Lunar Gardening
Common Sense or Lunacy?

By Kat Neely Jones of Salem, Oregon.
Illustrations by Linda Cook Devona

The glossy, dark-green leaves seemed to glow in the afternoon sun. They were large, deeply veined—in fact, perfect. My friend, Karen, shook her head in amazement. “My spinach doesn’t look anything like this. This is, like, super spinach! What did you do?”

“I used a mix of potting soil, sand, and compost,” I offered.

“I did that, too.”

“Full sun.”

“Me, too.”

I hesitated, then said, “I planted in the first quarter moon under Scorpio.”

Karen blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“I planted the seed in the waxing moon under the sign of Scorpio.”

The conversation lagged after that. Whenever I admit to planting by moon phase and zodiac position, people generally assume a tight-lipped, isn’t-that-nice smile, check their watch, and bolt for the garden gate. I don’t know why. Lunar gardening isn‘t some New Age notion. Farmers all over the world have practiced it—successfully—for thousands of years.

Today many people still garden with their eyes on the sky. The most common practice is “moon planting.” When the moon begins to grow darker each night, as if sinking into the ground, plant underground crops like potatoes and carrots. When it begins to get brighter, plant vegetables that bear fruit aboveground.

True lunar gardening, though combines the moon’s phase within the zodiac to determine the best times for gardening chores. The Old Farmer’s Almanac, first published in 1792, provides all the information you need.

My leap to lunar gardening was purely an accident. I was two months late starting my vegetable garden and willing to try anything that might insure some harvest, however small. I decided to try moon planting. I watched the night sky and planted corn, bush beans, and cucumbers during the waxing moon. To my delight, within five days, bright green sprouts pushed through the soil. Encouraged, I sowed carrots and radishes under the waning moon. Only a few scraggly sprouts appeared. What happened?

I bought The Old Farmer’s Almanac. The daily zodiac listing showed that I’d sown my root crops under Aries, a barren sign. Worse, I’d done so during the barren fourth quarter. Was this the problem? During the next favorable phase and sign, I planted another batch using the same seed envelope. A thick crop of seedlings showed up within ten days. That was all the incentive I needed.

Lunar gardening sounds crazy to most people, but I’m sold on it. It’s so easy. All you need is an almanac, a little curiosity, and an open mind. Besides, I like the idea of following a tradition that’s lasted for thousands of years. I figure I’m using the most thoroughly tested garden calendar in history. So if someone asks about my garden, I tell the truth about what I’m doing, then wait for the indulgent smile and hurried exit. Sometimes, they surprise me. Before Karen left that day, she took another long look at my perfectly perky spinach and asked, “Where can I get hold of a Farmer’s Almanac?”

Behold, another lunatic—that is, lunar—gardener is born.

Listen to Lunar Gardening

Remedial Weeding
Feeling stressed? Gardeners know the cure.

By Becky Rupp
Illustration by Blanche Derby

Last week, while driving home from the library at four o’clock in the afternoon, I blocked the driveway of our local Dunkin’ Donuts restaurant. I didn’t mean to block the Dunkin’ Donuts restaurant; there was a panel truck in front of me and somewhere ahead of that a traffic light had turned red, leaving me stranded in front of a bubblegum-pink sign that said ENTRANCE.

This might have been all right—small-town Vermont is a reasonably laid-back environment; most of us can wait out a red light in relative tranquility—except for a woman in a gray Chevrolet who wanted to turn into the Dunkin’ Donuts now. She honked, and then honked again, louder and longer. I made apologetic faces, indicative of my inability to budge; and she rolled down her window, screamed unprintable names, and made finger gestures.

Ten seconds later the light changed.

She roared into the Dunkin’ Donuts. I went home and weeded the lettuce.

People! Sometimes the thing I like best about the garden is that there’s nobody else in it.

