs.

For example, an overstory plant, such as a fruit tree, might need 6 to 8 hours of sunlight (and warmth!) for the blossoms to open and for the fruit to ripen. Where can we plant it where it can get this minimum daily requirement (MDR) when it needs it most? Or would we be better off with selecting something that has a higher tolerance for variation?

Or – if the site for a particular sun- and heat-loving plant isn’t ideal, is there something we can do to create a little microclimate, such as planting plants in a south-facing U-shape around it to trap the heat? Too much heat is rarely a problem here, but you might also need something quite the opposite to provide more shade or to protect from the drying effects of a late afternoon summer sun that is still relatively intense at 6 p.m. (wishful thinking, I know).

Cool Tools for Tracking the Sun

Sun path chart across Barbolian Fields from Dec to Jun, as plotted by the U of OR program

Our pinpoint on the Earth and how the sun hits it at this particular time of day and year (by Sun Earth Tools).

If you can’t wait a year to synchronize your back yard with your sundials, and if you really like precision, you might want to take advantage of several of the sun charts now available on the web. My favorite that I’ve found so far is the Sun Path Chart Program, produced by the University of Oregon. Just plug in your zip code and voila.

Another good one is at Sun Earth Tools, which overlays the movement of the sun on a particular day with your site, as plotted on Google Maps.

Oh, and in case you didn’t know, according to The Old Farmer’s Almanac, it’s the night of the new moon, but actually, the new moon isn’t until 7:39 tomorrow morning. Go figure (or not) – just in case you’re feeling the effects of a force that is strong enough to move large volumes of water.

Some of this is a little mind-boggling. All I know is that it’s sunny outside right now, so I’m going to go soak up a little of my MDR of Vitamin D before I experience any more cognitive impairment caused by a lack thereof. Or something like that. Whatever it was I was talking about.

List of links:

Cliff Mass’ Weather Blog : the very best site about Pacific Northwest weather

Space.com: More info on space and how the world turns

The Old Farmer’s Almanac

The Farmer’s Almanac

SunEarth Tools: great for solar designers & gardeners - Where is the sun and how do the rays fall on your favorite place on the planet?

Sun Path Chart Program through the University of Oregon

Being able to see the naked bones of the garden like that, though, can be quite an eye-opener – kind of like standing nude in front of the mirror and admitting you really should start working out (as in, something’s gotta change here). Course, we don’t notice it so much in the summer when everything is clothed in flowers. The worst part was, though, I realized it was not just boring; it was conservatively conventional, words that are almost blasphemy to my creative being.

Ah yes! Clean, neat rectangles. I DO love them! The garlic in this plot will be easy to take care of, if you like hard work. Back plots are planted with green manures. A very organized way of growing garlic on a small commercial scale. (And did I mention, very labor intensive).

Ok. I admit. My garden is very structured. Rows within rectangles within squares. Orderly. Clean. Neat. Ultimately linear. I stress over weeds. They disrupt the order.  A lot of people really like that sort of thing. It’s organized.

Other parts of my life? Not so much.

I was considered a bit radical back in the 70s when I experimented with the French Intensive methods promoted by early Organic Gardening magazines. I had recently returned from a stint as a foreign exchange student in Paris, so I thought I was pretty legit. My neighbors, though, wondered whether I had buried my dogs out there in the raised beds.

It might seem a bit odd, then, that someone who has long subscribed to the motto, “Question Authority,” never really questioned conventional wisdom when it came to gardening. Like canning peaches and making strawberry jam, certain things are passed down through generations, and they seem good just the way they are. Real good, in fact.

There is usually a good reason that things are done “the way they always have been.” Efficiency and convenience are two adjectives that come to mind: rows the width of a tiller, tractor, mower, or wheelbarrow. Ease of watering, weeding, and harvest. Knowing where things are might be important (ahm).

Don't worry. This is just me going crazy. Thinking in circles and squares. And maybe a few triangles.

On this particular windy day that was shaking my belief foundations, however, I came to the “ah-ha!” moment when I realized that nothing in nature grows in rows. Like, duh. It’s more of an organized chaos. Now ThatI can relate to!

Looking at the weathered skeletons of the previous year’s vegetables interspersed with clumps of grass, it struck me that the difference between nature, a farm, and a garden is not just one of order and scale.

I also realized that my little backyard universe fell into the “none-of-the-above” category. Too small for a real farm; too structured to really be called a garden, which I think of as an artistic retreat expressed in a riot of colorful flowers (Tell me, why are a lot of colors always in a riot?).

Sure, we could call it a “hobby farm,” a term that I dislike because it sounds like a person doesn’t take it very seriously – and I am very serious about growing 24 varieties of garlic! But it’s basically too small for a tractor and it’s a lot of work with just a shovel. I have a lot of mixed feelings about a tiller, because it violently massacres worms, which are my friends, so I rarely use one.

Ok – so maybe the more appropriate term would be a “veggie garden,” which, in my experience, is traditionally a place of toil and trouble. These are tightly controlled spaces where people focus on succession planning and efficiency evaluations. It’s all about timing. Conditioning. Nurturing. Weeding weeding weeding. Harvesting. Processing. These words all sound like work to me, but at least you are (sometimes) rewarded for the effort.

And on the other extreme is nature — grand scale, everything grows, no work involved. The plants grow every which-way – up, down, around, and through. They support one another in their diversity. Rarely do you see a lot of insect damage. Slugs on the trail, sure, but not under every leaf. No one is out there with a rake, a hose, and a bag of bone meal, and everything is prolific without them.

Hmm. What is wrong with this picture? Or should I say, “right?”

I might grow a lot of different things, and I’ve always been a big believer in companion planting, but I realized with a certain amount of consternation that my garden was really just a series of little monocultures.

Some of this is necessitated by the garlic operation, a crop of around 1000 bulbs, more or less, depending on the year, that is rotated around six 25-square-foot plots. The rotation is important to prevent disease. In the off-years, I alternate between building the soil with green manures and growing an assortment of veggie crops for friends, family, and strangers, depending on who is willing to take the zucchini. Yes, it’s bigger than the average garden, but not quite up there with the farming league. A lot of work with a hoe and a shovel; not enough to warrant firing up a tractor.

I was contemplating this lifestyle when I came across Gaia’s Garden, Second Edition by Toby Hemenway. It was an “Ah Ha!” moment for me. A complete garden-changer. Seriously. This book completely altered my way of thinking about the way I grow things and my relationship to plants (this link provides a long review). I still refer to it again and again.

The short synopsis is that it is about looking at your garden as an ecosystem, not a series of compartments; it’s about working with nature to optimize that system.

I have previously written about the folly of my attempt to patrol and control the borders of my garden, a militaristic viewpoint at best, where I was constantly at war with the weeds around me – and believe me, I was surrounded.

Through this book, I realized that weeds are not the enemy. They are, in fact, a resource. Allow some to thrive, and they will provide innumerable benefits. Cut some back, and they will still provide innumerable benefits. It’s all good.

Garden path to?

It was in this Kumbaya moment that I decided to try a little horticultural experiment to transform our back acre into something much more than a garlic merry-go-round. Life – including plant life – travels through this timezone in circles, after all, not rectangles. Paths may appear straight-forward, but that doesn’t mean that they are.

