Posted by admin to Current Articles on 2008-01-18, 07:04:45

first published January 10, 2008

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Now before you start thinking that I’m a tad slow out of the starting blocks, I realize that Christmas 2007 has come and gone and that we’re better than a week into 2008. But here in the greenhouse business, a calendar year is a bit of a mirage. In fact, as far as time is concerned, the greenhouse is a virtual Bermuda Triangle, with entire chunks of years disappearing before they even exist. You see, around here, Christmas 2007 started back in December 2006, disappeared for a few months during the spring, only to reappear in all its wintery glory and then vanish last month just as we were putting the final touches on the poinsettia order for Christmas 2008. It’s definitely an exercise in controlled chaos and not just at poinsettia time. The bedding plant varieties you’ll see for sale in spring and summer 2008 were ordered in June of 2007, and some of our perennial varieties were booked back in 2006. Fortunately, my sister-in-law, Valerie, is an expert at making method out of this madness because on more than one occasion I’ve had to stop and think…what year is it again? So if you’ve spent the last week grumbling because writing the date on a check took two tries, welcome along for the ride—please keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.

In all seriousness, working a year in advance is just the reality of the gardening business. Take, for example, what it takes to grow a specific variety of geraniums. By June of 2007, the number of each geranium variety we need must be ordered so that the propagators have enough time to ensure there are enough ‘mother’ stock plants for spring of 2008. If I were to phone up a propagator in January of this year and order cuttings for this spring, he or she would probably laugh and hang up or ask if I had fallen in the punch bowl on New Year’s Eve. And that’s just the tip of the Bermuda Triangle.

As if getting the plant order right isn’t daunting enough, complicating matters is that we need to sync those plant orders with our company’s publishing deadlines so that we have a year to trial new plants before we recommend them in our magazine. That means that the premier issue of Enjoy Gardening 2008 had to be planned, written, photographed and put to bed by the end of December 2007. Daytimer, anyone? So while we’re juggling the here and now of the daily greenhouse grind, our experts are stealing away to greenhouse conventions and tradeshows in Toronto, Vancouver and Europe to discover the newest plants and trends so we can write and research the articles, plan and photograph the how-to projects, test recipes, and select the all-stars for my 100 Favourite Plants article so that you can have an insider’s look at what’s new in gardening.

The danger, of course, of working in an industry that’s always a year ahead of the calendar is that one runs the risk of…say…writing about the exemplary attributes of a new plant variety, only to discover that the particular featured plant has succumbed to some devastating disease and isn’t available anywhere in the world. Of course, that has never happened to me, but it did happen to a “close friend” of mine last year.

Good or bad, there’s a glimpse of how I navigate my year. In all honesty, the whole process is really quite addictive…kind of like some twisted version of gambling. So if all of the stars align, by the time you see the Spring issue of Enjoy Gardening on the newsstands early February, all of the plants I’ve written about will be available, and gardeners nationwide will be able to enjoy them. Of course, it’s always possible that one of our suppliers could have a crop failure, but I suppose if that happens, we’ll just do what all gardeners do when Mother Nature imposes her own plan: lick our wounds and start dreaming about next year…whenever that is.

Posted by admin to Current Articles on 2007-12-28, 10:04:20

first published December 20, 2007

I have this theory that Smokey the Bear is to blame for our angst about buying real Christmas trees. If you think this sounds personal, you’re right. It all started back in Grade 6. I remember sitting in the gym at my elementary school in St. Albert, watching a reel-to-reel film of a stern-looking Smokey pointing directly at me and saying, “Only you can prevent wildfires.” Gulp! Well, that vision stuck in my mind just about as firmly as the film stuck and melted in that old projector. But even with the presentation cut short, Smokey succeeded in convincing me to question my dad about whether it was a good idea to cut down a tree each year for Christmas.

Now, I know that good old Smokey’s message was really about burned-down rather than cut-down trees, but I still can’t drive by a Christmas tree lot without hearing that bear’s stentorian voice in my head. Fortunately, once the fog of nostalgia clears, common sense prevails and I remember the fact that Christmas trees are farmed no differently than any other commercial crop.

