Category — Seasons

Chinese New Year. Lunar new year. Groundhog Day. Imbolc. Candlemas. St. Brigid’s day. Whatever the name, it’s about the first signs of new life.

This year, we had an auspicious meeting of lunar and solar holidays. The lunar holiday is the Chinese new year; the Chinese keep the old system of a lunar year with 13 months, so they don’t wind up with extra bits of day in the year, the way the Gregorian system does. So the Chinese new year is the lunar new year.

Plants for this holiday are, most famously, citrus, especially oranges, because of their round golden-orangeness: this is symbolic of money (pieces of gold), as well as sweetness and other kinds of prosperity.

The Gardening with Wilson site also lists that strange citrus known as “Buddha’s hand” as a lunar new year plant. He says they aren’t for eating, but they are fragrant and symbolize good luck, abundant wealth, and longevity. The only Buddha’s hand I’ve seen was in a public greenhouse, so I wasn’t able to test out the fragrance, but I love the looks.  The show-what-it-looks-like photo is at the top of this post, but I loved this view:

That citrus is in season around this time is, I’m sure, another reason they’re associated with the lunar new year. And, when you think about it, this really is an ancient sign of long life and prosperity: fruit in season. In a time when commercial sugar was not easily available, the sweet treats of citrus must have opened new dimensions of abundance and pleasure.

The solar holidays are Groundhog Day, Imbolc, and Candlemas – markers of the seasonal calendar in the northern hemisphere. While they have different names and backgrounds, these holidays are really all about the same thing: the return of life.They’re at the midpoint between winter solstice and spring equinox, a time when gardeners itch to get outside or begin sowing cool-weather plants, depending on the climate.

David Beaulieu points out that Groundhog Day is the only holiday solely devoted to the weather. I always have to look up whether spring comes sooner if the groundhog sees the shadow, or if it doesn’t. According to Beaulieu, spring comes early when the groundhog doesn’t spot a shadow, and this year was a shadowless year. The geese already flying over, and the buttercup leaves that have unfolded in protected spots in the warm spell are other predictors, but as usual, time will tell best.

Candlemas is basically a Christianized version of Imbolc, an ancient Celtic holiday, as is Brigid’s Day. Brigid was one of those goddesses they tried to tame by making her into a saint.

Candlemas day is another weather predictor. Lindy Washburn says that the basic idea is the same as for Groundhog Day, but couched more poetically. “If Candlemas Day is bright and clear, there’ll be two winters in the year.” In New Jersey, it was clear, unlike in Philadelphia where the Official Recording Groundhog resides. Will the weather be different in New Jersey and Philadelphia? What about the rest of us?

Historically, Candlemas was the day on which candles were blessed. That may seem strange to some now, but in a time when your ability to see, work, and even walk at night depended on candles, candles were important. Most people made candles in winter, when there was time off from farm work and fires were going all the time anyway.

Candlemas plants would then be all flowers (since beeswax is one of the traditional waxes) and the bayberry bush, which white settlers in New England made into candles. It takes a lot of berries – a whole lot of berries – to do that, so those colonists spent a lot of time in the bayberry bushes and surely must have associated them with the blessing of the candles. The major “plant” for Candlemas would have to be a cow, though, since most people used the less-expensive and less labor-intensive tallow for their candles. These days, I guess Candlemass plants would be fossilized plants that have become the petroleum which we now use for candles.

Another beeswax contributor

Brigid’s Day is also called Imbolc, the older Gaelic name (it’s not pronounced the way you’d think, but don’t ask me to give you the right pronunciation). Imbolc means “in the belly” and referred to the fact that, in the UK, this is the very beginning of lambing season.

Sheep were the source of food and warmth (in the form of wool). They were hugely important in Celitc agriculture. This is probably where our Groundhog Day tradition came from: the story is that on this day the old Cailleach goes out and looks for firewood. (The Cailleach is an ancient female spirit, who may sometimes be Brigid in one of her guises.) If the day is bright and sunny, it means she has a lot of time for gathering firewood – which means winter will last longer. If it’s cloudy, spring will come soon.

In a way, all plants are associated with this day, as Brigid is goddess (excuse me, I mean saint) of fertility, creativity, healing, and poetry, and is associated with fire (such as the returning flame of the sun). In Ireland, as in my area, grass often starts to spring up about this time.

Traditionally, last year’s wheat stalks were woven into an image of Brigid to celebrate this day; she was dressed and laid in a basket. The symbology of planting a seed is clear.