Maybe it’s an age thing. It is hard to write about gardening without also writing about life; there are so many correlations. Gardens are always changing – through the seasons, over the years, according to vision, design, or whatever you are willing (or not willing) to let go of. There are infinite possibilities, certainly too many to contemplate in one lifetime. (As in, “Yes, Mother, I know, ‘It’s all about choices’.”)

In case you doubted that I really have a pink flamingo in my back yard, this one wishes she were in Florida.

Perhaps it was time to get smarter about the gardening. I have a tendency to make things overly complicated (or so I’ve been told), and according to Nature, I have been working waaay too hard at this. After all, I am officially a grandmother now, 5 times over. I never thought I would ever write those words, much less contemplate traveling across the country in a travel trailer and staking up a pink flamingo in a park in Florida. Ha! Actually, I’m joking. I have a pink flamingo right here at home – why would I need another in FL?

But as the grains slip more quickly through the hourglass, we think about what else we might want to do, aside from watching them form those cool little pyramids in the bottom. I mean, there might come a time when I might need to phase out the garlic if there is no one else to carry on the legacy (I know, I know – those are strong words!). And maybe there is something else I might like to leave behind – like, for instance – a jungle.

This temperate jungle (aka Olympic Rainforest) is just down the road

It’s not that far-fetched. We have a jungle, also known as the Olympic Rainforest, just a couple hour drive from here. Course, we don’t get the rain here in the Olympic rainshadow of Sequim (classified as semi-desert) that they get in the Twilight zone of Forks – but with a little planning and a lot of mulch, a food forest, as opposed to a rainforest, is very much a possibility. I like the idea of sitting in the middle of my very own patch of blueberries and eating them until I am blue in the face. Now That is my idea of a retreat!

And with that idea, thus began my journey into the food forest, one that I am creating as I go. I am a year into it and adding on with every season.  The sharp borders between garden, farm, and sanctuary are becoming blurred every step of the way.

Garlic Maze - not really so crazy as it seems. Probably just as much work, to tell you the truth. That's what growing over 1000 bulbs of garlic is. It can still be fun, though.

Did you wonder what wild hair motivated me to plant my garlic in such crazy circles? Rest assured, there is a method to my madness. And it just keeps getting crazier – and at the same time, so much saner. I might have to start wearing purple. I kind of like getting old and crazy. Maybe I need a dozen cats. And a hot-air balloon. At the very least, a pair of red dancing shoes with sparkles on them.

And a jungle to dance in. Yes.

Stay tuned.

Not a reflection - it's the corkscrew willow tree, reaching for the blue sky in winter

Helllooo February! What a stretch of great weather we’ve had! If the groundhog saw his shadow, it was only because he wasn’t facing the sun! You’d think he’d learn by now.

I admit, I am not sorry to kiss 2011 goodbye and begin anew, and I’m also not sorry to say goodbye to January. Granted, the winter garden is a beautiful place – but sunny days that are too cold to be outside for any length of time are pure torture. The winter can get long and dreary when we sit inside and know that beneath that snow, the weeds still grow. (We know this is true, because when that snow melts, there they are, bigger than ever.)

In February, though, we start to notice the daylight lasting just a wee bit longer….hope is on the horizon with the rising sun.

But February is a weird month – it’s that ‘tween month – not really winter, not really spring. Kind of the prelude season. We don’t dare do much in the garden for fear of smashing delicate soil structure and destroying zillions of microbes in a single step. Some, not mentioning names, of course, might use that as an excuse to sit back in their easy chairs by the fire, maybe with something fermented, and delve into catalogs that promise color, warmth, and bounty at their fingertips. (Ya gotta love that woman sporting her fancy melons.) And we can talk about climate change and global warming and extremes in weather, but seriously, do I believe I’ll be able to grow luffas and bananas?

Umm – well yes, I DO believe – as much as I believe in the Good Garden Fairy – and the ability of science to come up with marvelous things we would never have believed possible. (You have to understand, I’m married to a scientist, and in my past life, I worked in a laboratory, so I have come to understand that it’s all a matter of levels of uncertainty – or conversely, certainty – and obviously, there is nothing certain in this world except death and taxes – but lest I digress….)

Oh sure, we can take the opportunity to reflect on what worked, what didn’t, and what we’d do differently if we could take back all those stupid things we said in our ‘tween years – but learning from our mistakes is for progressives and grown ups.

No, during garden-planning season, we all quite willingly skip into our very own fantasy world, and it’s not a bad thing. Great things come from great visions, after all, and even if they don’t end up being true to the dream, they can still, in their own way, be quite extraordinary. It has to start with a seed of an idea, though, and the desire to make it grow, right? So – feel no guilt – sit where you are, fantasize away, and do your part to save the microbes!

Fish emerging through the ice on the little pond - Is it spring out here yet?

In February, though, anything and everything can and will happen, so you have to be prepared. Mentally, if nothing else. I mean, we have days when we think it must be April. We watch the birds pairing up and the buds start to swell on the trees, and we know that spring is maybe tomorrow, if not already. Other days, we feel we’ve regressed to November. Is there any question why we are dazed and confused?

When the days are nice, we get out and finish pruning (ahm! Isn’t that what we were supposed to be doing?) and maybe we can even take advantage of a sale at our local nurseries and plant a tree or two while they are still sleeping. (Wake up in a warm place … now There’s a fantasy!)

The problem with February is that on nice days (it’s all relative, sure, but we’ve been hitting 50 here, and it feels pretty darn good!), we feel we should be getting the garden ready, even though the soil is obviously too wet – and on lousy days (when the wind is blowing 50), we are thinking surely winter should be over by now and we really should be out there getting the garden ready, even though the soil is obviously too wet. Did I say that already? But that’s how February is. Repetitive. And we are tired of this stuff and need out. Cabin fever closes in big time. People in Cordova, Alaska, know what I’m talking about. And yes, I confess, I am spending way too much time on TravelZoo.

For those of us in Washington, though, the land where the weeds never sleep, February is the month of error. We are tempted to start our annual plants, but know we shouldn’t dare, but do anyway. We can’t help it. Primroses arrive in the grocery stores – and they are blooming profusely in sunny yellows and oranges. So we go home, full of hope and promise, and try planting a little something in makeshift milk-jug greenhouses; in the open garden, we try planting another little something – we plant deeply and mulch thickly, figuring they’ll eventually make it to the sunlight; we plant, watch our seedlings rot in the wet months that are sure to come, and replant and maybe even replant again; we plant, cover with mini hoop-houses of plastic, which get ripped in the wind, and which we strap down with Duct Tape, and then later try to crawl into and water even though it’s pouring down rain outside; and in a tender Valentine’s Day moment, we cut out pictures of hearts and flowers and paste them on cards and give them to our grandmothers. Ok, maybe I can’t do that anymore, but if I could, I would.

Lacinato kale in winter - it survives everything (and so will you!)

Well, folks, when all else fails, I say Eat More Kale. I know, I know, it might sound counterintuitive to some, and it hardly seems a solution for those winter-time blues or anything else I’ve been talking about, but believe me, it will do you wonders – as will (it goes without saying) my all-time remedy for just about everything: garlic.