The decision regarding what crop a farmer chooses to grow is based on the same sound principles common to any other business practice. That means deciding to farm cabbages or Christmas trees depends on factors such as climate suitability, cost of production, equipment required, return on investment, not to mention a little something called intuition. But regardless of whether the numbers tell you to plant cabbage or Christmas trees, both crops start their lives as seeds, grow in the ground, absorb sunlight, water and nutrients and, ultimately, are harvested and sold. The resources required to grow cabbage are not a whole lot different than those needed to produce a crop of Christmas trees, either. The only major difference between a crop of trees and a crop of cabbage is that trees take years to grow, whereas cabbage is ready the first season. Of course, there’s also the fact that you can’t eat trees…but neither could you decorate a cabbage plant…or at least not tastefully.

Then what is it that makes us squeamish about harvesting farmed Christmas trees? Well, I think it comes down to the fact that the crops we eat are less scrutinized because we all need food. However, as reasonable an argument as that is, it’s equally easy to argue that food crops leave a greater environmental footprint in the waste department. Here’s why. When it comes to cabbage, I suppose people could be thought of as ‘first-stage, living composters’ because we process food within our bodies, and then it eventually finds its way to waste treatment plants. But besides that not being an image that belongs embossed on a Christmas card, it’s also a process that requires a lot of chemical intervention to turn the waste into a product that can be re-utilized. In contrast, farmed Christmas trees are recycled easily by putting them through the chipper and using them as mulching material around tree and shrub beds. Mulch decomposes in the soil, nourishing other plants, and the cycle is complete. Heck, I’ve even heard a representative from the David Suzuki foundation endorse the use of real Christmas trees.

Of course, I haven’t done a complete environmental audit on cabbage versus Christmas trees, and there are lots of other considerations, but I think you get the picture: trees are farmed like any other crop. As I said in last week’s column, I own an artificial tree because not only is it one of many items that my wife brought along with her into our marriage, I would rather lug a pre-decorated fake up from the basement than strap a real one to the hood of my car. And as silly a deciding factor as that may seem, it’s actually as valid as any other when deciding what you support as a consumer. With that said, however, in a battle between Smokey and Suzuki, I’m still betting that Smokey would win claws down.

Posted by admin to Current Articles on 2007-12-21, 10:03:05

First Published December 13, 2007

I have a confession to make. I have forsaken a genuine, coniferous Christmas tree for a Jiffy tree. I call it the Jiffy tree because it is a fake—a fully decorated, artificial tree that spends 11 months of the year stretch wrapped in my basement. That is until sometime in early December, when I make my annual pilgrimage downstairs, hoist the tree up and onto my shoulder and haul it up to the living room. Then it’s simply a matter of cutting off its see-through straight-jacket, plugging in the lights and—viola!—instant Christmas.

I do feel a bit guilty, mind you, depriving my children of the experience of decorating, but my wife loves not having to strip down the tree each year and store all of the delicate baubles and lights. Besides, my daughter still gets to hang one or two new ornaments on the tree each year, and—so far, at least—she hasn’t used Dad and Grinch in the same sentence. Oh, I almost forgot to mention that this year I put the tree into an attractive metre-tall, black planter that is half filled with concrete blocks. That way, Little Brother can’t reach up and pull off the irresistibly shiny decorations and we nicely thwart the dog’s desire to expand her chew toy repertoire. Aah, the Jiffy tree—easy, safe and puppy proof …Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!

But while I’ve warmed to the idea of the no fuss, no mess, artificial, fully decorated, Christmas tree, there is one void that the Jiffy tree will never fill in me—that deep longing for good, old-fashioned alpine fragrance that takes me back to my childhood. On the farm we always had a fresh-cut white spruce, and we would no sooner have a faux tree than we would cancel Christmas. For me, the wonderful aroma was every bit as important as any perfectly adorned holiday symbol.

What is that aromatic stuff that I find myself longing for in December? Well, it’s all about family, and family in this case is what is missing with artificial trees. The family to which I refer is a group of plant-synthesized chemicals called terpenoids. I suppose one could really call the terpenoids an extended family because scientists have concluded that there are about 15,000 chemicals from a wide range of plants that are responsible for giving each plant species its characteristic scent.

