Anniversary Orchid

Two weeks ago Lee and I celebrated five years of being together.  To commemorate the day, Lee bought me a beautiful orchid from the farmer's market.  The flowers on the orchid are bright magenta and intensely suggestive, with layers of petals surrounding the sexual parts.  I find the flowers mesmerizing and the orchid itself amazing in its ability to produce a flowering stalk that dwarfs the rest of the plant.  I hope to keep our orchid alive for many years to come, so I researched orchid types and care.

Our orchid is a moth orchid in the genus Phalaenopsis.  Moth orchids are native to the lowland rain forests of India, southeastern Asia, Indonesia, and northern Australia.  Phalaenopsis orchids have become popular as houseplants because they are easy to care for, relative to other orchids, and they bloom for months at a time, sometimes multiple times a year.  The showy flowers on Phalaenopsis orchids range in color, from whites to pinks to purples, and in pattern, from solid to faded to spotted.  In its native rain forest, the scent and display of the flower would attract a specific fly, who would try to mate with the flower and, in the process, get covered in pollen to be carried to the next flower visited.

Phalaenopsis orchids are epiphytic, which means that they live on the branches of rain-forest trees.  Epiphytic orchids have long, cord-like roots that can be seen climbing out of their pots.  In the rain forest, the long roots securely attach the orchid to a tree branch and capture rainwater for the plant.  Epiphytic orchids, like other plants, are able to use sunlight to make sugar, their food source, but they also need nutrients, including nitrogen and phosphorous, that plants normally absorb from the soil.  Orchids have adapted to living with low levels of nutrients, which they absorb from fallen leaves, bird droppings, or other organic matter that accumulates in tree branches.

The goal of caring for a Phalaenopsis orchid as a houseplant is to mimic the natural conditions of the lowland rain forests:

Water Phalaenopsis orchids frequently enough to keep the roots moist but not wet.  Watering about once a week is a common suggestion, with more frequent watering in the summer or during active blooming and less frequent watering in the winter.  It is preferable to water orchids in the morning, because evening watering can promote fungal diseases.  Water with room-temperature (not cold) rainwater, spring water, or filtered tap water.  Between waterings, the roots should dry enough that the plant becomes significantly lighter, but the roots should never be allowed to dry out completely, as orchids do not easily recover from becoming wilted.  It is equally important that orchid roots never sit in water, because their roots are adapted to being in the open air, not in the soil, and will rot if they become waterlogged.

Phalaenopsis orchids are considered warm-temperature orchids because they normally grow at or near sea level in the tropics.  Their ideal temperature range is 70 to 85 degrees F during the day and 65 to 70 degrees F at night.  They grow best when the night temperature is about ten degrees cooler than the daytime temperature, allowing the plant to metabolize more slowly in the evening.  A drop in the night temperature, which usually happens in the fall, induces flowering in the moth orchids.

Phalaenopsis orchids need low light levels.  North- or east-facing windows, or shaded south- or west-facing windows, are good places for Phalaenopsis orchids to live.  Moth orchids require six to ten hours a day of light with an intensity of 1200 to 2000 foot candles.  I have to admit that "2000 foot candles" is totally meaningless to me.  More tangible definitions of low light range from having enough light to be able to read a book to having enough light to cast a fuzzy, but not clear, shadow on the leaf of the plant when a hand is held over a leaf.  Phalaenopsis orchids that do not receive enough light will have dark green leaves, as opposed to brighter green leaves on orchids in sufficient light, and will not be able to produce a flowering shoot.

Moth orchids need moderate levels of humidity.  Higher levels of humidity in the summer, when the temperatures are higher, are fine for orchids because the higher temperatures speed evaporation.  High humidity at low temperatures can promote fungal growth on the plants, due to low evaporation rates, and extremely low humidity can be damaging to the plants at any temperature.  The recommended solution for low humidity, which is often caused by central heating, is to place a tray of water under the orchid plant during the winter months to increase the humidity around the plant.  When using a humidity tray, make sure that the orchid is not sitting directly in the water, or its roots will rot.  Because orchids are prone to fungal diseases, it is also important that there is air circulation around the plant.

