Posted by admin to Current Articles on 2007-10-26, 07:02:32

first published October 18, 2007

There was a time in my foolish youth, when I truly believed that plant science and social science had nothing in common. Talk about naive. Many years later, a career in the horticultural business has convinced me that taking a few psychology courses wouldn’t have hurt. The reason?—it’s simple: people and their plants come wrapped in the same package, which is why solving a plant’s problem without also tending to its owner’s is a surefire way to fail. Trust me on this; I’ve pretty much encountered it all.

Take the case of a mother, her son and his plant. A few years ago, there was a very distraught, very teary-eyed lady who ran up to me with a single, palm-shaped leaf in hand. I remember the way she held that leaf at arm’s length, as if trying to completely disassociate herself from it. Then, without looking me directly in the eyes, she tossed the specimen on the counter beside me and blurted out, “Is this what I think it is? I found it growing in my son’s room!” Well, it didn’t take a lot of insight on my part to realize she thought the “this” was Cannabis sativum, a.k.a. marijuana. One humorous moment later (for me, that is), I quickly reassured the sobbing mom that the cannabis-shaped leaf was nothing more than false aralia, an attractive tropical plant, and not the dreaded Devil’s lettuce that she had feared. I must say I felt pretty darned good allaying her fears and redeeming her son with one quick plant ID…that is, assuming the false aralia wasn’t a ruse that was swapped in at the last minute to fool Mom.

False aralia is definitely not related to Cannabis sativum!

Marijuana identification may sound like a pretty intense job, but it pales in comparison to dealing with incidents that the greenhouse staff and I have come to affectionately call standoffs—scenarios that usually involve a wife and her husband standing in the garden centre, each with arms folded, each with stern looks on their faces, neither person talking…that is until they spot me approaching. Then, like some miracle, their loss for words disappears, and they proceed to almost kill each other trying to be the first to ask me the dreaded of all questions: “Could you settle an argument for us? He/she says that [fill in the blank], and I told him/her that they’re wrong. Which one of us is right?” Um…Check, please! It’s just a bad scenario guaranteed to end badly because the right answer is always also the wrong answer to the injured party. What you end up with is one person loving you for settling the argument and the other person shooting you daggers. The only thing I’ve found helpful in these cases is showing the couple the correct answer from a gardening book—then they can redirect their anger to the author. The only trick is making sure I’m not the author I’m quoting.

Of course, there are also those problem-solving moments when the answers are quick and easy, but the process leaves you feeling left out. For example, I remember receiving a call where I was asked if there really were male and female trees. Well, before I could even answer, it became apparent (because of the background noise) that I was on the caller’s speakerphone, which was being broadcast over some large, alcohol-fueled party that was clearly in full swing. When I answered that, yes, some trees do have genders, I could hear an explosion of whooping (and some words that are best left out of this column), followed by the unceremonious slam of the phone onto its cradle. I’m guessing that a few dollars exchanged hands over that answer.

Back in my university days, I would never have guessed that my ordinary workday would be so far removed from ordinary. I have to say, though, that the greatest thing about dealing with quirky characters and strange questions is that it adds heart to the scientific equation. Last week, was a perfect example: a customer phones to enquire how many grams of pansy petals were needed per gram of her pet lizard’s bodyweight to keep it properly fed…well, I can honestly say I don’t know, but I sure love the fact that she asked.

Posted by admin to Current Articles on 2007-10-19, 06:13:07

First published October 11, 2007

Alpine gardens, English country gardens, Japanese gardens, xeriscape gardens, native gardens…the variety of themed gardens out there is diverse, to say the least. And although many of them may not suit your property or personal taste, there is one that I think worthy of trialing in most yards: The Rain Garden.