The name terpenoid derives from the fact that the first compounds in the group were isolated from turpentine (an oil distilled from resins of coniferous trees). When you crush the needles of evergreens, the terpenoids are released from the damaged resin ducts and a wonderful fragrance escapes. But terpenoids also escape naturally. Warm temperatures encourage the oils to become volatile and waft out of the needles. In fact, the Smoky Mountains of the southern U.S. owe their name to the clouds of these chemicals that emanate from the pine trees during warm, calm weather. Terpenoids have many functions in plants besides fragrance, not the least of which is to serve as antifeedants (products that discourage feeding) to many insect and animal species—although the deer and porcupine I know don’t seem aware of this fact.

One practical thing to remember about terpenoids is that they’ll tell you how “fresh” a tree is. A Christmas tree that doesn’t release a lot of fragrance when its needles are crushed may mean that the tree is past its prime and dried out. A dried out tree is a fire hazard, so use the fragrant terpenoids as an indicator of the quality of the tree you want to purchase. Keep in mind that the sniff test isn’t that reliable when the tree is frozen solid.

Although I can add small amounts of alpine scent to my home by decorating with fresh wreaths and evergreen arrangements, alas, I suspect that the fragrant Christmases of my childhood won’t be recaptured. Once one switches to the Jiffy tree, it’s a hard habit to break. I do, however, think I owe it to the kids to let them experience at least one Christmas with the terpenoids. It would require a bit more work, and my decorating skills leave a lot to be desired, but who knows? Once the kids get a whiff of the real thing, I might be forced to retire the Jiffy permanently.

Posted by admin to Current Articles on 2007-12-14, 07:35:30

first published December 6, 2007

The tallest tree in Edmonton, and this is just my own rough estimate, is about 90 metres (300 feet) tall. Now, if you’re thinking that my eyeglass prescription has run out, let me explain. The tree I am referring to is nestled, quite comfortably, atop the roof of a rather tall high-rise in the downtown area. And although the tree itself is only about three metres from trunk base to tip, it’s definitely taller than any of the earth-anchored trees I’ve seen around here. OK, I plead guilty to a bad attempt at a humorous hook, but the point I’m trying to build to is this: if cities evolve the way I think they should (from an ecological perspective), rooftop trees and gardens will become as commonplace as those on the ground.

The collective term for trees or any other plants grown on the tops of buildings is green roof. Green roofs can range from a few containers of plants, all the way up to intensive designs that are almost indistinguishable from ground-level parks and gardens. And while this might sound like a stratospheric idea, its practice is quite firmly rooted in history—ancient history. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, were likely one of the first green roofs. Contrary to what its name implies, the gardens didn’t really hang (it’s one of those lost-in-translation things); they grew on the roofs of a ziggurat, which is essentially a building constructed on tiered layers (think Leggo sets). In fact, history is littered with examples of green roofs. The Vikings covered the tops of their homes with a variety of wild plants grown on a thin layer of soil, and closer to home, our early prairie pioneers used native sod as roofing material. So what is it about green roofs that keeps us coming back? Well, besides being a great way to add beauty and novelty to the sky-scape, green roofs are enviro-chique. What else would you call a structure that is alive and that reduces building heat loss and cooling requirements while capturing atmospheric carbon? And that’s only a partial list.

Unfortunately, though, many people still fixate on the limiting idea that high-rise roofs are just places to keep out the rain and snow and to hold up air conditioners. That needs to change.

When we erect buildings, we need to think about the rather large footprints they leave and not overlook an opportunity to recapture green space by simply moving it skyward. The Europeans (Germans, in particular) have become world leaders in green roofs. In fact, they have legislation that ensures that a percentage of the ground-level green space lost to construction be saved by putting it on the roof. I suppose the relative scarcity of land over there inspires conservation just as surely as the relative abundance of it here means that we take it for granted.