Finally, orchids require less fertilizer than most potted plants because they are adapted to low-nutrient conditions.  Some Phalaenopsis orchid growers follow a "weekly weakly" fertilization plan, meaning that they fertilize their orchids with very dilute fertilizer once a week.  Other growers recommend fertilizing once a month with an orchid-specific fertilizer.  Fertilize after watering because the roots are more able to absorb nutrients after they have expanded with a recent watering.  If watering with distilled or highly-filtered water, it is important that the orchid receives a fertilizer that contains all the micronutrients (iron, manganese, zinc, copper, boron, molybdenum, chlorine) normally found in spring water as well as the macronutrients (nitrogen, phosphorous, potassium, calcium, sulfur, and magnesium) normally found in fertilizers.

Catching Up

Once I am caught up, I will spend quiet afternoons puttering around the yard with a pair of bypass pruners and a bucket of newly-pulled baby weeds, just doing a little maintenance here or there.

In reality, weeding in my yard is an athletic event, requiring shovels, loppers, and the occasional saw, and producing heaping piles of brushy trash or four-foot-tall, flowering weeds.

 
Once I am caught up, I will compost all of my yard waste in an efficient three-bin system.

In reality, I'm thankful that the City of Austin will take, and compost, the bushels of Bermuda grass, bindweed, and other invasive weeds that my yard produces.

 
Once I am caught up, I will plant, and thin, and trim, and harvest, continually, always on schedule.

In reality, I plant all at once, procrastinate thinning, and harvest in an equal panic, right before everything goes to seed.

Yesterday was one of those catch-up days.  I hurried around the yard like a madwoman, mowing, weeding, deadheading, and watering, all in an attempt to catch up with the growth that was stimulated by last week's rains.  I know that catching up in the garden is just a fairy tale, less likely to happen than turning one of my garden toads into a prince by kissing him, but I still rush after that ideal.  I like the neatness of the freshly-mowed lawn.  I like being able to walk into the backyard, to water the baby fall greens, without creating a mental to-do list.  I guess that, most of all, I like the feeling of being in charge of my yard.  With the lawn mowed, and the weeds pulled, and the plants watered, I can putter around the yard, trying to take a picture of Benji with her head turned my direction.

Impatience

I am digging up my front yard to create a garden.  I'm not digging up the whole yard, just the section that lies between the driveway and the front walk, a rectangle of about 10 by 20 feet.  It didn't sound like that large of an area until I began digging.  On a humid morning, following a few days of ground-softening rains, I went into the front yard with a shovel thinking, "This morning I am going to remove the dead Bermuda grass from this section of yard."  Nearly an hour later, after reclaiming less than a one-foot strip of soil along the sidewalk from the lawn, I realized that this project was going to require many hours, over multiple days, worth of digging.

If I was just turning the soil, I could work more quickly, but I want to remove every bit of dead Bermuda grass that I can.  Somewhere in the depths of its extensive root system are a few alive cells, waiting to divide and take over my future garden plot.  I would rather take the time now to remove every bit of Bermuda grass than to have to fight it in the future, so I am working methodically, one square of ground at a time.  I am removing not only the sod, clumps of grass and its surface roots, but also the runner roots, or rhizomes, that run between the clumps of Bermuda grass.  The rhizomes are hazardous to a garden because they contain tissues that can divide and differentiate into leaves, roots, and stems, creating new grass plants as they move through the soil.  My garden gloves are caked with dirt from crumbling clods of soil and picking out every bit of Bermuda rhizome that I can find.

As I work I have been finding fat, white grubs that curl up in response to the sunlight.  They are Japanese beetle grubs, which are common in lawns in Austin.  The Japanese beetles are a type of scarab beetle with a one-year life cycle that revolves around lawn grasses.  The beetles mate in the early summer and lay eggs in the lawn.  The eggs hatch into grubs that feed on grass roots through the fall.  The grubs burrow deep into the ground to overwinter then, in the spring, return to the grass roots to feed.  In early summer they pupate, emerge as flying beetles, and mate, starting the cycle over again.  I've been tossing the fat grubs onto the sidewalk, hoping that the birds will find them.  But the local birds, who will follow fearlessly behind the lawnmower, haven't figured out what I am offering.