I am happy to present to you here today a recipe from one of my readers, and of whom I have become a real fan. Walt has not only passed on this incredibly good (and simple!) recipe that combines these two miracle cures, but also sent me plans on how to build a beehive – which I will share with you in blog posts to come. For now:

Death by Garlic (Revived by Kale)

By: Walt Wielbicki (Garlic Breath)

Prep Time: 5 Minutes
Cook Time: 15 Minutes
Ready In: 20 Minutes
Servings: 4

“10 minced cloves of garlic lightly browned in olive oil and tossed with parsley, kale, red pepper flakes, hot penne pasta, and freshly grated Romano cheese makes a heady and flavorful dish.”

Death by Garlic (Revived by Kale) Casserole

INGREDIENTS:

1/2 cup olive oil
10 cloves Polish hard neck garlic, minced
1 bunch Nash’s Kale torn from the thick stems in bite size pieces
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
3 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
1 pound dry penne pasta
1/3 cup grated Romano cheese

DIRECTIONS:

1. Cook pasta according to directions on package
2. In a pan, brown the Polish garlic in oil for 2 Minuets then add the Nash kale and stir for 5 more minuets until the kale is wilted. Add salt, pepper and parsley and remove from heat.
3. Toss penne pasta with garlic mixture and add Romano cheese and serve!

Note: Add sliced Polish kielbasa at the same time you brown garlic for a special treat.

My variations: We used gluten-free penne pasta made with rice flour. I’ve been really missing pasta lately, and these were great. We had plenty of kale, and yes, even parsley from our garden.  As for garlic, we used German Extra Hardy (a porcelain type with a long shelf life) instead of Polish hardneck garlic. The Polish I have is a softneck artichoke type, which is not quite as flavorful as the German. I also threw in a can of tuna (along with the water it comes in). Polish kielbasa would, indeed, be good. Meatless is also very good.

! ~ * ~ !

One Final Word (or two): Don’t despair.

After February, comes March – and in March, things start to get a little crazy – so if there is something you can do now (sharpen your tools, get your trellises ready, yes, finish pruning, design your water systems and future garden beds, and yes, order seeds!) – do it!

And yes, I might try starting a little spinach. And maybe a few onions. Maybe even more kale….

Links to some cool gardening ideas for February:

A seed-starter plant stand

A chart on how long seeds last (viability)

Some of my favorite seed companies

Organic Seed Alliance list of companies that sell organic seeds

Tips on starting seeds indoors (from Renee’s Garden)

The great thing about planting garlic is that it can be as simple or as elaborate as you want it to be. It can be a few cloves stashed strategically here and there, long rows within beds that span the horizon, or something that twists and turns resembling some kind of labyrinth. I like to make my life complicated, so this year, I chose the latter. Rectangles are just so – well, square. Not that squares don’t have their place; they are just disappearing in my garden. People who like efficiency go with rectangles. I admire those people. I just happen to be more of a freestylin’ sort of person, which is the beauty of a garden – you make it however you want it to be – as it grows and evolves, it becomes an extension of yourself – and THAT is why, as I was planting 10 varieties and over 500 cloves of hardnecks yesterday, I couldn’t help but scratch my head and wonder about the subconscious forces in my decision to go with something that ended up looking a lot like, well, maybe a whirligig, a funny word that somehow exemplifies my life.

Actually, I am still following the Master Plan. Yes, I do have one. Every year, I rotate my garlic crop around 6 squares (yes! Squares!) architecturally laid out in two rows of three (so linear – so logical – and Dad, I want you to know, contrary to popular belief, I DO maintain a level of structure in my life!).

So, this year, it was time to plant in the far northwest plot, where I had earlier this year planted several shrubs, most notably, the nitrogen fixers, Autumn Olive and Goumi Berries, both Eleagnus species, and a Nanking cherry. My plan was to plant garlic around these shrubs, which would provide nitrogen and shelter from the wind, and the garlic, in grateful return, a certain level of pest protection – hopefully a mutual beneficial relationship. I would also build beds around the shrub circles with pathways between – kind of a series of connected keyhole gardens. The vision was beautiful. The beginning reality was something like this:

Building the garlic bed: I reached a "scratch-my-head" moment - like, where am I going with this?

The beauty of the idea, however, is not only aesthetic, despite what you see in the picture at left. It is efficient. MORE efficient, in fact, than rectangles. Ideally, anyway.

See, in a traditional garden with paths between single rows, paths can take up half the garden space or more. If the garden is in beds, that wasted space is reduced, but still might take up a third of the overall space. However, if you plant your garden in a large circle with a short path that cuts into the center to give access, i.e., a “keyhole” or a “U”, you reduce the path space even further, leaving more room for garden. Another idea is the “Mandala Garden,” which is like a keyhole garden inside a series of keyhole gardens that wrap around its perimeter. Sounds complicated, but Toby Hemenway makes it sound so simple in Gaia’s Garden, Second Edition: A Guide To Home-Scale Permaculture.

I love that idea, but it is not something I achieved, because I was working around a series of 7 shrubs in a 25-ft square area, which did not allow room for a 3-ft wide perimeter planting space.

Did I mention there’s a lot of math involved in gardening? The geometry in this is just mind-boggling. If you haven’t downloaded my Excel Garlic Planting Guide, please feel free to do so. It works great with rectangles, but you can make it work with circles, too. All you have to do is remember that the perimeter of a circle is pi (3.14) times the diameter. Think of the perimeter as the line along which you plant. Of course, you don’t plant on the outside edge of the circle – you give the plants some edge space – so the diameter is shorter, accordingly. If you are planting more than one row in the circle, then that would be an inner perimeter – so your spacing would be figured on a series of perimeter lines wrapping around the circle.

Let’s just say figuring out how much garlic I could plant in my garden space this year and which varieties I could fit where was a fun challenge.

All math aside, though, this year’s garlic patch is going to be the most beautiful ever.

Ah! But now the garlic beds are starting to take shape! Just what shape exactly, I'm not sure!

This would be the final take on the first picture, which admittedly, was a bit confusing, unlike this picture. Ahm. Actually, it's simple. The garlic goes everywhere that is not a path, except for places taken up by a shrub.

I love the way it curves and meanders; it gives more bulbs a warm southern exposure in the process. I can’t wait to see the little shoots emerging from the soil and what it might look like as they grow up around the shrubs, which I expect will also take off this next year, too. Stay tuned!

Question for you – how much are you planting this year? Do you know? (Do you even care?)

Silly question. OF COURSE WE CARE! We are passionate about garlic.

But what I am referring to are the many ways of planning the garlic garden. For example, does your garlic garden plan look like THIS???

I should hope not. I mean, who in their right mind would make a garden plan like THAT! Ahm.

Yeah – so that’s why I made a handy-dandy garlic planner in Excel – plug in the numbers, and PRESTO – instant planting plan for you. Check out different scenarios to see what works best in your situation – all in a flash. No senseless scribbles and cross-outs. And what’s more, I am willing to SHARE this amazing tool with all my fans out there who are willing to sign up on a mailing list, which entitles you to other cool stuff down the road. (Confession here: this is my first time trying to make files available for download through cyberspace, so I hope it works.)

For those of you who really don’t have time for all my hype, just
CLICK HERE to grab the Barbolian Fields Garlic Planting Planner right now.
I’m cool with that. Time is of the essence. Many people already have their garlic in the ground. Others are still trying to figure out how and where they’re going to plant it. I usually shoot for planting right around Halloween, give or take a couple of weeks either way.