Now, if you’ve never even heard the term rain garden, you’re not alone. It’s a relatively new concept that transcends the aesthetic or edible world of plants, and enters the domain of gardens grown to mitigate the effects of pollutants. Yes, I know; that sounds rather complicated, but in actuality, a rain garden is as simple as can be—a garden strategically placed to intercept and collect water that runs off roofs, driveways and yards, in essence, allowing it to infiltrate the soil rather than to run off into storm sewers. That’s not where the good news stops. Because this type of garden acts as both a natural biofiltration system and as a temporary water reservoir, it’s able to significantly reduce the amount of contaminated storm water that has direct access to our rivers, streams and lakes. On the flipside, what rain gardens are not, are ponds. Although both are designed to collect and hold water, a rain garden is designed to collect and hold water for only about 6 hours after a storm.

Location, location, location
Not surprisingly, a rain garden is typically placed where it will collect the most amount of runoff. For example, it can be located on the downhill side of a paved surface to reduce the amount of water that enters the sewer system or positioned near the discharge end of your downspout. But the most important thing to remember is not to locate a rain garden closer than three metres to your home. Basements make lousy bio filters, and I can guarantee that you won’t give a damn about the environment when you are pumping water out of your house. On that note, rain gardens built in spots too low to drain will also become poorly designed water ponds.

One size fits all
When planning the garden’s construction, the first principle to remember is that any sized rain garden is better than no rain garden at all. However, if you want to take a scientific approach to minimize rooftop runoff, start by calculating the size of your roof. For example, let’s say that your roof is 186 square metres and that rainwater runs to each corner equally. That means that each of the four down spouts drains about 46 square metres of roof. Next (stay with me now!), divide the 46 square metres by 6 (because someone somewhere discovered that was the magic number) to determine the optimum size of garden you need, which in this case is about 8 square metres.

The construction is relatively simple. Choose a location that’s not on too steep of a slope (this will eliminate erosion), dig the garden to a depth of 15 cm and ensure that you have well-drained soil—the sandier, the better. A good way to test your soil for drainage is to dig a 15-cm deep trial ‘pit’ and to fill it with water. If it drains within 24 hours, you’re set. If water remains after 24 hours, either replace the soil or amend it with a mixture of coarse sand and loam. The only step that’s left after that is to plant the entire rain garden (not just the periphery) with suitable plants. The good thing is that there are plenty of excellent choices. For example, astilbe, iris and ferns thrive in rain gardens, as do dogwoods and nannyberries. In fact, the list of suitable plants is much larger than the list of unsuitable ones.

It really is a have-your-cake-and-eat-it-too scenario. Not only are rain gardens beautiful, they also help to keep our lakes, rivers and creeks cleaner. Hmm…less polluted water that enters our water treatment plants…perhaps there could be a tax savings for those who have properly designed rain gardens. Just a thought during an election year.

Posted by admin to Current Articles on 2007-10-15, 06:17:45

first published October 4, 2007

I suppose, in some respects, it is natural to think of old trees as scaled-up versions of young ones. But as nice and as tidy an assumption as that is, it’s not quite accurate. In fact, if I were to compare older trees to anything, I’d compare them to older people: both have needs that change significantly with advancing age…both suffer dearly when those needs are ignored. So if you want your 120-year-old maple tree to retain its beauty and have the same vigor and exuberance as it did when it was a wild 80 year old, here are a few things to keep in mind.

Start by understanding that trees often experience communication problems as they age. Because older trees tend to be large, the pathways of communication between their roots and shoots become a bit arduous. Most of it has to do with the size of the tree—the movement of plant chemicals through a 100-foot labyrinth of tissue in an old tree is fraught with challenges that are non-existent in a 10-foot sapling. Fortunately, there are a few things you can do to help out the old fella. The first strategy is to reduce light interference.

Old trees cannot adapt easily to sudden changes in light levels, so avoid erecting or planting anything that drastically reduces the amount of sunlight that a tree is used to receiving. Tall buildings can block an enormous amount of sunlight that is essential to maintaining a tree’s health, and a tree that has grown for decades under direct sunlight won’t adapt to a sudden and drastic reduction in light.