Sorting through the soil is peaceful work which gives my busy hands something to do while my mind, equally busy, spins through its revolutions.  I have felt the satisfaction of finally beginning a project that I've been wanting to undertake for years and that I have been thinking about for the past few months.  I've also felt the disappointment of realizing how long it was going to take me to dig up this "small" section of lawn.  I've enjoyed working in the softer light that comes before the sun rises over the houses east of mine, happy to be working for myself, finally doing, and in the process, creating something that I want. 

This morning as I worked I realized that I had fallen behind in taking care of the rest of the yard.  While I've been focusing on planting the new backyard garden and creating a new front yard garden, the remaining lawn has grown and now needs to be mowed.  The basil plants by the A/C unit need water, the zinnias by the driveway need to be deadheaded, and the south side of the house needs weeding.  This realization that I am behind which, in reality, happens every time it rains, reminded me of the fears that kept me from starting this project in the first place, fears that I am taking on too much, creating a garden that will need maintenance where I once had a neglected but neat, low-maintenance lawn.

But mostly I feel impatience.  I want to be done with the digging part of this process so that I can move on to the next steps, on to creating beds, amending the soil, and planting seeds.  I feel rushed as if the fall planting deadline is about to pass.  In truth I still have a few weeks to plant greens, and several weeks to plant the real cold lovers like spinach and lettuces.  The lettuce seeds that I planted in the backyard last week are not germinating as well as the beets, bok choy, and arugula, indicating that the ground is still too warm for lettuce seeds.  But, while I rationally know that I have time, I still feel this great rush to be through the work of digging up the yard, this great rush to get to the next step.

I've been waiting for this moment all summer.  I've been waiting for this exact day, when I can wake to a chilly north wind and enjoy, without sweat in my eyes or mosquitoes biting me, being in the garden.  I've been waiting for years to break ground in the front yard, to feel the satisfaction of lifting up a shovelful of soil and realizing that, aside from being full of rocks, the soil under my lawn has a lovely, crumbly texture.  And, realistically, I will look back on this time with envy, remembering how the light rains came at the right time to soften the ground and the cool wind came at the right time to make the work easier.  This is that time.  Why rush it?

Planting Seeds

Planting seeds is an act of faith.  I don't say that lightly, given that, on the spectrum ranging from faith to doubt, I tend to hang out on the far side of doubt.  I'm not a believer, I'm slow to trust, and I'm a skeptic, always waiting for the part of the story that begins, "But, in reality, ..."  So every time I plant seeds, tossing tiny specks into the vast, brown nothingness of a newly carved row, I always wonder if it will work, if the seeds will really sprout this time.  Yet every year I am back again, buying too many seed packets, carefully preparing the soil, and, once again, rubbing my fingers together in concentration as I try to evenly disperse seeds along a row.  In seeds, I trust.

But I also understand the limitations of planting seeds.  I have learned the hard way that the seeds must be fresh, the soil must be warm enough (but not too warm), and the gardener (me) must be committed to keeping the soil moist throughout germination.  I've also learned the value, in terms of time and money, of buying plants when I want just one or two of a variety.  The first year I had a community garden plot, I bought a seed packet for everything that I wanted to grow.  My tomatoes didn't ripen because I planted seeds after the last frost, when I should have been planting 6-week old transplants, the fall broccoli germinated then perished in the August heat, and the remaining seeds, most of what I had bought, spoiled in the humidity of my non-air-conditioned apartment. 

Now, when planting tomatoes, peppers, and eggplants for the hot season, or broccoli and cabbages for the cool season, I buy plants, one or two of each variety.  I get more variety without wasting seeds, and my garden gets a jump-start into the next season.  Within days, the baby plants establish and my garden takes shape, a patchwork of plants, each spaced correctly and already growing to fill its space.  Buying transplants is quick and practical but doesn't compare to the satisfaction of growing plants from seeds.