Ok – for those of you patient souls out there who want to know more of the what & why of the Planner, read on.

Here’s the deal. When it comes to planting garlic, some folks just plant whatever fits in the space they have and eat the rest. That’s a good way. They worry a bit about the advice of “plant the biggest cloves” and wonder what that means, considering they’ve purchased “medium-sized” bulbs and have a bunch of little cloves that they’d just as soon stick in the ground than go through the hassle of peeling and eating. Then again, the cloves are so good, they just might eat them all unless they put some in the ground…and soon.

Others, though, like me, say, “I planted 1300 bulbs last year; this year I’m amping up to 1500.” Although that’s not really what I’m planting – I just threw those numbers out there.

I am one of those nerdy types who go through great extremes to measure each and every bulb, plot the averages on graphs, and try to figure out what works best from year to year, knowing full well that any statistician worth her/his salt would shoot holes through my analysis, based on the obvious fact that I, too, do not always plant the “biggest cloves” – whatever that means – which throws all the averages off right from the get-go.

Still, I try to analyze what works and use that analysis to determine how much to plant of what.

Then there are those who are BIG into growing garlic who go by poundage … “Yeah, I’m doing about 500 lbs this year.”

I’m not sure they worry about stats or even go through the trouble to measure anything. After awhile, you can just tell by looking at ‘em what’s “small,” “medium,” and in the “OMG- that is ONE FINE BULB!” category, and usually it’s a crew making those assessments.

But SOME people – me included – need to know EXACTLY how much garlic we’re going to plant, because we only have SO MUCH space, and quite frankly, every inch counts.

It’s just me and my shovel out there. No big tractors. No crews (although sometimes I get a little help from my friends).

And if you’re paying premium price for top-notch quality seed stock – and let’s be honest here – organic garlic seed stock ain’t cheap (we can save all the reasons why for another post) – you want to make the most of your investment.

I mean, if you’re just going to eat the stuff (in large quantities, possibly), maybe you don’t want to pay top dollar for that which becomes a fond memory of a special epicurean evening – but maybe you DO want to make the most of what might compound into a 5- to 10-fold return on your investment, depending on variety, in next year’s crop. Even if you’re not into it for the business, saving money in these economic times and ending up with a big basketful of garlic to boot (or booty, as the case may be) – is always a good thing.

We garlic growers are a group of great visionaries, what can I say.

So back to our original question: How much are you going to plant?

Planting garlic is, after all, simple math.

If you have a row xx feet long and xx feet wide, if you space your garlic 6” apart down a row and 6” apart across the row – or maybe 8” apart across and 8” down, or maybe 6” across and 8” down, or maybe crammed in tightly at 3” or 4” – and depending on the width of the bed, you have room for xx number of rows, and then you leave room for the sides of the bed, assuming it is raised a few inches to allow better drainage – which, depending on the number of rows across the bed leaves you how many “row spaces” between garlic rows (and how big are those spaces again?), and then you need to factor in the space between beds – 1.5 feet? Enough to allow a small tiller? Enough for a wheelbarrow? 2.5 feet?

Dang. For being simple backyard farmers, we sure are getting complicated here.

AH! But never fear! My Garlic Planting Planner provides a simple solution for you.

I have been making spreadsheet formulas for years – but THIS year, I really nailed it down.

All YOU have to do is plug in your measurements or other variables (be sure to follow the notes!) – and you will be able to see instantly (because this is the power of spreadsheets!) what you have room for and what not – and WHAT’S MORE – you can tweak it to see how different scenarios play out according to your specific specifications. Which is what we all have, to one degree or another.

Fer instance…

Maybe you need a little more room on the side of the beds. Maybe you need more space between beds. Maybe you want to see how much difference in total yield it will make if you space them 5” – 6” – 7” – 8” … you get the idea.

And believe me – I get it – you could figure this out on your own, but you don’t really want to.

What it comes down to is this:

1. Making the most of what you have
2. Spending less time scratching your head
3. Having more time to Get Down, Get Dirty, Get OUT There, and Plant!

So how much does it cost to access this handy-dandy planning tool?

Answer: I’ll let you decide. Give it a try. If you find it useful, it would be absolutely awesome if you hit the PayPal Donate button & bought me a cup of coffee. (I could really use one about now.) You could also send a check, money order, or even cold hard cash to:

But it’s not always about money. Receiving heartfelt thanks is also very gratifying. Trading is always cool, too. And when it gets down to it, I just appreciate the opportunity to help people out there who are passionate, as I am, about growing (and eating) exotic varieties of garlic. I appreciate the opportunity to share whatever wisdom (or folly) I’ve gained in the process. It’s a mutual thing. We help each other.

So – don’t scroll up -
HERE’S THAT LINK again to get your very own copy of the Barbolian Fields Garlic Planting Planner.
Even if you aren’t familiar with Excel – rest assured – it’s easy – and I provide directions every step of the way.

Thank You, again, for your support, in whatever form it takes,

And best of luck to you in all your garlic-growing endeavors!

~Blythe

We buried our mother's ashes beneath the rosemary. Lambchop, Argus, Griffin, Molly, and Lupine are near her side.

We planted my mother with the dogs in the pet cemetery. It’s true. She would have wanted it that way, right next to her best friend, little Lambchop.

It’s not as bad as it sounds. The cemetery, which we affectionately call “Boot Hill,” sits on a little knoll with a view of the Olympic Mountains, overlooking a small creek and the neighbor’s barn and farmland. The sunsets there can be quite spectacular.

My mother was a retired nurse. Intelligent. Caring. Even in the midst of a disease that steals your memories and leaves you without a sense of who you are, she never stopped giving and reaching out to others. Our family pets had a special place in her heart, as did the wild birds, which she helped through many cold winters. She loved the outdoors, the ocean, going fishing, and gardening – things she taught me to appreciate at a very young age.

And so, when she passed from this earthly existence, rather than toss her ashes to the wind, to an outgoing tide, or down a river in time, we thought she might like best to be in our backyard, close to family and pets. It was a stormy day in early December when my brother and I and other family members returned her ashes to the good earth and planted a rosemary shrub on top. At that precise moment, the clouds parted and beams of sunlight streamed through to that little spot below where we all huddled together in a circle, marveling at how such a strong personality could be physically reduced to such a small quantity of dust. We shared a few loving thoughts and memories and were thankful that she was finally freed. I played “Amazing Grace” and “Over the Rainbow” on my harmonicas, the clouds moved back in, and we left.

Barkley on the knoll, getting in touch with his inner dog, contemplating the world and all its wonders, or quite possibly, just enjoying a ray of sunshine.

I often return. Sometimes I talk to our mother, ask her advice, talk about the goings on of this world; plus, it’s a nice place to play my harmonicas. Other times I just sit quietly and look out at the fields and mountains. Our dog, Barkley, frequently joins me. He is a rather tormented, somewhat neurotic soul, who has come a long way since his troubled days in the dog pound – hence the name Barkley, which is the kind of name you get when you spend time in the joint making a racket. I like to think that he sits there in a ray of sunshine in peaceful meditation, getting in touch with his inner dog, thinking about how he can be the best that he can be. He is a very intelligent, thoughtful creature.