Another environmental change that’s tough on old trees is an altered root zone. Any traffic, be it vehicular or pedestrian, that compacts the soil around an old tree’s base is detrimental to its health. Compaction ensures that less water, less oxygen and fewer nutrients can penetrate into the tree’s root zone, and poor root growth invariably leads to a decline in the health of elderly trees. When it comes to meeting those nutritional needs, keep in mind that an older tree would rather sip than guzzle (something I can relate to…), so instead of inundating the soil with fertilizer, apply a thin layer of mulch (never more than a few of centimeters!) or a bit of nitrogen fertilizer in the spring. As much as you might think you’re spoiling your tree by providing it with more than it needs, excess nitrogen will cause trees to produce lush new growth at the expense of defense chemicals, making them more prone to attack by insects and diseases.

Just as aging people often require some extraneous physical support, so too do older trees. With trees, cables and braces are the tools of choice to support any large branches that look like they might break during a strong wind, but if you really want to be proactive, pay attention to pruning. It reduces wind loads, which will go a long way to maintaining a tree’s health. Research indicates that the removal of 15–20 per cent of a tree’s branches can reduce wind load by 60 per cent—just be sure you know what you’re doing. Without proper training and equipment, you can cause a lot of damage not only to your trees, but also to yourself. So when it comes to those big jobs, hire a certified arborist—it just might save you a few braces or cables of your own.

There’s no denying that getting older always beats the alternative, but as much of a privilege as the aging process is, it’s tough to watch the slow deterioration of something or someone you thought would be strong and vibrant forever. It’s no different with trees…we find kinship with them. If you are lucky enough, perhaps you grew up climbing high into the canopy of one. And who knows, with a bit of care and luck, maybe your grandchildren and their grandchildren will come to know the joys of swinging from the same thick, old branch you did.

Posted by admin to Current Articles on 2007-10-05, 07:14:35

first published September 27, 2007

One thing I’ve learned over the years in the garden centre business is that the field of horticulture has some interesting parallels to the field of medicine—the most obvious one being that garden centres are, in some respects, comparable to walk-in clinics—places where plants can be taken to have their ailments accurately diagnosed and remedied.

A second similarity between the two fields is that the depth of information on the cause and treatment for a particular ailment is driven, to a great extent, by the magnitude of the problem. Big problems, be they with people or plants, tend to draw big research dollars, and if a large enough demographic of consumers demands answers and are willing to dig deep into their pockets for treatments, then researchers will be nipping at heals to provide those answers (just think aging boomers and tiny blue pills).

A Tale of Two Pests
To illustrate the horticultural point, let’s look at two insect pests: whiteflies (a very common horticultural pest) and oak bulletgall wasp (a relatively rare pest and one that I wrote about a few weeks ago). Whitefly is a very serious and potentially devastating pest of many field-grown crops worldwide—and one that’s adapted well to the relatively safe and cozy environment of greenhouses. Naturally, since there’s a sizeable profit to be made from controlling this pest, dollars seem to have a knack of fluttering their way toward whitefly research…and flutter, and flutter some more. In my horticultural library alone, I would guess that I have 400 or 500 pages of information on whitefly—everything from behavior to biological and chemical controls—all of which I count on to keep my crops healthy and my bills paid.

Now contrast the bloated biographies on whitefly with what has been published about bur oak-eating bulletgall wasp. Since it attacks bur oak, which are still relatively obscure trees on much of the prairies, the words research dollars and bulletgall wasps are rarely used in the same sentence. When I wrote about it earlier this month, I had precisely half a page of entomological information on the wasp and only limited personal experience to go on. Now, that might not seem like a big deal if you don’t have a bur oak, but imagine how frustrating it would be if you had a beautiful 100-year-old oak growing in your yard; then you might be thankful for any information you could get your hands on. I don’t expect that the research process will change any time soon, but the good news, at least in the case of the bulletgall wasp, is that there are people who work around the difficulties.