The best part of cool-season gardening is growing rows of greens from seed.  I love carving straight, parallel rows into the soil.  I tend to use too many seeds, compensating for my inability to distribute seeds uniformly along a row by over-seeding.  As the seeds fall into their row, they disappear into the dark soil, leaving me to question where I've been and to re-seed over the middle of the row.  I rake a layer of soil back over the seeds and use the head of the metal rake to gently tamp down the length of the row, improving seed-to-soil contact and, later, showing me where to water.

Standing on a cinder block, watering the newly-planted garden, I admire my straight and orderly rows.  For a few days, my garden is like a Zen garden, constructed from soil instead of rocks, carefully arranged yet impermanent.  Seeds will sprout, in crookeder rows than I planted, and weeds will grow between the rows.  The garden will be beautiful in its later stages, but that first stage of subtle rows is always the most temporary and always more orderly than the other stages.  I appreciate that neatness, that emptiness, that potential.  It's still an idealistic garden of vision at that point, able to turn into anything that I imagine.  Once seeds sprout and plants grow, it becomes a garden of reality, perfect in ways, but also lacking in ways.  Planting seeds begins one garden, the one made of soil, seeds, and water, but, in doing so, it ends another garden, the one made of planning and imagination.

Crooked Garden Path

Rainy, cooler days and morning fog, the perfect weather for transplanting seedlings and planting seeds, inspired me to finish planting my "backyard" garden, a small (10' x 10') plot in the northwest corner of my backyard.  I created the backyard garden in early August by heavily mulching the corner of the yard that receives sunlight.  I still think of it as an experimental garden, though, because I don't know if the plot will get enough sunlight over the winter to grow vegetables.  So far, the four broccoli plants that I planted almost two weeks ago have established themselves and are growing.

I started by building a path, because I wanted all parts of the garden to be accessible.  And, more honestly, because I really wanted to make a path.  I love garden paths, and my backyard is full of bricks left behind by the first owner of the house.  I've been thinking about those bricks, and imagining an entire backyard path system, over the last few weeks.  Needless to say, I have a tendency to think way ahead.  So it was satisfying to begin an actual path by laying bricks, side by side, diagonally across the garden.  I already love the resulting path, but I have to admit that it looks a little overbuilt for the small garden plot.  Later in the day, when Lee saw the newly-planted garden, he said, "I like your, uh, ... crooked path."  Someday, the path is going to make sense, and, until then, I think it's cool.

The crooked path created two irregularly-shaped planting areas.  In the narrower sections, I transplanted baby plants from the nursery.  A Brussels sprout plant and two cauliflower plants, both Snow Crown variety, joined the Green Magic broccoli plants on one side of the garden.  On the other side of the path, I planted three cabbage plants, one Stonehead, one Ruby Perfection, and one Early Jersey Wakefield, and two Georgia collards plants.  In the remaining space I was able to make six rows of different lengths for planting seeds.

I bought too many seeds this year.  I was thinking about all the new garden space I was going to have, and I started imagining so many rows of cool-season greens as I stacked so many seed packets in my basket.  I'm still hoping for all those rows, and, to be fair, I still have several weeks for planting.   But, at this time, with the AC-corner garden occupied by basil and Serrano peppers, and the front yard garden still in the planning stages, I only had six, short rows for planting seeds.  I decided to plant two rows of my favorites, Bright Lights Swiss chard and Detroit Dark Red beets, two rows of Asian greens, Kailaan (a Chinese kale) and Mei Qing Choi (a pak choi), and two rows for salad, Italian arugula and a Mesclun lettuce blend.

When the transplanting and planting were done, I raked the soil smooth, rearranged the mulch around the transplants, and watered the garden.  As I watered, clouds rolled overhead and a light sprinkling of rain fell.  Despite the ideal conditions, some of my transplants looked tired from their day of travel and transplanting.  I asked the now-established broccoli to put in a good word for me with the new plants, to reassure them that I would keep them well-watered over the next couple of weeks.  And, no, I'm not implying that I talk with plants in any serious way.  It's more like I talk with plants in the same way that I ask the toilet to stop running or converse with Benji the cat, answering each one of her demanding meows (she's an extremely vocal cat) with a statement of agreement.  We're not talking the same language, and maybe we're not even communicating, but I get to say my intention out loud, and somehow that is helpful.