Some will argue that green roofs aren’t practical here because of our cold winters, but keep in mind that Chicago leads North America in green roof square footage, and its climate can be darn near as cold as ours in the winter. Of course, green roofs do have their limitations in that they aren’t practical for the vast majority of our A-framed homes (keeping the plants irrigated is tough, plus rubber boots and steep slopes are not a good mix), but they do have an application for a wide number of flat-roofed commercial buildings and residential high-rises. For these structures, there are many compelling reasons for at least investigating the possibilities of constructing green roofs: a reduction in heating and cooling costs, reduction in storm water runoff, noise abatement, increased roof life (less landfill from old roofing materials), wildlife habit and aesthetics, to name a few.

It’s something worth thinking about. I know when I fly directly above a city, I can’t help but think that the gravel-coated tar roofs look like an underutilized resource. It may seem like a simple answer, but when it comes to urban greening, perhaps we just need to set our goals a little higher.

Posted by admin to Current Articles on 2007-12-08, 11:12:08

First published November 29, 2007

Earlier this month, I spent a couple of days attending the annual Green Industry Show and Conference in Edmonton—an event that highlights the latest information and technology pertaining to the world of horticulture. It’s an annual pilgrimage I always look forward to and the kind that’s always enlightening, sometimes frightening and, occasionally, rather amusing. Here’s a peek at the highlights, starting with the enlightening.

Dutch treat
From across the Atlantic, the Dutch are once again proving themselves leaders in the world of greenhouse technology. Currently, their researchers are investigating greenhouse coverings that allow light to pass through (which allows for plant growth), while trapping some of the remaining solar energy to generate electricity. Clearly, the Dutch believe the future of the greenhouse industry lies in treating greenhouses as net providers of energy that can act as giant solar panels. This technology is still a few years down the road, but the idea of greenhouses as electricity generators is nothing short of fascinating.

Scary business
I sat through a seminar called “Pests of Concern for Nursery and Greenhouse” that featured a litany of pests threatening horticulture in Canada. Two particularly worrisome culprits earning the honour of being singled out were the emerald ash borer and the Asian longhorn beetle. These two impressive and extremely destructive pests have made names for themselves by tunneling through and destroying thousands of trees in the eastern U.S. and in Canada. Of the two pests, the emerald ash borer has proven to be the more discriminating eater, restricting its palate to ash trees; whereas the Asian longhorned beetle enjoys a less restrictive diet and consumes a wide variety of hardwood trees. To date, neither has hitchhiked its way into the prairies or B.C, but one can’t help but wonder if their western trek is inevitable. It is possible, but if we’re smart and don’t move pest-infested firewood around the country, we just might escape their wrath. I must admit, however, it’s the “smart” part of the human equation that scares me.

Right after the borer and beetle session, I attended Dr. Ken Fry’s seminar, “Environmentally Sustainable Pest Management.” To make things interesting, Dr. Fry linked his microscope to a projector so we could view some insect pests and predators on the big screen. A few attendees seemed a little squeamish when the metre-long bugs began inching across the screen, but I can attest that anyone who averted their eyes definitely missed out on a great show—particularly when a gigantic foxglove aphid decided for some inexplicable reason to flip on its back, with all six of its legs flailing. Now, that might not seem like a strange thing, but had this been a horror movie, it would be equivalent to the scene where the teenager (who has, of course, just stepped out of the shower) hears a strange noise and tiptoes outside to investigate. You just know its not going to end well. Now, Dr. Fry didn’t provide a scientific explanation for why the aphid decided to stretch out, but it was certainly made quick work of by the predaceous insects that entered stage right. Pass the popcorn.

Last but not least
I think any good conference should come with at least one good laugh, and this conference delivered. The year’s source of amusement was a video demonstration of a piece of equipment called the Rodenator. For lack of a better description, the Rodenator is a two-metre-long critter cannon. Wait; it gets worse. This contraption earned its name because the business end of it shoots a gaseous mixture of propane and oxygen down gopher holes and permeates an unsuspecting rodent’s labyrinth of tunnels. The mixture is then—ignited!— and the resulting shock wave “eliminates” the pest problem within seconds. The video that I watched (with one hand clasped over my mouth), shows a helmeted employee literally blowing up varmint burrows in a manner that would make Yosemite Sam proud. Blowing up animals in your yard? What’s up with that, Doc?