From Out of the Woodwork
Shortly after the bulletgall wasp article was published, I received an e-mail and phone call from Scott Digweed, a former student from the U of A who has a master’s degree in entomology. It seems that for the past four years or so, Scott has taken it upon himself to study the bulletgall wasp, partly because he realized that information was severely lacking and partly because he just found the wasp fascinating. When I asked Scott where he received his funding for the research, he simply stated, “my wife,” which I have interpreted to mean she provided him with sandwiches and tolerated his dissected galls on the kitchen table.

Thanks to people like Scott, who study obscure little insects like the bulletgall wasp in their spare time and then selflessly share the knowledge with the rest of us, we gain what I think is one heck of a bargain in understanding one of our garden insect pests. And as Scott pointed out, he is but one of many amateur and professional researchers who investigate the world around us purely for the love of learning. Good or bad, profit-driven research will always be the dominant type of research in our world, but it sure is nice to know that there is a place for research undertaken just for sake of human edification…if not for the sandwiches.

Posted by admin to Current Articles on 2007-09-28, 06:54:12

first published September 20, 2007

At this time of year, there are really only two types of patio plants growing in my yard: those I will leave outside to perish from a hard frost and those I will rescue by bringing inside before the night temperatures dip too low. This year, the number of plants on my to-rescue list is low. It’s not that my heart is as cold as the frost on the ground; it’s just that I’m running out of space in my home. As fond as I am of bringing the outdoors in, I’m not eager to spend the winter navigating my way through large foliage, like some Cro-Magnon man. Quite frankly, It’s bad enough that I drag my heals in the morning; I don’t need to feel like I’m dragging my knuckles, too. Suffice to say, I’m very selective about what deserves sanctuary.

At the top of my to-save list is my lemon tree…well, it’s not so much my list as it is my daughter’s. She thinks making lemonade from her very own lemons is pure heaven, and I’d prefer that her sour face be the result of drinking tart lemonade than have it be her reaction to seeing her pet tree blasted by a deep-freeze. So even though it isn’t the most handsome of trees and produces only a couple ripe lemons per month, you can bet I have a sunny spot set aside for its winter respite.

Bougainvillea
Another plant I can’t imagine parting with is my bougainvillea. It’s about a metre-and-a-half tall and produces a mass of magenta coloured flowers by midsummer. It’s not the best-looking ornamental during the winter, but once I return it to my sunny deck in the spring, the sunshine breathes life back into it.

A plant that I brought in early is my papyrus grass. My wife loved it so much as a feature container plant that she thought we should repot it and put it in the house for the winter. To be honest, I’m not sure how it will like its new digs. I suspect its stems might become a little soft under the low interior light levels of my home, but I think if I trim out the weak shoots on the grass, it should produce new growth and still be in good shape when I move it back to the deck next spring.

The tricks to growing patio plants indoors aren’t that complicated. First, ensure that your plants are as clean as possible. Insects and mites are expert clandestine stowaways that can wreak havoc once they are in the protected, predator-free environment of your home, so it’s a good idea to douse these unwanted hitchhikers with insecticidal soap before you carry them over the threshold. Quarantining those plants indoors for a few days is also a good idea. The old ‘ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure’ aphorism definitely applies here.

Secondly, ensure that you have enough well-lit space in your home. If your home is short on sunlight, then your patio plants are destined to be short on life. Good sunlight isn’t an option; it’s a necessity.

Temperature wise, plants are far better grown at the cooler end of their ideal temperature range. So for example, if a plant grows best at 18–24C, keep the room at 18C and the plant in as bright a light as possible. The cooler temperatures will help keep your plants from growing weak and spindly, and you just might save some costs on home heating. The only thing I will caution you on are your expectations: patio plants brought indoors will not perform anywhere near as well as they would outside, but if they (and you) emerge from winter ‘storage’ a bit bruised but still healthy, then you’ve accomplished your goal.