The rosemary shrub did not make it through the heavy rains and snow of this last winter, so early this spring, in memory of our mother, I decided to transform the area into a kind of mini-wildlife reserve – and also a kind of secret garden – a place to escape the craziness of this world.  I started thinking of my garden in an entirely different light – not only a place to grow food to nourish our bodies, but also a place to nourish our souls.

Plus, we needed a good windbreak to absorb the frequent storms we get off the coast, also something to help stabilize a steep slope, the aforementioned wildlife food and habitat, and last but not least, we needed to ensure that whatever we planted wouldn’t eventually block our mountain view. It was a bit of a challenge.

First, we took advantage of a Conservation District native plant sale and planted about 20 firs and cedars and a dozen or so huckleberry plants. Not all of them made it, but enough will eventually grow to make a forest grove on the northern edge of the property. We will fill in the spaces with rhododendrons and native plants as time allows.

To the west, we planted a new vine maple (Acer circinatum), a familiar Northwest wind-tolerant species that can grow tall in the sun or almost vine-like in the shade. It grows well with conifers, Doug Fir, hemlock, and dogwood. We planted it near the base of a gigantic maple whose limbs are starting to dry and break during winter storms. I love this old tree, and I am not sure why it is dying. Our house is over 100 years old, so the tree could very well be much beyond that. When my son was young, we built a tree fort in it and used to have picnics up there and read the original version of “Treasure Island.” You could hear us calling loudly from the branches, “Shiver me timbers!” The birds also love this tree, and we have often found cherry pits in our hideaway left by marauding raccoons.

Between the vine maple and the cemetery, we planted a Black Hawthorn tree (Crataegus douglasii - Lindl.), which will branch out and provide food and cover for birds and small mammals of all kinds. The hawthorn is a good fit for this spot because it will have room to grow; can be pruned to a hedge or thicket and makes a good windbreak; will stabilize slopes; can be coppiced; its branches can be made into tool handles; and all in all, it makes a good understory plant. Plus, they attract hummingbirds, which were my mother’s favorites.

Around the gravesite, I planted Sunchokes – sometimes called Jerusalem Artichokes – a perennial sunflower that will multiply year after year, creating yet another windbreak. The starchy tubers are low on the glycemic index and provide a good substitute for potatoes, or so they say. Planting a variety of sunflowers here is kind of an inside joke between my mother and me because they unexpectedly showed up in her garden one year, and she was certain that I planted them there, which I swear to God, I did not. I explained a little bird must have put them there, but she gave me the stare that only mothers can give and said she could read “L-I-E” across my eyes, which in earlier years would have made me tremble with guilt. I have planted sunflowers in my garden every year since, and yes, Mom, I planted these out there for you and your little bird friends.

Homemade chair from apple tree prunings.

The crowning achievement in this little retreat, however, is the living chair. Barkley helped me pick the spot for this chair on one of his meditative days when I saw him out on the edge of the bank, his nose turned to the wind, his eyes closed with his face toward the sun, savoring the warmth of an early spring day. I had earlier saved the largest prunings from our old gnarly apple trees. I sawed them into pieces that would make two short legs in front, two tall ones in the back, braces to connect them together, and the straightest pieces for the seat. It is rather rustic looking, to say the least, but in it’s own way, perfect. I set it out in Barkley’s spot, on the south side of the little cemetery, beneath what I think is some kind of delicate birch, planted long ago (possibly by a bird). At the foot of each leg, I planted a willow cutting, a combination of Harrisons, Golden, and Noire de Villaine. They will one day grow tall and willowy (of course), and I will bend them into shapes, fitting for a throne.

I shared a picture of the chair with a friend, who commented that he envisioned a woman sitting on it with a figure behind, arm extended, one hand on the shoulder of the seated figure. It seemed to represent departure, “but certainly not a sad one,” he noted.

This vision is exactly what I feel there. The figure is my mother with her hand on my shoulder. No departure. She is always with me out there. I confessed to my friend that I have been going through some troubling times, which my mother understands – and in that is where the sorrow lies – but, like most earthly things, is transitory. We watch the sun go down together, along with our cadre of wild birds and pets.

What I did not tell him, though, was that I was expecting a visit soon from my brother, who would be flying an airplane from New York, across the U.S., and eventually to Alaska, where his home is. My mother and I have always worried about him; he had had a difficult life in general, but had been going through some particularly hard times of late.

Then one sunny afternoon, in what now seems an eternity ago, my brother buzzed our back acre with his plane. It was a vintage Cessna 195 aircraft, and he was like an ecstatic kid with the ultimate new toy. We later walked out to Boot Hill and I showed him how I was transforming our mother’s gravesite into a sanctuary of sorts for people, dogs, and birds. He liked it. We took turns trying out the chair. We talked about replacing the rusty looking dried rosemary.

A few days later, he left on the final leg back to Anchorage. His last words as he hugged us goodbye, “Take care of each other.”

I was out weeding my garlic that afternoon when a weather system blew in, as they often do, quickly drenching me in rain. I kept thinking of my brother, but was determined to finish this “one last row” before giving him a call on the cell. “Hey – it’s pouring down rain here. Hope you’re doing alright! Love you!”

What I didn’t know at the time was that his plane had fallen off the radar. Before long, a search and rescue effort was launched, but the information had to travel to Anchorage and back before I heard the news.

The rain ceased, nearly as quickly as it had begun, and the sun broke through the clouds. It was a surreal light – a kind of glow-in-the-semi-dark kind of light when you most expect to find a rainbow. An odd feeling overcame me. I could hear him saying to me, “I am worried about the kids. Please help them.” And I replied, “I am always here for you. Always have been. You know that.”

It was then I got the phone call no one wants to receive. I walked out to our little makeshift chair, looked out over the fields, and called him again on the cell. “Don’t worry,” I said. “We have people trying to find you. Try to stay warm. Hang in there. Help is on the way. We love you. We WILL find you!”

But in my heart, I already knew.

Later that afternoon, I walked out to the chair again and sat down. The sky was such a mixture of dark and luminous clouds. I called him again on the phone, knowing he wouldn’t answer. “Do you hear me?” I almost yelled into the phone. “Because I think you do. And I just want you to know I love you. Don’t you worry. We will be ok.”

I have just returned from Anchorage to bury my brother. Odd how you find things out about those you love after they die that you really always knew. He was more like our mother than I ever gave him credit for. His wife and young children have a long, difficult road ahead. I am sorry to report, there is no happy ending to this at this time.

The garden has exploded in my absence. I walked out to our chair yesterday and cut away the wild parsley and other weeds. It felt good to chop and drop, slash, clean, mulch – do something strenuous. The sun came out in the afternoon, and I sat down to rest, feeling the warmth on my face. It occurs to me that in the blink of an eye, our lives are changed, yet all around me, life keeps on growing as if nothing happened. The days are long; spring rains are plentiful; the weeds compete for their share of the sun, just as they always have. I selectively choose those I allow to grow and bloom – such as the sunflowers – and cut back those that will turn back into soil and nourish their roots. It is something I can do in the midst of things I can do nothing about.

I look down to see the willows sprouting at the legs of my chair. They will grow tall and bend, yet remain strong. With care, the chair will live on, long after I do not.

“Do you hear me little brother?” I call out, “Because I think you do.”

I like this spot – this place where I can escape all the world’s craziness. Our most devoted of friends sit at my feet, and standing beside and slightly behind me, I can feel my brother, reunited with our mother. Their hands rest gently on my shoulders.