Fall Elm

I have a mild, though occasionally annoying, case of Austin allergies.  The intensity of my congestion seems to correlate with the density of mold spores in the air, so I've concluded unscientifically that I suffer from mold allergies.  When I'm sneezing more than usual, or when I think to, I look up the pollen counts.  Mold spores always make the list, along with a few pollen-producing plants that vary with the season.  In August and September, ragweed and "fall elm" are the major pollen producers.

I've always wondered why "fall elm" isn't called by its actual name, cedar elm, given that cedar elm is the elm that blooms in the late summer here.  Maybe it's a local preference, like calling Ashe juniper "cedar," or maybe it's because cedar elms, though common and widespread in central Texas, are not much known.  Dismissed as one of the "three unimportant elms found in the Southeast" by my very-dated guide to trees of North America, cedar elms obviously aren't among the trees, like pecans, live oaks, and bald cypresses, for which our region is known.

Cedar Elm (Ulmus crassifolia) is the most widespread native elm of Texas, and is found throughout east Texas, except for the southeastern corner of the state.  Though they grow to their largest sizes in moist, bottom-land soils, cedar elms can also grow in the alkaline, compacted-clay soils or the rocky, limestone soils that are common in central Texas.  The medium- to large-sized trees provide food, cover, and nesting sites for birds, and host the larval stages of two species of butterflies.  Cedar elms can tolerate part shade or full sun and, once grown, provide dense shade for houses and yards.

Cedar elm leaves are miniature versions of the leaves of the better-known American elm (Ulmus americana), which also grows along waterways or in yards in Austin.  Cedar elm leaves are small, just one to two and a half inches long, but thick, asymmetric ovals.  The edges of cedar-elm leaves are doubly serrate, meaning that there are smaller notches within larger notches along the edges of each leaf.  The tops of the leaves feel like sandpaper, while the leaf bottoms are soft like felt.  Altogether, the small, leathery leaves are well-adapted to the heat- and drought-stresses of central Texas.

Cedar Elm (Ulmus crassifolia)

Cedar elm blooms in July, August, or September, depending when, or if, late-summer rains occur each year.  Because they are wind pollinated and do not need to attract insect pollinators, the flowers of cedar elm trees are small and inconspicuous.  (I rarely notice them until they fall from the trees and get carried into the house in the treads of my shoes, littering my kitchen floor with tiny, brown crunches.)  The tiny flowers release pollen into the air, which, ideally, will carry the pollen to another cedar elm tree that is downwind.  But wind is an unreliable messenger, so some of the pollen reaches our noses instead, creating the potential for allergies.

Pollinated elm flowers turn into samaras, or simple, dry fruits with wing-like outgrowths that are adapted to riding on the wind.  Light green and round with a notch on the bottom side, each fruit has a distinct, more-darkly colored seed in its center.  Following solid late-summer rains, the cedar elms in Austin are covered in samaras this year.  Later in the season, the samaras will turn yellowish-brown and fall from the trees along with the leaves.  Next spring I will be reminded of this year's fall rains, and the large crop of cedar elm fruits, when hundreds of elm seedlings sprout in my backyard.

Killing the Lawn

I want to turn my front yard into a garden.  Before I can grow a garden, though, I have to remove the plants that are already growing in that space.  The removal, or, to be more clear, killing of, previously-existing plants is an unfortunate prerequisite of gardening that doesn't get a lot of press.  As gardeners, or plant growers, we would like to forget about that step, to imagine that our garden began as a patch of well-prepared soil.  But any gardener knows that, where weeds don't grow, our tender, domesticated plants don't stand a chance.  So obviously, there were plants that came before, probably weedy, ugly plants of little value to us, but plants nonetheless, strong and adapted plants ready to put up a valiant fight against their removal. 