Needless to say, the Green Industry Show delivered the goods once again, and I contentedly left the conference centre feeling a mixture of emotions—a bit of trepidation about exotic pests, a little more enlightened about horticulture, and last but not least, overwhelmed with desire to watch Caddyshack. Not a bad work week if you can get it.

Posted by admin to Current Articles on 2007-11-30, 07:21:20

The term ‘freeze to death’ is a pretty common part of our human lexicon, particularly if one resides in Canada. It’s a little grim to think about, but I suppose we bandy that phrase about because we know that anyone left outside to freeze in January isn’t likely to have a miraculous resurrection upon thawing. So if our cold winters are that hard on us, shouldn’t the same dire outlook apply to soil-borne diseases that freeze in our gardens and on our tools? Unfortunately, the answer is a firm no.

Although we have several million years of evolution on the African savanna to thank for transforming us into cold wimps, soil-borne diseases were evolved in some pretty tough environments. Of course, it’s not all a winter vacation for them; their activity does come to a grinding halt once the ground freezes, but soil diseases are incredibly patient and are able to slumber through the winter none the worse for wear. If, for example, the temperature in your yard drops down to -20 C, the little clumps of diseased soil clinging to the trowel that you left on your deck will also drop to -20 C. The difference, however, is that although the diseases won’t escape suffering a freezing, they will avoid suffering freeze damage. How they do that is by preventing the insides of their cells from developing ice crystals. The science bit is actually quite simple: ice crystals cause cell walls to burst, which allows the critical cell material to leak. Leakage equals cell death. Therefore, in order to prevent such a scenario, some disease organisms do two things: increase the concentration of antifreeze-like compounds within their cells and boot out any superfluous water within those cells. In either case, the result is a rather languid and tranquil winter rest for the diseases we hate.

So if freezing isn’t the answer to eliminating disease, what is? Well, when it comes to winning the battle, cleanliness is intricately linked to victory.

The first step on the path to defeating soil-borne diseases is to sanitize any dirty tools, trays or pots prior to use. It’s fine to leave dirt-smeared trowels on your deck over the winter, but they must be cleaned prior to digging into next year’s potting soil. That involves removing all of the visible dirt with a simple water rinse. Your next job is to eliminate the invisible dirt that hiding out in the tiniest of cracks and crevices. In the greenhouse industry, the standard method is to dip the equipment into a 10 per cent solution of bleach and water. Just remember that although bleach is an excellent sanitizer, it’s also rather corrosive to metal, so don’t soak your tools for more than a few seconds and then rinse them thoroughly with clean water, and be sure to dry & oil them.

That’s all there really is to it. Of course, I know it would be wonderful if every last plant disease would freeze to death during a January cold snap, but perhaps being out maneuvered by organisms that are lower than us on the food chain is Mother Nature’s way of showing us that the environmental niche we occupy is a lot more fragile than we think. Then again, maybe she’s just decided she’s too old and busy to clean up after grownups who like playing in the dirt.

Posted by admin to Current Articles on 2007-11-23, 12:44:58

When we think of plants, we typically think of their functional relationship to us: plants as providers of shade, food and beauty. But there are those occasional plants that have a much more personal relationship with people. In my experience, some exhibit traits I’d even describe as jealous, vindictive and, perhaps, suicidal.

Don’t believe me? Well, take the case of my cactus. When I moved it from our greenhouse to my living room, I was single and it was single…well, single in the sense that it had a single stem. It thrived in my house, soaking up the sun in the corner of my living room. Whenever its soil seemed a bit parched, I’d give it a good drench of water and, periodically, a good shot of fertilizer. The relationship between us was solid. It forgave me when I let it dry out too much, and it provided me with luxuriant growth when I poured on the water.

By the time I got married, this rather inconspicuous little cactus had sprouted nine, large arm-like appendages and stretched to a height of two and a half metres. Now, I must say that I was pleased to see that when my wife moved into our home, both she and the cactus hit it off rather nicely. She liked the cactus, and the cactus continued to grow and thrive as it always had. That is until, suddenly and unexpectedly, the relationship turned sideways—literally.