I stumbled across this video on YouTube, and thus began a quest on how to build my own “food forest.” I had a lot of questions, not the least of which was where am I going with Barbolian Fields? I admit to being partial to my backyard garlic patch, but I recognize I could be doing so much more. The Vietnamese family is such an inspiration in how to make the most of your space. Expand that thought to our entire planet. Such a unique and precious environment we are so privileged to inhabit! Are we each doing our part to take care of it so it can take care of us?

One link leads to another. I found some answers in this book: Gaia’s Garden, Second Edition by Toby Hemenway. It was an “Ah Ha!” moment for me. A complete garden-changer. Seriously.

First, let me say, permaculture is not a new concept. In the early 70s, Bill Mollison and David Holmgren popularized the idea with their observations of Tasmanian rain forests, but indigenous peoples around the world have practiced the basic principles for centuries. Today, permaculture can be found throughout Australia, the UK, in Croatia, across Cuba, in the jungles of Brazil, in the humid rainforests of Central America and Indonesia, across the plains of Africa – places where people, out of necessity and without the “luxury” of cheap oil to fuel big agribusiness enterprises, have learned how to survive – how to feed themselves, grow their own medicines, feed their animals, fuel their fires, grow the fibers for basketry, clothing, and structures – how to live with nature – through integrated systems gardening. A little research reveals that while the rest of the world has made great strides in permaculture practices as a means of enhancing food and plant-based product production, it is we – Americans of the United States – caught up in our business mindset – who have been blind to the possibilities of what this earth can provide without our intervention. Sadly, we are, for the most part, in the business of destroying the land that sustains us.

We have a lot to learn.

So what is permaculture? People disagree on a precise definition of something that combines the ideas of permanent, agriculture, and culture.

To me, permaculture is not one thing, method, or series of techniques. Permaculture is a mindset. It is a way of looking at the garden and surrounding landscape as an ecosystem, of which we are but a small part. It is using intelligent design to optimize that system.
It is learning to respect life – all the way down to the microorganism level – and especially at that level.
It’s about mimicking nature, because that is what works: a balance among species that coexist in layers: a canopy, understory, groundcovers, roots, and vines that tie the layers together. It is stacking the elements, life cycles, and functions in both space and time.

Permaculture is about working with your space rather than putting a lot of effort into something that works against it.
It is looking at different aspects of your property – your soil, hills, slopes, depressions, existing vegetation, water sources, light and shadow, how the sun moves across the sky in different seasons, which way the winds blow – and figuring out how all of it can be used to best advantage.
It’s about building fertility of the soil and the strength of the plants – and learning how certain plants have the ability to help one another.
It is growing native plants adapted to your climate, region, and soil, rather than forcing exotics.
It means including animals into the scheme of things – whether wild or domestic – because they are an essential part of life.

Permaculture is about efficiency – getting the most out of your space – growing plants and integrating systems that serve multiple functions.
It is maximizing productivity through the use of edges, microclimates, and symbiotic relationships.
It is recognizing that practices such as monoculture have been created for our convenience, but have little practicality in real-world ecosystems.
It is incorporating energy and water-saving concepts in your home, property, and lifestyle – because it makes sense.
It’s about not wasting “waste.”

Strategies and techniques help us achieve results – but they are just tools.

We learn that when we imitate nature, our gardens take on a life of their own. They become self-maintaining with little interference from us.

Why Gaia? Gaia is equilibrium. Perfect balance of both animate and inanimate forms and all the key elements of temperature, atmosphere, water, and mass that make our planet habitable. It is continually evolving. Does it include mankind? Maybe – maybe not. But for now, in the little universe that we call our backyards, we have an opportunity to transform a nutrient-consuming wasteland into a self-supporting Garden of Eden.

The result? A lush garden so complex, we cannot really fathom all the interactions that are happening around us, above, and under foot. Sustainable gardening at its finest.

So how do you do permaculture? I cannot recommend this book enough.

Everything is described in detail in Hemenway’s book.
(Click on this link if you want to read a fairly detailed excerpt on how to build a “guild” with an apple tree as its center focus.)

Gaia’s Garden tells you how to think of your space as an ecosystem. How to look at the ecology of that system and the role of each component. How to create synergistic communities where each part amplifies the whole. How to increase the fertility of your soil, capture and conserve water, mimic nature, garden in 3-dimensions, encourage beneficial insects and other animals to take up residence. Hemenway addresses different regions: temperate, dryland, and tropical. He gives specifics on design ideas, zones, functions, and guild combinations. He lists plants that are nitrogen fixers, nutrient accumulators, and hosts for insects. He tabulates those that provide mulch material, feed for animals, or habitat for wildlife. No matter where you are – in the city – in the country – at any latitude – whether you have acreage or a simple back porch – this book describes how to be more self-reliant. He makes a complex subject very easy to grasp. It is a process. We are working with systems that are constantly changing. Our knowledge, with our gardens, is continually growing.

My own garden suddenly appears so fragmented. It is a bold realization.

I return to thinking about the 300-year-old Vietnamese family garden. It has evolved to be a place where man is but one of the many organisms in the whole. In looking to the past, we can see a vision for the future.

I ask, instead of obliterating our planet with wasteful practices that erode the soils that feed us, pollute our waters, and crumble our economic base – for that matter, instead of employing warfare that threatens to obliterate the human race – what if we were to turn our planet into a big Gaia garden where humans, instead of being focused on greed, power, and exploitation, were a vital, nurturing part of the ecosystem, a place where the harmony of mutual existence allows all to thrive? Technology is not in conflict with this ideal – rather, it is a tool. Our spirituality is a means to connect. Each functioning component – animate or not – is mutually inclusive. As humans, however, we have a unique capability: we can share what we learn and grow with our fellow man. We can make the world a better place. We can reinvest in our planet, and in the process, humanity.

The turning points for me were two-fold. The first was when I was harvesting my garlic last summer, only to discover that the mulch I had layered around the bulbs to help suppress weeds and conserve moisture was probably responsible for the bulbs rotting in the ground. Anything that takes 9 months of tender loving care to bring to maturity becomes akin to offspring, and it is particularly heartbreaking to see them “go bad.” It set me to re-evaluating what I was trying to accomplish – in the garden, in my life – where it was that I went terribly wrong – one of those midlife crises that occur with alarming frequency throughout your life, not just at the moving midpoint. Could I keep doing this?

Here is the thing with growing garlic:

• It takes up more space than you realize, because you have to factor in at least a 4-year rotation cycle (we do 6);
• It’s a labor-intensive crop – garlic does not compete well with weeds;
• There is a narrow harvest window – too early, you get puny bulbs – too late, your bulbs split open and won’t last;
• Harvest time is right in the middle of summer, 4th of July onward, which is a busy time when you might want to be doing other things;
• A fair amount of space is required for proper curing – without good airflow, they’ll mold, meaning you could go through all that work to grow good bulbs, only to blow everything at the end;
• If you want to make money at it – which is difficult if you factor in labor costs – you have to market & sell the stuff – you can’t just give it away to everyone who is overjoyed to try a few samples, and
• Contrary to popular belief, garlic won’t buy you love.