When winter throws you lemons…

Posted by admin to Current Articles on 2007-09-20, 07:24:45

First published September 13, 2007

I was browsing through the ornamental section of a book called the Encyclopedia of Ornamental Plants and Flowers, and smack-dab in the middle of page 307 was an attractive grass called Hordeum jubatum, a plant described as having arching, feathery, plume-like flower spikes with silky beards. Um…is that so? On the prairies, we call those “feathery, plume-like flower spikes” foxtail barley, and farmers spend a lot of time and money trying to eradicate them from their grain fields. One deep breath later, when the urge to run for my herbicide book subsided, it occurred to me that foxtail barley does indeed possess all those wonderful attributes, and at the top of that interesting list is a split personality that begs the question: what makes a weed a weed?

Kochia

In my own yard, the definition changes depending on the time of year and how ambitious I feel. I have standard weeds like everyone else (dandelions, thistle and quackgrass), but I also grow annuals like kochia, morning glory and bells of Ireland, which are great ornamentals but are also very weed-like in the way they propagate and take over. So depending on how much time I have (or make), I either call the kochia an ornamental and leave it to self-seed a few beds or call it a weed and rip it out to make room for something new. Potato; potahto. Even the national CBC radio program Sounds Like Canada got caught up in the weed debate last week and asked Canadians what they thought were our worst weeds. To my surprise, Kentucky bluegrass—the same grass we cherish for lawns and spend a ton of money growing to perfection—made the Top Seven List. I guess the grass isn’t always just greener on the other side.

If you boil it down to traits, you might be surprised to discover that weeds possess many of the same qualities we prize in people: resilience, toughness, stoicism. But with plants as with people, there is a fine line between resilient and irrepressible, tough and aggressive, stoic and domineering. When an ornamental crosses that line and threatens to dominate the landscape, it becomes classified as a weed. Case in point when purple loosestrife revealed a hidden desire to push native plants out of our wetlands.

That’s all well and good if you’re interested in a rose-by-any-other-name theory, but what if all you want to call anything this year is quits? What kind of price will you pay next spring if you say to heck with it and leave the weeds to battle it out in the garden? Well, you wouldn’t have to worry about it turning into a scenario comparable to the one Alan Weisman depicts in his novel The World Without Us, but you can be sure that the weeds and aggressive ornamentals would waste no time entering a Darwinian battle of survival of the fittest. As interesting as that might be, I’d stick to just reading about a planet that’s allowed to return to its “natural” state, and opt to pull a few weeds this fall instead. Besides, September is one of the best times to deal with dandelions and thistles because they are withdrawing nutrients from their foliage to store in their roots systems. It’s a vulnerable state that makes an application of herbicide highly effective in destroying perennial root systems. As for dealing with aggressive ornamentals like kochia, snipping off the seed heads now will save you the tedious task of pulling out hundreds of seedlings in the spring.

Dictionary definitions aside, a weed seems to be something different to everyone. For me, it comes down to simple math: any plant that requires 10 times more bending effort to remove than it does to plant is a weed in my books. As for the Encyclopedia of Ornamental Plants and Flowers, it gets its say, too. I will admit that one good thing did come to mind when I came across the foxtail barley in that book: perhaps prairie farmers should place ads in the American Horticultural Society’s magazine. I can see it now: “Fresh, Field-Grown Foxtail for Sale. Pick Your Own. Volume Discounts Available!” Just a thought…

Posted by admin to Current Articles on 2007-09-14, 06:03:20

Impudence; audacity—gall! My intellectual self tells me that the gall I’ve been dealing with this week is of a different nature, but there are certain times of the year when I’m painfully sure that homonyms are no accident.

I guess I should start by saying that September is the month when the top of my desk takes on a decidedly camouflage look—woodsy, if you prefer…diseased and dying, if you’re into accuracy. Diagnosing customers’ plant problems is nothing new for me, but this week’s batch of samples has left my desk somewhat buried in a sea of gall-covered branches. Still, it’s a nice change from the rotting apples that competed for my workspace last week.

Galls, or bullets, as they are also referred to, can range from small bumps to bizarre-looking, marble-sized growths and are usually found on the leaves and small branches of willows, roses and oaks. And just what is responsible for causing these growths to suddenly show up on trees and shrubs? Gall wasps—600 species of them, to be exact.