The exact details are a bit of a blur, but indelibly etched in my brain is the sound of my wife’s ear-piercing scream and the horrified look on her face as she lay trapped in the spiny arms of my overbearing cactus that was now laying nearly horizontally across the chesterfield. Had it not been for the chesterfield’s tall armrest, I suspect that my wife would have quickly been transformed into a human pincushion…perhaps causing enough disfigurement that I would find her less attractive, re-establishing the lost relationship that the cactus and I had for those many years…

Fortunately, the jealousy was rather short-lived, so we chalked up the incident to cacti having shallow root systems. Just to be on the safe side, I calculated my old friend’s toppling trajectory and strategically relocated the furniture.

Part deux
A few years later, my wife and I decided that a house two blocks down the street was more suitable for our growing family. Of course, along with all of the furniture, the large cactus had to be moved—a task that’s never easy. So one mild November night, after considerable thought, I decided the only safe way for the cactus to make the journey to our new home was for me to delicately uproot it, wrap it in towels, rest it on my shoulder and walk it the two blocks to our new house. I must admit that I received a few strange looks from drivers as I crossed the street with the cactus’ arms bouncing rhythmically to my step.

When I finally managed to squeeze the cactus through the front door, I carefully leaned it against the hallway wall and thought about how strange a cactus looked propped up with its roots splayed across a towel I’d placed on the floor. After a brief rest, I headed back to the old house and returned with the cactus’ pot. And then it happened. No sooner had I taken the pot through the door, that I noticed something was horribly wrong. The prickly giant had once again toppled over and was laying in a pool a white latex-like sap that bled from the spots where the arms had broken off the main stem. Looking at the cactus laying seemingly beaten, I realized that it was beyond repair and that there was nothing to do but to lay it to rest in the compost bin.

So am I anthropomorphizing a cactus? Yeah…probably, but who says some plants don’t play out their lives like a Greek tragedies?
Think it unlikely if you wish, but I wholeheartedly suspect that my cactus wrote its own script.

Posted by admin to Current Articles on 2007-11-16, 12:49:11

If you are a prairie gardener who grows cabbage, cauliflower, broccoli or any other member of the crucifer family, you’ll want to be extra cautious about adding topsoil to your yard next year. A potentially devastating disease called clubroot has found its way into many of the soils in central Alberta and has the potential to spread across the prairies, causing damage to our crops, wallets and, in some cases, livelihoods.

So what the heck is clubroot, you ask. Well, it’s a soil-borne disease that’s transferred from field to field by means of contaminated soil or infected plant parts. The causal organism is Plasmodiophora brassicae, and once it gets into the soil, it waits patiently until it senses a certain chemical secretion from the roots of cruciferous plants. That chemical signal then triggers the clubroot organism to morph into structures that swim toward the developing plants and penetrate the roots. Once inside, the clubroot organism rapidly reproduces and transforms healthy, white, fibrous roots into gnarled, black and dysfunctional clubby masses. Not surprisingly, the infected plants die outright or are severely weakened.

Clubroot has shown up briefly on the prairies before but, up until recently, never became established. Unfortunately though, the clubroot organism that’s recently taken up residence shows no signs of vacating Alberta any time soon. In fact, it seems to be spreading at an alarming rate. At last count, it had become established in 10 counties in central Alberta and 1 county in southern Alberta.

How clubroot took root in all these counties is a bit of mystery and one that plays out a bit like an episode from CSI. When I spoke to Dr. Stephen Strelkov, a plant pathologist from the University of Alberta and expert on clubroot, he said the theory about the disease’s origin is still somewhat speculative but it’s thought that the infestation likely originated with infected plant material and soil from a vegetable garden that was presumably dumped onto a canola field outside of Edmonton. From that single field, clubroot probably hitched a ride on some soil that clung to a piece of farm equipment and then made its way to another patch of land.