Don’t get me wrong – I love garlic and I love growing it – and the sight of row upon row of garlic standing tall in the field is a beautiful sight indeed – but you have to recognize its limitations as well as the limitations it imposes.

The second turning point was returning from a trip in late November to find everything under a foot of snow, and realizing with horror that flocks of birds could have died in my absence, along with thousands – yes, thousands – of worms. You might think the two are related, and in some ways, they are. Fortunately, other family members kept our little bird friends alive, but I was bluntly faced with the fact that I was a birdseed addict. I couldn’t stop buying the stuff. More and more birds kept coming. The more I bought, the more they came. They made me feel happy inside, but the increasing demand couldn’t be ignored. It was starting to add up. Question: did I need them to make me feel good about myself, believing I was making their lives easier? Or was I just making them ever more dependent on me, and in the process, chaining myself to a winter of watching them out the window? I was trading my freedom for this amusement.

And as for the lowly worms? Highly esteemed they are at the Barbolian Fields vermiculture headquarters. They have increased in numbers to where now they take up 6 penthouses, which have to be situated outside – somewhat protected by the elements, but not entirely. Fortunately, their instincts took over, their metabolisms slowed below that of the lowly slug (if I may be so judgmental), they retreated to the center of the bins, and I am happy to report they survived. But it could have been a much different story.

The eye-opening moment was when I realized how things I do can also limit what I can do. They have been my own choices. And once those choices become responsibilities, I can’t necessarily just quit.

“A truly creative person rids him or herself of all self-imposed limitations,” said Gerald Jampolsky. And quicker than you can say, “Who the heck is Gerald Jampolsky?”, let me just say he’s an American psychiatrist.

I can’t say that I’ve read his book, The “Oh Shit” Factor: Waste Management for Our Minds, but I would probably relate to anyone who wrote an entire book under such a title. He talks a lot about forgiveness and unconditional love. I can relate to that, too.

What does this have to do with gardening?

It set me on a quest for a better way. Or at least a different way. Because it’s not a turning point unless you take a step in a different direction. The first step is being honest with yourself. Admitting you have a problem.

(Here we go again. “Welcome, Blythe.”)

Because as much as I talk about trying to live a sustainable lifestyle, the truth is, what I’m doing is hardly sustainable.

So, what is sustainability, anyway? It’s the buzzword of the day. It’s “outside the box.” It’s Organic. It’s Green. It is used so frequently, it has lost its influence – and maybe it no longer reflects its original intention.

I can tell you what sustainability is not:

• The work I do in the garden is not sustainable – it’s pure craziness.
• Making birds rely on my handouts is neither healthy nor sustainable.
• My attempt to capture rainwater is a start, true, but a mere fraction of what could be captured with a bigger system – and it does not solve the problem of how to deal with the drought we get in the summer.
• The wind rips through here nearly every day – yet I have never managed to capture it. It’s this invisible ever-present force that can only be seen by what it moves. It seems out of reach to me – uncontrollable – slipping through my fingers every time – a lost opportunity.

Getting down helps you to look up. Looking in helps you to look out.

If I am to rid myself of self-imposed limitations, I need to get creative.

What if instead of buying seed and feeding “my” birds (ha!) – I free them to be what they are – birds – not pets – and assist them by planting shrubs that provide more natural habitat, fruits throughout the year, and shelter from the wind and cold. (Ok, I will probably always feed the birds a few treats – but it doesn’t need to be their sole source of food.)

What if I reconsidered the whole garlic operation? Too much work? Maybe I could trade help with weeding for shares of garlic – or maybe I could make it a “U-Pick Garlic” farm and let people harvest and cure their own. We could even turn it into an agro-tourism event with music & food …. Hmmm, getting a little ahead of myself on that one – but Sequim already has a zillion people coming through this little town to swoon in fields of lavender – why not attract the salsa crowd? I think I’m on to something here.

Take a break already!

And instead of planting rows and rows of garlic in a single plot, how about mixing them up with other plants throughout the garden where their legendary protective qualities can be used to better advantage? For that matter, why not mix up the whole garden? Monoculture beds are convenient, but perhaps they just create an obvious target for insects. Why not intersperse plants that attract bees, repel insects, add nutrients, and provide shade, mulch, and other benefits?

The truth is, my garden is already a chaotic mess. Grass and morning glory are everywhere. I may have excuses as to why it got so far out of control – lack of boundaries and all that – but life happens – and if you are a slave to your garden, it’s hardly sustainable unless you just enjoy that kind of martyrdom.  But what if I recognized that chaos is ok – in fact, it’s to be expected – maybe even encouraged? Maybe I need to relax a little bit. Neatness counts, but psychotic control and continued sense of failure will not enrich my life. Let it go while I take time to smell the roses. It’s ok to be less than perfect.

And lastly – while I’m on this vent – my garden is boring. Surprising, but true. Sure, certain areas stand out, but for the most part, it’s just a series of traditional squares and rows and rectangles. A failed attempt at orderliness. What if I did something to make the garden more fun? Why not make more little secret hideaways? Why not make it a place where people are encouraged to wander? Why not make it a place where sometimes you just have to stop dead in your tracks because the world around you is just so incredibly gorgeous that you have to pinch yourself with the realization of how lucky you are to be here?

I am talking about bridging the gap between a “garden” and a “small farm.” We always want to compartmentalize things. “Oh she has a beautiful garden” conjures up images of massive flowers and winding pathways leading to some focal point, like a garden gate, statue, or pond. Whereas, “Oh she has a nice little farm” conjures up rows of veggies and a small tractor tilling the ground between them. Efficient. Orderly.

What if we blur these distinctions?

There is still time to change. It is still garden planning season.

It is time to break some rules.

Not real rules, mind you. Self-imposed-limitation-type rules. Things we hold to be self-evident. It is time to make things more sustainable in terms of both lifestyle and the environment. Time to get creative.

In the process, we have this great opportunity to re-think what sustainability really means. How can we realistically apply our ethics and belief systems to our own backyards? Because if we are to preserve this planet for future generations, each of us needs to do what we can, and we all have to start somewhere. We can’t wait for the Monsantos of the world to come around to our way of thinking. We each need to do our part to contribute to social consciousness. It is senseless to keep growing excess amounts of produce that gets thrown away when it could be given to people in need (and if your community doesn’t have a community kitchen of some sort, it’s time to start one). We need to look at how to reduce waste, conserve resources, reuse & recycle, learn about xeriscaping, native plants, and many more things I have yet to discover. We need to change our attitudes toward the need for perfection – perfect lawns, roses, hedges, and rows that require so many additives, resources, and energy to make them so perfect that they become unreal – like skinny models of the plant world. We have to address issues at multiple levels from multiple angles. We need to support one another, buy local, and know where our food comes from. And we need to teach our children.

Yes, it takes a village. It can start in a garden. God’s original plan.

Questions for you:

• Is your garden limiting or expanding your world?
• Is it a place of peace and tranquility or a hard labor camp?
• Is it an extension of your self?
• Does it reflect your ethics?
• Does it make you stand in awe at the beauty and wonder of the world we live in?
• Is it fun?
• And what can you do to make it more of all those things that enrich – and liberate – your life?

Like “Lasagna Gardening,” this is another book that I never got around to reading, because again, I thought I pretty much had the fundamentals down. Well, now we have the “All NEW” version, full of good advice and ideas – and I’m here to tell you it’s worth a look.