I have friends who, in emotional extremis, favor bubble baths, five-mile jogs, psychotherapists, or bottles of gin. I, however, have always favored weeding, solitary weeding. Gardens, along with vegetables and zinnias, dispense calm, comfort, and perspective. There’s something soothing about green and dirt; as you crawl about by yourself, pulling up invasive stuff in the cucumbers, the jagged disruptions of even the most dreadful days, begin to smooth themselves over. A garden exemplifies placid common sense. Give it a chance and it takes you outside yourself, reminding you that—for all your petty fretting—the planet is still spinning along.

There’s an unmistakably remedial aspect to weeding. It’s a cathartic activity. Yank up crabgrass, peppergrass, knotweed, and horsetail; tear out (cautiously, with gloves) the awful stuff that my field guide refers to as Horrible thistle; obliterate hawkweed, ragwort, and prickly lettuce.

Weed long enough and you’ll feel better. You’ll even start to come around on the people thing. Some people, after all, are your loved ones: your spouse, your children, your dearest friends, people without whom your life would be sad and dull, devoid of laughter, conversation, hugs, and shared peanut-butter toast. We need each other, and after an hour or so interacting with chickweed and dandelions, this begins to look once again like a positive proposition.

Which brings me back to the woman in the gray Chevrolet. I’ll doubtless never know what drove her to the point of shrieking at a perfect stranger inadvertently blocking the Donut lane. It could have been whining children, a delinquent babysitter, nasty neighbors, a surly husband, or a tyrannical boss. Her day could have been beset with tax collectors, broken pipes, and flat tires. She probably thought she needed a doughnut.

But I can tell you what she really needs.

She needs a garden.

Listen to Remedial Weeding

12 Things to Do While Waiting for the First Tomatoes to Ripen

By Diane C. Arkins
Illustrations by Marilynne Roach

One of my most vivid childhood memories is of a sign in the old neighborhood pizza parlor that read GOOD FOOD IS WORTH WAITING FOR. Sage advice, I suppose, but by this time of year backyard gardeners don’t want sage advice (or, for that matter, basil, oregano, or even garlic advice) . . . they want tomatoes! How can an anxious gardener cope during that infernal eternity of waiting for hard green balls to turn into ripe red fruits? Easy, just follow this clip-and-save list of “12 Things to Do While Waiting for The First Tomatoes to Ripen:”

1. Vegetate. (Well, it works for tomatoes!)

2. Make your fruits blush by telling them dirty jokes. (“Did you hear the one about the mud-splattered zucchini?”)

3. Disregard any rumors that your neighbors pulled in their first bushel of ripe ones a week and a half ago. (Or spread tales that their ’toms are always a bit on the mealy side.)

4. Study the age-old riddle of tomato theology: If the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden was really a sun-ripened tomato, would you have eaten it? (Be honest!)

5. Eat a store-bought tomato. (That’ll increase your patience!)

6. Schedule a “Colonel Robert Gibbon Johnson Tomato Independence Day” party for September 26. That’s the day, of course, in 1820 when, on the courthouse steps of Salem, New Jersey, the Colonel bravely ate a whole basket of tomatoes—without dying! (Most people back then thought that the fruit was poisonous.) Hope your own tomatoes ripen before your commemorative party—or else you’ll feel like dying!

7. Sing to your slow-coloring love apples. Songs of spaghetti. Lullabies of lasagna. Make them want to be red (and end your singing!) in the worst way.

8. Start next year’s tomatoes now under florescent lights in your basement. (Maybe that way you’ll finally have enough of a head start!)

9. Distract yourself with bad zucchini jokes. There aren’t, of course, any good zucchini jokes. (See 2, above.)

10. Boycott movies with such gloomy, pessimistic titles as “Fried Green Tomatoes.” Demand studios come up with wholesome, cheerful films like “Ripe Red Ones.”

11. Chant over and over and over, “Good food is worth waiting for. Good food is worth waiting for. Good food is . . . .”

12. Make a list of “12 Things To Do . . . . ” It’ll give you, and the people who read it, something to do while you all wait.