When I create a garden space in the backyard, or at the side of the house, I use the mulching method.  I clear the area of weeds, I lay down a layer of corrugated cardboard, and I mulch heavily over the cardboard with whatever mix of leaves, grass clippings, and compost I have at the time.  Then I wait for a couple to several months, during which time garden soil is created.  The layer of mulch keeps the soil beneath it moist, which attracts microorganisms, like bacteria, fungi, and worms, who go to work, converting hard, baked dirt into workable, fertile soil.  It's magic, it's organic, and it requires no digging.

The front yard is different in two big ways.  First, the front yard is in front, which means that I want progress to be faster on that future garden.  I don't want to mulch it for the next several months before creating a garden there.  I want to plant in this season, so that the lawn death and mulching and terrace building (yeah, it's on a slope as well) will make some sense to the neighbors when plants germinate and grow.  "Oh, she's growing a garden, how industrious," they will think, rather than, "When is that woman going to get rid of the cardboard in her yard?"

The other problem with the front yard is that its main inhabitant is Bermuda grass.  Bermuda grass (Cynodon spp.) makes a good lawn for the exact same reason that I fear creating a garden in its established territory - it is indestructible.  Originally from the savannas of Africa, Bermuda grass is adapted to seasonal droughts, which it survives by dying off above ground and re-sprouting from its roots once the rains return.  Bermuda grass is not adapted to freezing, so does not survive the winter in climates where the ground freezes.  Here in Texas, where the ground does not freeze, the tops of the plants die in freezes but easily grow back from the root systems in the spring.  And those root systems are extensive, an absolute wonder to behold, unless they're wrapped around and in-between the roots of your perennials.  Bermuda grass can return, healthy as ever, from a single piece of root left in the soil, and it spreads quickly through a garden, traveling both above ground, through modified stems known as stolons, and below ground, through modified roots known as rhizomes.

The organic method of removing Bermuda grass is to dig it out.  Other methods have been suggested, such as spraying with 20% vinegar (caustic and often leaves the roots unfazed), smothering in black plastic or solarizing under clear plastic (both really attractive options for the front yard), or mulching heavily (sorry, doesn't work for this plant, I've tried), but in the end, the only way to really get rid of Bermuda grass is to dig out each and every piece of root that you can find, and to keep digging out roots for as long as the plant survives.  Which may be longer than your household pets.  I perfected the dig-to-destroy method in my years of tending plots at community gardens, and I still use that method in my established gardens. 

But my front yard, compacted by years of serving as an non-watered, infrequently-mowed lawn, is currently not dig-able.  Mulching, watering, and soil amendment will solve the dig-ability problem, but not before giving the resident Bermuda grass a new lease on life.  Bermuda grass would like nothing more than to spread its mighty roots through a new layer of mulch and amended soil.  As the gardener here, I want a head start.

So I did what many "organic" gardeners have done before me.  I calculated the hours needed to hand dig every root out of the front yard, I revisited my desire to plant a garden this fall, not next year, and I chose the starting area for my garden, a self-contained 10 x 20 foot strip of yard between the front walk and the driveway.  Then I sprayed that space with Roundup.

I felt guilty as I sprayed.  With my back to the street, I worked systematically across and up my future garden space, making sure to spray the Bermuda grass more heavily, noticing that Roundup has a smell, somewhat sweet but also chemical.  Its main ingredient, glycophosphate, acts on a critical plant enzyme and therefore isn't toxic to animals.  And it supposedly breaks down quickly, leaving behind little trace after spraying.  But aren't all chemicals "safe" until we've discovered otherwise?

I try to garden organically, and for the most part I do.  (I don't think twice about spraying poison ivy, but that's another story.)  I'd like to think that this front-yard spraying, which has resulted in a striped lawn, green on one side of the walkway, sickly yellow on the other side, will save me time and effort both now, as I work to create a new garden space, and in the future, with less time spent digging Bermuda grass roots out from between my plants.  I don't know if that justifies the use of chemicals.  I guess that's a question for me to consider between now and when I decide to convert more of my front yard into garden space.