The basic idea is to build beds, mark out your space in square feet (or it’s not “square foot” gardening), and thickly fill in the space with plants.

The idea is not new, and over the years, it has taken on different forms – biodynamic, biointensive, calorie farming, French Intensive, etc.

As an aside, back in the 70s, “French Intensive” gardening was my mantra. As you might guess, this method is very intense, just like the French, just like their coffee. Intense planting, intense building of the soil, intense results – and a very intense workout getting there. Just drink a quadruple shot of ultra-dark-roasted mud and you are good to go. I was much younger then and in great shape – so the double-digging required to loosen the soil down 2 feet was “pas de probleme.” I dug little pathways between the beds and tossed the dirt into the growing area with great flair. I made neat rectangular mounds that would make any French person sincerely exclaim “Oooh la la!.” Plus, I had recently returned from a year in France on a student exchange program, so I thought I knew what I was doing.

My neighbor, an elderly farmer who had always grown things in long, single rows but mostly herded cattle, had never seen garden “beds,” much less heard of “companion planting.” When he came across my series of mounds, crowded with vegetation, he scratched his chin and tactfully expressed sympathy in that he thought maybe I had buried my dogs out back. Although now I better appreciate his country sense of humor, I also admit there is always something new you can learn – and that something over the years is that there’s gotta be an easier way.

Bartholomew’s “Square Foot Gardening” is that way.

For one, he doesn’t mess with digging up sod, double digging, moving soil from one end of the bed to the other to make room for tossing over the new stuff – none of that. He just lays down a ground barrier, builds a frame for the bed, mixes up a growing medium, and piles it inside. Map out your grid, plant as thickly as the plants will allow, watch them grow like crazy.

It doesn’t get much easier, and throughout the book, you gotta appreciate Mr. Bartholomew’s never-ending cheerfulness and enthusiasm that exudes in every chapter – along with his sense of irony, which makes the book very fun reading.

There are several other things in the Square Foot Gardening book I can appreciate: for one, Mr. Bartholomew is both a civil engineer and an efficiency expert. This explains so much. You have to admit that it doesn’t make sense to scatter a bunch of seed only to thin it out later – and who doesn’t waste lettuce and carrot seeds? Or how about the space you waste if you follow the directions on spacing between rows? In Bartholomew’s beds, there are no rows. You build a bed frame and you tend the garden from the sidelines. And you have to appreciate how he advocates growing enough for your own needs (and perhaps a little to share), but does not advocate methods created for the convenience of commercial farming, which could possibly feed all of humanity if large businesses felt so inclined, which, of course, they are not, and we won’t go there because that’s for a different rant.

But think about it. Our whole mentality of planting in long rows caters to the convenience of large farming practices, an industry that has literally grown up on large tracts of land, abundantly available in the U.S., and also on the abundant availability of cheap oil, which is already history. Gas at $4.00/gallon is making us all reconsider the wisdom of those practices that are just another example of America’s culture of waste.

In the words of Masanobu Fukuoka, the Japanese scientist and author of The One-Straw Revolution: An Introduction to Natural Farming, who demonstrated on his own family farm that he could get comparable results as commercial enterprises simply by working “with” nature rather than against it:

“The food-growing situation may seem to be in good shape today, but that’s just an illusion based on the current availability of petroleum fuels. All the wheat, corn, and other crops that are produced on big American farms may be alive and growing, but they’re not products of real nature or real agriculture.
They’re manufactured rather than grown. The earth isn’t producing those things… petroleum is!”

Time to downsize, folks. Time to take lessons from around the world and efficiency experts such as Mel Bartholomew on how to make the most of our space, water, and other resources, and how to maximize our yields in the process.

So – it begs the question: If you aren’t rolling a combine across the back 40 or even a small tiller in your own little postage stamp on the planet, then how much space do you really need? How do you come to terms with that?

I confess, this is a real problem for me. I have my garden scattered across 15 different growing areas, depending on how you count them, and that doesn’t even include the orchard. Even though I am selling some of my crops, I definitely have room for efficiency. I am caught between being too small to be a big farmer; too large to be a small gardener.

Part of the answer, according to Mel, might be in looking at your garden in terms of individual square feet. How much, exactly, can you fit in a square foot? Turns out, a lot. And just how much space is required to grow all the veggies for a family of four if you stagger your plantings and grow things in 3-dimensional space where you can and throughout all the seasons…well, that depends, of course, but the final answer – not much!

The other big advantage to the Square Foot method is the reduction in labor. If all the space is filled up with plants you actually want, then there is no room for weeds, right? And if you start with a weed-free soil mix, you are 99% ahead of their game. I am currently on a warpath against weed domination and it is very apparent that to win, or at least to hold your ground, you just have to never give them a chance. Easier said than done.

I admit, when I first read this book, I thought, “That’s cool for someone with a small backyard or someone who just wants a little garden, but not very practical for me.” I am, after all, borderline-tenacious about my garden plots in which I have labored intensively (there’s that intense word again), and I’m not ready to give them up. My kids have often suggested that I should reduce my garden to a few raised beds, which they would happily build for me (trying to tactfully say that I have more than I can handle) – as if I’m some little old lady who just wants to putter in her petunias. (It’s just so interesting when your own kids start treating you like one of the elderly. Good grief.)

I mean, I’ve got over an acre of garden and I’m not about to go build a bunch of boxes and line them out in square-foot measurements (I mean, I understand the mentality, but is this not a bit anal?) and fill them with 1/3 peat (agh! there’s that recommendation for a nonrenewable resource again – and I don’t care how much you try to rationalize or justify it!), 1/3 vermiculite, and 1/3 purchased compost, (because c’mon, we all know the compost stuff I make is full of seeds and weeds because it just never gets quite hot enough to destroy them) – not to mention all the 2 x 6” boards & extra riff-raff required to tend to the plants’ individual needs, protect them against the elements, and provide whatever else they demand (now that they’ve become next of kin) – and even though some folks might be able to scrounge up this stuff for free, wishful thinking – reality is, many of us can’t.

Ok – so now we’re into some bucks for something clean and neat and orderly, which SO appeals to my husband, also of an engineering mindset. Me, of course, I’m more of a freestyle gardener.

Did you follow all that?

The question, again, is: does this make sense to me?

Um, well, as it turns out – yes.

Well, maybe not for my entire garden. But I have a little strawberry patch out back – it’s maybe 12’ x 24’ – and it’s always a pain in the you-know-what to weed, because it is full of quack grass and the god-forsaken-should-be-condemned-from-the-universe morning glory and wild blackberries. I am at the point where, you know, I hate to say this, but strawberry plants are relatively cheap. Maybe I should start over. Maybe I should just smother everything – it’s rather cruel, yes – but in looking at the bigger picture – just cover the entire area with several layers of cardboard, maybe some bark, and then maybe top it off with some fancy beds laid out in measured squares – orderly – in control – plant some new & improved strawberries and maybe a few salad greens and maybe some flowers to attract some bees – and, yes, maybe a few kitchen herbs – the kinds of things you want by your front door – perfect.

It’s a start.

100% of the harvest at 50% of the costs, 20% of the space, 10% of the water, 5% of the seeds, 2% of the work. Hard to argue with that. Mel is taking it on a mission to combat hunger all over the world.

Good idea, Mel. Thank you.