Happy (Eventual) Harvesting!

Listen to 12 Things to Do

One Million Daisies

By Marilyn Kendall
Illustrations by Heather Graham

A million daisies have invaded my mother’s garden. They grow rampant among the phlox and delphinium, the lilies and the roses. She doesn’t want their scraggly disorder in her picture-perfect beds, but she cannot stand to kill anything, especially a flower. In her stronger—or weaker—moments she attempts to eradicate them, but they always find their way back into her garden. Into her heart.

On this early morning of my summer visit, while my mother sleeps, I am deadheading these daisies—a million times a million of them, it seems—and thinking of her. At 86, she is still sturdy, and stalwart—and stubborn, at times. She wants the flowers but not their mess, so I must tread carefully in her beloved garden.

I hate this job. Capture a dead bloom, separate it from its confederates, and follow its stem down several inches (so the stub won’t show), taking care not to cut too many leaves and deplete the plant. Then snip, toss the stem into the refuse bin, find another, and start again. I mustn’t falter in my attention and sacrifice a live bloom.

Snip, snip, snip. I must have cut ten thousand at least. I look the length of the garden at the multitudes remaining. After half an hour, the beauty of the early morning no longer compensates for my aching back. I stand. She doesn’t need all these, I think. Why not just pull half out by their roots? Or cut the old heads by the fistful, rather than singly? No one would notice from a few feet away.

But I know I won’t, and I wonder why. My mother doesn’t expect this fussiness. Somehow, without reason, I expect it for her, knowing how she loves every petal and leaf. Just as she loved her children, I suddenly reflect: perfectly, proudly, with attention to every detail, every emotion, every need. In spite of our flaws. I am struck by the thought: If my mother didn’t love daisies, would she have loved me so well?

Back on my knees, I recall the lunches packed, the clothes sewed, the hair curled, the ruffles ironed. I think of the eons of advice, of comfort, of concern. I snip and I count. Snip and count.

The morning passes. A million daisies may not be enough.

Listen to A Million Daisies

They Practically Grow Themselves

By Ruth Zeier Bland
Illustrations by Marilynne Roach

My Dad felt that if you hadn’t raised a vegetable, it was not worth serving. I remember watching him hoe and water his garden for hours on end.

Grandpa was born and raised on the bricks. He longed for gardens, but knew absolutely nothing about them. So while Dad worked, Grandpa sat at the picnic table, smoking his pipe and thumbing through the Burpee’s Seed catalog. He succumbed to the pictures of giant tomatoes in bushel baskets, with smiling housewives proclaiming, “Look at these tomatoes—so large and they practically grow themselves!

One fine spring day, Grandpa slapped his knee and said to me, “Come on, Ruth, we’re going to the nursery.” Grandpa didn’t want to fool around with seeds—no sir, he wanted a garden and he wanted it now. So he bought 24 Big Boy tomato plants and a bag of fertilizer. When we returned, Grandpa grabbed a hoe and headed for the garden.

Was there ever going to be trouble now! Nobody ever planted anything in Dad’s garden. Grandpa, though, went right ahead, digging holes and stuffing plants into them.

Dad arrived just about the time Grandpa was measuring the last hole. Grandpa wiped his brow (as though he’d been sweating hard) and said, “Well, Slim, I’ve decided to help you with the garden this year. I’ve been noticing your crops have gotten kind of paltry and thought maybe you could use my help.”

Dad took in the scene—I couldn’t tell if he wanted to laugh or explode. “So what are you trying to do?” he finally asked.

“For the sake of Heaven, man,” Grandpa snapped, “I’m busy planting some decent tomatoes. These are Big Boys, the finest money can buy. In no time at all, we’re going to have some fine tomatoes.”