Oak rough bulletgall

Home sweet home
If you’ve never noticed gall wasps around your plants, it might be because you didn’t realize what you were looking at. Gall wasps look nothing like the steak-and-burger-eating wasps that buzz our decks during the summer; they look more like tiny, inconspicuous houseflies. But unlike houseflies, gall wasps prefer to build their homes in leaf tissue. And that’s exactly what a gall is—a tiny, one-bedroom home for developing gall wasp larvae. How does a wasp build a home in a leaf? Well, it secretes chemicals that mimic plant growth hormones, of course. These chemical mimics cause the plant tissue to enlarge, thereby creating a protective enclosure in which the immature wasps can grow and mature.

One gall wasp that seems to be a particular problem this year is the oak rough bulletgall wasp. In fact, I’ve seen more samples of it at our garden centre than ever before. It attacks a range of oak trees but is particularly bad on bur oak, which is by far the most prominent species of oak on the prairies. The life cycle of this wasp is fairly simple and representative of most gall wasps. Adult wasps lay eggs in leaf-buds, and by early summer of the following year, the developing larvae cause galls to grow and envelope them. By late summer, the galls grow to a marble size and exude a clear, sticky secretion called honeydew. At this stage of the cycle, you’ll often notice that the gall wasps’ burger-eating cousins often swarm the honeydew-covered galls. Although these intimidating onlookers are of no harm to your trees, the words swarming and wasps don’t provide much comfort when used in the same sentence. The bulletgall wasp’s life cycle is finally completed when a single adult wasp emerges from each gall, mates, and the females once again lay eggs in the leaf-buds.

Control issues
How you control your gall wasps will have a lot to do with the species of tree or shrub you’re dealing with. Roses can be treated fairly easily by simply snipping off the effected branches, but when dealing with trees, a thorough spraying of horticultural oil is required to kill the over-wintering gall wasp eggs. But how does one thoroughly spray a 20-metre oak? It takes some specialized equipment to reach and completely coat the upper branches with oil—a task that often requires a professional arborist. The good news, however, is that the galls don’t seem to cause any long-term damage to most trees and shrubs, so living with the problem is often the simplest solution. It may not be the most aesthetically pleasing option, but you have to admit that gall wasps do create fairly interesting blemishes. Hmm…perhaps if you’re lucky, some pesky squirrels will mistake the galls for acorns and solve the wasp problem for you. Wishful thinking never hurts.

Posted by admin to Current Articles on 2007-09-07, 06:06:38

first published August 30, 2007

OK, I have to admit there was a time when I thought the term ornamental grass was an oxymoron. A direct result, I’m guessing, of too many summers spent trying to eradicate quack grass from our vegetable fields. But quite a few years have passed since those vegetable-farming days, and I’m happy to report that I’ve undergone a renaissance in my thinking. In fact, this past season, I’ve gone as far as to squeeze out enough space in my yard to plant 12 different varieties of grasses, and I dedicated about half of a coldframe to trialing some others that received good press reports. I know!—you’d almost swear it’s personal growth or something.

Cyperus papyrus ‘King Tut’

So why have I gone from indifferent to enthusiastic? Well, I suspect not having to drive up and down a dusty field on a hot day in an open tractor has a little to do with it, but I credit most of my new-found enthusiasm to two other things: outstanding breeding work and the fact that grasses are so darn resilient. As for which grasses I think are best, I can honestly say there are too many to list in this column. However, at the very least, here are a few that you might want to put on your to-plant list for next year.

Starting with the annual all-stars (yes, annual grasses can be treated just like bedding plants), I would have to place Cyperus papyrus ‘King Tut’ on the winner’s podium. It grows about 6 feet tall and produces a mass of large seed heads that can measure a foot across, making it an excellent centrepiece in a pot. I planted some in my yard and can’t come up with a single complaint—well, except for the fact that I couldn’t get comedian Steve Martin’s “King Tut” song out of my head while I was transplanting it.