Interesting?—yes—but if you’re a home gardener who doesn’t grow susceptible vegetables, why should you care about clubroot’s spread? Well, in a strange twist of fate, this strain of clubroot has done something that’s sent a chill through the agricultural community—it’s expanded its repertoire of food choices and acquired an appetite for the Cinderella crop of the prairies: canola.

Canola is a member of the crucifer family, but up until this local strain of clubroot came on the scene, was relatively safe from attack. Now every canola crop is potentially threatened. If that’s still not enough to pique your attention, think of the financial ramifications. According to the Canola Council of Canada’s website, this country’s canola industry adds over $11 billion to our economy, and that doesn’t even include canola’s newest use as a source of biodiesel fuels.

More bad news
There’s no cure and little in the way of control for clubroot. If that’s not grim enough, once it gets into the soil, it can survive for at least 20 years. And guess, dear gardeners, where the topsoil we add to our yards comes from? Yup. So if you buy topsoil that hasn’t been tested, you run the risk of inadvertently introducing it into your soil. And there’s the rub: testing for clubroot is currently not a requirement for being able to sell topsoil. According to Dr. Strelkov, there are local labs that can test for the disease’s presence, so the capability is there. I for one just hope that the topsoil companies will put the onus on themselves to provide lab reports that show that their product is clubroot free.

Any new discovery about a potentially threatening disease is always overwhelming to hear about, but as in the case of most things, knowledge is power. The good news is that finding out about clubroot in the early stages means it doesn’t have to become unmanageable. But the fact that clubroot was smart enough to invade canola is reason enough for everyone—gardener or otherwise—to pay close attention and be proactive. After all, there’s a famous poet who once said, “Nature is not a place to visit, it is home.”

Posted by admin to Current Articles on 2007-11-09, 08:08:08

first published November 1st, 2007

I find that fall is a great time to review the recent growing season from both a professional point of view and from a personal one. On the personal front, I had a textbook-perfect lawn this past summer. Well, textbook in the sense that it could have been the poster grass for the cover of Turf Grass Disease. What follows here is the sad tale of what happens when you don’t bring your work home with you.

Most of my lawn was in pretty darn good shape early on in the season, but around mid-July I started to see that an elliptical patch of grass on one slope was dying. When I grabbed a clump, it pulled out of the ground with such little effort that I immediately knew what the problem was, and that I was entirely to blame. Well, to be more accurate, an organism that belongs to the genus Pythium was the culprit, but I had done little to discourage it from attacking my lawn. In fact, I had pretty much laid down the red carpet for its welcome.

The Pythium spp. organism causes a disease called pythium blight also known as ‘root nibbler.’ Basically the organism nibbles away at the fine root hairs of plants preventing the plants from taking up moisture and nutrients. It’s kind of like being invited to a buffet where you’re surrounded by food but have your mouth duct-taped shut. Perhaps the home gardener will best recognize pythium as the organism responsible for rapidly decimating flats of seedlings, a condition commonly known as damping off.

An open invitation
The list of my turf management mistakes was pretty extensive. First, I had let the grass on the slope dry down too much, creating a situation where the roots were thin and vulnerable. Next, I applied a fertilizer too rich in nitrogen. Finally, and this was a big mistake, I soaked the lawn so that it stayed saturated for a couple of days. No one could have provided a better environment for pythium to proliferate. Pythium blight can appear on a stressed lawn, as in my slope’s case, or it can appear on lawns that have the going just a little too good: those with overly lush growth, too much surface moisture for extended periods and too much fertilizer.

Now, the root nibbler is not just a turf grass pest, it can also be very destructive in greenhouse crops, so there has been a lot of research into understanding it. As a professional, I am very familiar with pythium’s power—and I do know how to control it. So why did it dine on my turf, you ask? Well I guess I wasn’t as vigilant as I should have been. The dead spot on my lawn proved that while knowledge is a great thing, it’s not much good if one keeps it hermetically sealed in one’s brain. What’s that saying about doctors not taking their own advice?

Out damned spot!
The good thing is that pythium won’t destroy my entire lawn because the environment that was ideal for its growth only existed in one spot. Once I cut out the affected patch and either resod or reseed next spring (and also perhaps smarten up just a touch), the root nibbler will stay quiescent—as long as I learn from my own turf history.