“You may be going to have some fine tomatoes,” Dad answered, “but not from what you’ve done. Tomatoes need sun, and you’ve planted them in full shade. When this tree next to them leafs out, they’ll forget what the sun ever looked like.”

Grandpa backed away a little. “If you think you can do better with the planting,” he said, “then all right. You can handle that. But I’ll be in charge of the stock. I’ve got my eye on some onion sets and new potatoes over at the nursery.” With that, he trudged on back to the shed.

Dad thought about protesting and kicking Grandpa out of his garden. But then he realized that gardening can touch anyone, even folks who probably should never actually do it. So he replanted the Big Boys in a good spot, added his own special fertilizer, tied them to stakes, and pinched off the suckers. Dad watered and weeded them regularly. After a time, they ripened, and Grandpa had his crop of tomatoes. He’d fill a peck basket with the biggest ones and take them to work.

“Just look at these beauties,” Grandpa’d declare proudly. “And they practically grow themselves!”

Listen to They Practically Grow Themselves

Bill, The Garden Cat

By Duane Campbell
Illustration by Sandra Brooks Mathers

Bill walked in about eight years ago. He marched over to the food dishes, ate his fill, threw up, and fell asleep.

The cat that moved into our house that day would have been thrown out of any respectable barn. He was nothing but skin and bones and appetite. His coat was appalling; mange comes to mind, but that is somehow inadequate. Chronic tooth problems gave him breath that could strip paint, and when he washed himself, the stench permeated the whole room.

Why keep such a pet? We really weren’t consulted. Our other animals, normally fiercely territorial, welcomed him instantly as part of the family. Besides, we quickly discovered a purr that could rattle the dishes in the cupboard along with a sense of . . . I’d guess you’d call it humanity.

Bill became my garden cat. As I stooped over a bed, I would prepare myself for the thump as he landed gracelessly on my back, where he would stretch out and rest a damp chin on my shoulder, watching to make sure I did everything to his satisfaction. Supervision was his forte, but he was not above lending a paw where he saw the need. He took a special interest in fertilization. All cats love the loose, freshly spaded soil of a seedbed.

So for many years, my first assignment every morning was a walk through the garden, a cup of coffee in one hand, a small shovel with a very long handle in the other. For many years, Bill joined me very morning, strolling at my feet—drooling and belching, purring and coughing—but no longer.

Bill died this summer. He went softly, with the dignity that was so surprisingly a party of him. Oh, we’ve lost pets before, but this elderly stray was special. He was my buddy, my garden cat, and I’ll miss him.

I still make my morning walk. It is a pleasant outing. I get to greet each plant on a daily basis, inquire of its health, and enjoy the garden for a while with a cup of coffee in my hand instead of a hoe.

There are those who resent cats in their garden. As a newspaper columnist, the most frequent question I get is how to keep them out. But those people love their garden too much, and they miss a larger vision of love. If a genie appeared and offered me three wishes for the gardeners of the world, those wishes would be for a prosperous garden, a fine cat to share it with, and a good shovel with a very long handle.

Listen to Bill, The Garden Cat

The Youngstown Vindicator
People who live in weedy gardens, shouldn't throw speeches.

By Gary Church
Illustration by Dena Seiferling

That’s how I got started. I ordered a book from the Penn State Extension Service to help me learn about gardening. I studied all the technical stuff—when to plant, how deep to dig, and what fertilizers to use. (I may have skipped the chapter on weeding, though.)

Lo and behold, a Christian women’s group asked me to speak about gardening at their luncheon. I have a problem saying no, so I gave a speech based on what I had learned from the book I read. I didn’t really plan on it being a funny speech, but I started out with something funny—and they laughed. Well, one thing led to another in that regard, if you know what I mean.

You know how word gets out about a funny, no-pay speaker. I ended up giving several speeches for different organizations. I got so involved in speaking that I sort of forgot about my garden. Weeds took over completely. I don’t think weeding is my gift.