‘Prince’ Pennisetum x purpureum is another great annual that I wouldn’t be without. I transplanted a large prince into a flowerbed in early May, and by mid July, it was about 5 feet tall and 6 feet wide. It has gorgeous raspberry-red foliage and has required nothing more than a bit of water now and again. It makes a great feature plant for a large pot but looks equally good in a flowerbed.

If you like annual grasses that are a bit unusual, you might want to try Taiwan grass (Arundo formosana). It has thick bluish-gray stalks and grows about 6 feet tall. The final height depends entirely on how much heat we get during the summer and the length of the growing season. Simply put, the hotter and longer the season, the bigger it gets. There’s a lot to love about this plant, but I’d say its most interesting feature is probably the way the large leaf sheaths envelope the stems.

Arundo formosana

When it comes to perennials, feather reed grasses (Calamagrostis acutiflolia) are tough to beat. The two varieties that I’ve found to be both easy to grow and winter tough are ‘Overdam’ and ‘Karl Foerester.’ Both are clump-forming grasses, meaning they don’t have a weed-like, creeping habit, which is important in any garden. Overdam has variegated foliage with bright-yellow margins that fade to white with a pink blush. The seed heads are sandy brown and persist into the winter, providing year-round beauty. Karl Foerester has solid-green leaves and beautiful tawny seed heads. When I was down in the Okanogan, it seemed that Karl Foerester was being planted everywhere. That alone says a lot about its beauty and drought tolerance.

So there you have it, a very brief but very inspired review of some great ornamental grasses. There’s not much more to say. If you are already an ornamental-grass aficionado, keep experimenting. If you’re not, I strongly encourage you to try at least one variety next year. Who knows…it just might make you want to put ornamental and grass together in the same sentence.

Posted by admin to Current Articles on 2007-08-31, 06:34:47

first published August 23, 2007

Familiarity doesn’t always breed contempt; sometimes it just breeds indifference. I think that’s exactly the case with how we feel about our soil here on the prairies. We take it for granted—mostly because we’ve never been given any reason not to. It’s simply always been there, so we naturally assume that when we scrape off the rich, black loam to build our homes, there will be plenty of it around to put back when the construction is completed. “Limitless” resources, however, have proven time and again to be anything but, and I think now’s time to give the black stuff beneath our feet a little more respect.

On the prairies, we tend to think that great soil is everywhere because we can drive five minutes out of most of our cities and stand in a veritable ocean of the black stuff. But this black “stuff,” in reality, is a rather narrow, discontinuous band of soil that arches across the Northern prairies and is far from being as plentiful as one would think. If you look at a soils map and compare the black soil zone to the rest of the landmass in Canada, you’ll discover it’s the equivalent of a pencil-thin moustache on a large man’s face.

Now, I don’t think that our best soils are destined to disappear anytime soon, but it’s impossible to know what the future holds. When change does come, we’ll need options, and part of creating options for the future means paying attention now—starting with being more creative in our thinking about how homes and horticultural lands can coexist. It seems we are stuck in an all-or-nothing mentality: it’s houses or horticulture, and never the two in harmony. Still, in a competition between houses and agricultural land, it’s top soil that is forced to move. It’s always been that way. The evolution of cities often begins with settlers congregating in regions that have excellent soils, and the rest, as they say, is history.

So what can we do to change? Well, learning from example is a great place to start. I know of cherry farmers in states like Michigan who have managed to coexist with the urban sprawl on their doorstep simply by working out what appears to be a brilliant but simple solution. The plan that the farmers devised with the urbanites was this: the urbanites would be allowed to build homes on the periphery of the farmland and to enjoy the view of cherry trees from their decks as long as they paid the farmers a fair price for their cherries so that the beautiful orchards wouldn’t have to be cleared for the next housing development. Imagine that; actually paying farmers enough for their crops so that they aren’t forced to sell their land. It’s such a crazy idea that it might even work here.