On the other hand, I could justify the infected patch’s continued existence. Whereas most gardeners hate aphids, mites, slugs and the like (and now have probably added root nibblers to their list), I can’t deny that any organism that has spawned extensive research is, at the very least, interesting. I guess I am bringing my work home with me after all! Yet, to be completely honest, the appeal of having my yard on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens does edge out the cover of Turf Grass Diseases most of the time.

Posted by admin to Current Articles on 2007-11-02, 06:14:49

first published October 25th, 2007

I’ve always enjoyed growing pumpkins. There is something magical about a plant that all summer long conceals its bounty before revealing its massive fruit with the arrival of the first crisp fall frost. Since Halloween is just around the corner, what better time to reveal some interesting and quirky pumpkin trivia that just may explain its association with this spooky holiday?

Let’s start off with the common name pumpkin (Pepon for you Latin lovers). Pumpkin is pretty much interchangeable with the name squash. Neither pumpkin nor squash have precise botanical meanings; so really, the winning pumpkin in the world’s largest pumpkin contest could just as easily be called the world’s largest squash. Technically a pumpkin’s fruit is really a berry until the hard rind forms and then its proper name is a pepo. If you are tired of calling a pumpkin by its English name, impress your family and friends with names like potiron (French), pompeon (Dutch), zentnerkurbis (German) and, for a real tongue twister, centnergraeskar (Danish). Of course, it’s just not that impressive if one of these languages is your mother tongue.

What Rhymes with Pumpkin?
Speaking of the world’s largest squash…er pumpkin, a new world record was set just a few weeks ago. Joe Jutras of Rhode Island grew a whopping 766 kilograms (1689 pounds) pumpkin. It wasn’t that long ago that growing a thousand pound pumpkin was seen as nearly impossible. Now there are many prizewinners that top that mark frequently. And what do you do with these massive pumpkins once the contests are over? Well, hollow them out, of course, and convert them into boats for regatta races. Several towns in Canada and the United States now have pumpkin boat races and apparently it’s the five hundred pound-plus boats that are the most seaworthy—I think I feel a new nursery rhyme coming on.

Although the size of some pumpkins is truly impressive, as a kid growing these plants on the farm, I observed that during the summer, the vines themselves could grow nearly 30 centimetres in a single day. I’m sure with some varieties in ideal climates, this number might even be a bit conservative. Add the fact that pumpkins possess cucurbitoid teeth—that is pointed projections on their leaf edges—and you have great fodder for a Halloween horror flick.

Pumpkin Foolery
Pumpkins aren’t averse to a little gender trickery. Their male flowers display many of the characteristics of female flowers, and convincingly fool pollinating insects into visiting them thereby increasing the odds of successful cross pollination with their female counterparts…I guess it’s a sort of male-flowers-in-drag scenario.

Under the category of Believe It or Not is the bit of trivia that pumpkins can get measles. Well, not the same measles that we humans get, but measles nonetheless. In the fall, if nights are cool and humidity is high enough, pumpkins will develop brown 1–3 mm spots. This condition, called guttation, is nothing more than root pressure pushing water through the fruit’s skin, causing the surface cells to split resulting in bumpy, unattractive, but non-contagious, spots.

Bitter Lessons
Pumpkins are members of the cucurbitaceae family, which includes, among others, cucumbers, zucchini, melons and squash. All members of the cucurbit family produce a toxin called cucurbitacin which is really quite poisonous to humans. Whenever, you taste a cucumber, or a pumpkin for that matter, that is bitter, you are ingesting a bit of this toxin. Fortunately, because this substance is so nasty tasting, the level of cucurbitacin that would be harmful to humans would make the fruit completely inedible, so there’s little chance of a case of ‘poisoning by pumpkin’.

Finally, a word of cautionary trivia based on some very painful personal experience. While rotting pumpkins that have been missed or discarded in the field are a lot of fun to kick and watch explode (at least they were when I was 12 years old), do not, I repeat, do not attempt to kick a frozen pumpkin. The only explosion that will occur will be that of the exploding pain in your foot.