One Saturday morning, I came back from an errand, and my wife said to me, “We’ve got a lot of work to do! The Youngstown Vindicator called. A reporter there said he’d heard you had been giving talks on gardening. They’re coming at 3:00 to interview you and take pictures of your garden!”

“What garden?” I said, panicked. “It’s all weeds!”

My wife actually helped me weed the garden for the first time in her life. (OK, OK, it was the first time in my life, too.) When we were done, I got out my lawnmower and mowed around the edges to make sure the garden looked neat.

As 3:00 came near, I went into the house and washed my hair, so I would look good in the picture. I then casually walked out to my garden with a hoe in my hands so it would look like I was working in it when they came.

Well, 3:00 came and went, but no reporter did. I waited and pretended to hoe and waited and pretended and waited some more. After an hour passed, it finally came to me. Someone had played a trick on me: It was a prank call to get me to weed my garden!

It’s been 20 years since that happened. I still haven’t seen that guy from The Youngstown Vindicator. But somebody must have driven by that day—or peeked out their window—and just about doubled over laughing.

I still speak when I get the chance. But my garden? Two tomato plants in containers.

No weeding.

Listen to The Youngstown Vindicator

Welcome to My Garden
Learning how to say "Yes" to a tour.

By Susan B. Johnson
Illustration by Christina Hess

When the letter came inviting me to participate in Savannah’s tour of historic gardens, my reaction was immediate and threefold: overwhelmed, suspicious, and intimidated.

Suddenly the same small space that I love digging in, working myself into a sweat over, and sagging in frustration about had become a potential showplace, a garden on display. Why would anyone prefer my geraniums to my neighbor’s orchids and her formal bed of roses—with names?

The first thing I did after accepting the invitation was to pick up the phone and call my friend Katharine, a horticulturist, who shares my love of the soil and knows what she’s about.

“Help!” I cried. “What must I do now in December to have a tour-worthy garden in April?”

“Relax,” said Katherine. “I’ll be over on Tuesday.”

We spent three happy hours pruning, weeding, digging, and planting. As she left, she gave me an encouraging smile. “You’re worrying about nothing,” she said. “The committee chose your garden because it’s charming. Not because it’s exotic or perfect, but because it’s a nice place to be.”

I knew that.

It is where I come after a frustrating day of trying to coax recalcitrant minds into caring about writing, about poetry, about opening up to ideas. I snap off dead chrysanthemum blossoms instead of tossing piles of artless student essays in the trash. I clip back my overgrown holly instead of snapping at my co-workers. Every bud on my hibiscus represents to me a tiny investment in tomorrow. Every mite and beetle provides a small, conquerable problem in a world beset by impossibilities. I may not be able to restrain the Middle East, but I can, by God, keep the fig vine from scaling the board fence and invading my neighbor’s yard.

A garden is a microcosm—a manageable space within the larger scope of our lives, so much of which is beyond our control. And this, I think, is what makes garden tours special: that common bond we all share. The modest dreams, the small successes, and the knowledge gained from failures.

So I’m not worried anymore about the April tour. The Garden Club ladies won’t come seeking aphids on my daisies or slug slime on my camellias. They won’t expect me to expound upon propagation methods or the Latin names for things. I have a hunch they’ll want what I want—a quiet, fragrant sanctuary where they can perch briefly on the redwood deck to enjoy the perfume of my wisteria, the music of my tiny fountain, the marmalade cat curled in the shade of the flowering crab.

And they’ll be welcome. Welcome.

Listen to Welcome to My Garden

In the next issue of the "Weeder's Digest," we'll share the hilarious mishaps of a real mixed marriage - gardener and nongardener - in "The Joy of NonGardening."

The "Weeder's Digest" stories come from GreenPrints magazine, created by editor Pat Stone. Visit GreenPrints, and discover why one reader called it "a hyacinth for the soul".

Happy Gardening!

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http://www.naturehills.com/