Sarcasm aside, my point is that preserving great soil isn’t just about commerce and crops; it’s about preserving the quality of our lives, too. Construction, after all, is an inevitable and, as many would argue, desirable consequence of a strong and vibrant city or town. People will always need places to work and live, but perhaps it’s time to think a bit more about how regions like ours, with the best topsoil in the world, can coexist with urban sprawl so that buildings and agricultural lands don’t have to be mutually exclusive.

So, when you are turning over that precious black loam in your yard this fall, remember this: Mother Nature had to work about a hundred years to produce each and every inch of that soil. When you stop and think that many of the soils in our black soil zone are a couple of feet thick, you can be sure that she must have believed this stuff was something quite special.

Posted by admin to Current Articles on 2007-08-24, 06:49:31

first published August 16, 2007

I spent a bit of time at a nut farm last week. And, no, it wasn’t the kind you’re forced to attend because of a court order. It was the Gellatly Nut Farm Regional Park in Westbank, B.C., an honest-to-goodness orchard with dozens of varieties of nut-bearing trees—none of which were padded.

The property was formerly owned by the Gellatly family, who established the farm back in the late 1800s, and although the commercial nut-farming operation is long gone, 800 or so majestic trees still remain. Each one is a piece of history and exists thanks to a group of dedicated volunteers who had the foresight to preserve the farm. With species ranging from black walnuts and white walnuts (commonly called butternuts) to heartnuts and hazelnuts, the farm is a great place to wander through, have a taste and enjoy the shade that the massive trees offer on a hot day. All of the varieties are available to sample, and a hammer-swinging volunteer is on standby to crack open any especially tough nuts. The day I visited, Arleen was the Gellatly farm’s nutcracker, and although she was rather diminutive and demure, she managed to crack some English walnuts with her bare hands! I thought it best, at that point, to buy a $4 bag of nuts just to keep on her good side.

Black walnuts

What I found particularly interesting about the nut farm was that, although the trees seemed rather exotic, some of the hazelnuts, butternuts and specific varieties of black walnuts could be grown in a number of prairie regions. In fact, just this past week, I saw a glorious black walnut in the front yard of an Edmonton home. The tree was about a foot in diameter and probably 25 feet tall (a dwarf compared to the mature black walnuts in the Gellatly orchard), but at only 25 years old, this walnut is just a baby with generations of growing to do.

The black walnut’s close cousin, the butternut, is comparable in toughness, but isn’t at all common on the prairies, partly because there’s a limited supply of them, and partly because few gardeners are aware that they can be grown here. The most famous one I know of grows just outside the faculty club at the University of Alberta and is about 20 feet tall (6 m). Although it’s healthy and shows no signs of decline, I suspect that, because of our dry climate and short growing season, it won’t get too much taller.

Hazelnuts are in a completely different genus than the black walnuts and butternuts and hold the prestigious title of Only Indigenous Nut Found On the Prairies! Our native hazelnuts aren’t the same as the large, high-yielding types found in the Gellatly orchard. They are beaked hazelnuts, which have sparse yields on small shrub-like plants—but don’t think less of them. Beaked hazelnuts are delicious and can be found in moist, somewhat shady spots near river valleys. Just don’t expect to know that first-hand. Long before you get your hiking boots laced up and glance in the direction of the river valley, the squirrels will have the majority of our hazelnuts stored for the winter. Those tree rats…er…make that, squirrels, love fat-rich, high-calorie nuts and count on them to survive the winter. Fortunately, from an ecological perspective, squirrels have voracious appetites but lousy memories, which allows many of the buried and forgotten nuts to become the nut-bearing trees and shrubs of the future.

So if you have some time, check out the local nut trees, or pay a visit to the Gellatly nut farm in Westbank, B.C. In fact, if you decide to head to Westbank, go one step further and do what I did: buy a membership. That’s right; I bought a membership to the nut farm. Have your laugh, everyone else did, but just remember this: to drive to a nut farm voluntarily is much, much better than being driven to it.