An extension of this tradition brings us some of the same symbology  as for the Chinese New Year: in many places, this is called Pancake Day. Gingerbread snowflakes points out that golden, round pancakes represent the sun. By this time, it’s easy to tell it’s staying light later and earlier. And the inclusion of last year’s harvest seems like a natural form of priming the pump for the coming year.

And, I realize, those mandarin oranges that are so popular for Chinese New Year gifts must do the same thing – along with representing money. Because the deepest source of human wealth is returning plant growth. Everything we do depends on it, now as in ancient times.

Last week I wrote that Bridget’s feast was coming up. Tonight (February 1st) is the eve of St. Bridget’s Day. For Celtic festivals, as for Jewish ones, the day starts at sunset the evening before, so tonight is an appropriate time to write about the harbingers of spring.

In my last post, I mentioned that Bridget is a force that brings resurrection. But Bridget’s feast, as a friend reminded me, is especially about those first signs of resurrection – the time when you’ve gone past hope, but are not yet near fruition. It’s the time when what you hope for begins, just a little, to show in the physical world.

Peeper frogs are noticeable sign of this early spring showing here, and they’ve been going nuts in the pond, lately, with their bell-like croaks. It’s mating time for them, and they are especially active in the full moon, just past. (It was a full moon at perigee, the closest to earth the moon gets, making it especially bright. I wonder, does this make the frogs more active?)

It’s hard to take a picture of peepers, since they plop frantically below the surface at my every slight movement. But I did find a short clip of a slow-motion film of a frog leaping. Not a peeper frog, unfortunately. This video was they key for scientists to discover that frogs can leap the way they do because they have extra-stretchy muscles.

The little crocus at the top of the page is a typical European-garden sort of spring harbinger. It’s ‘Gypsy Girl’, which paghat  says was developed by Gerald H. Hageman of the International Flower Bulb Center in Hillegom.

It wasn’t until recently that I cast aside my scorn for crocuses and remembered my childhood joy in them. Yes, they are common European garden flowers, but they are so cheerful and obliging. ‘Gypsy Girl’ is one of the early “snow” crocuses, earliest of the early. Some years ‘Cream Beauty’ (an early crocus that gets extra points for fragrance) blooms before ‘Gypsy Girl’; some years it’s the other way around. This year, ‘Gipsy Girl’ is my first crocus. And the bloom in the picture is the very first flower.

Some new leaves have come out on my roses, and swelling buds are promising more.

There are other signs of spring. The grass is newly green; from now until May is the green time of year for most of us Californians. And chickweed (Stellaria media), another European import, is showing itself:

One of my daffodil bulb pots is showing a few fat, whitening buds.

And, since this is Tulips in the Woods, of course I had to take a look at the tulip pots, where I found the species Tulipa turkestanica poking up above the surface. It’s one of the earliest tulips, which is why I’ve companion-planted it over bigger, later varieties. And here’s the nice bonus: there are clear signs that my bulbs are dividing, since I’m now getting three sprouts together where once there was one.

Since these little tulip sprouts have the telltale second leaf, like a little tongue surrounded by the bigger first leaf, I know that they will not come up blind, like many bulbs do when they divide. They will give me three flowers, instead of one. It’s one of the endearing things about species bulbs: they tend to flower cheerfully in difficult circumstances, unlike their larger, well-bred pampered cousins.

I know that many of you have colder winters than I do, but you may still be able to find subtle indications that garden hopes will be fulfilled. What are they?

“Don’t plant tender plants until the blackberries bloom in your yard,” said a local market farmer. We were standing in the post office lobby, where I’d been discussing the weather with someone else.

Last-frost dates are always a matter of controversy. That’s mainly because the weather has never learned how to read a calendar. Probably isn’t even interested in trying. Leaving us humans arguing. “It’s May 15th.” “No it’s not, it warms up by the end of April.” “Well, I remember one year when it snowed in the beginning of June.” And so forth. These conversations can go on for a very long time.

While I’ve always held to the May 15th theory, myself, I immediately recognized that “when the blackberries are blooming in your yard” is a much more accurate measure. I mean, I’m not silly enough to think that summer actually starts on June 21st–in my area it starts much earlier. Natural signals–the peeper frogs are peeping, the blackbirds are back, the snow has melted, the mosquitoes are out, the oaks are leafing–are a much better guide to the seasons. The real seasons, not the ones humans make up.

And “blooming in your yard” is even better. (We won’t go into how a lot of people here would rather blackberries didn’t bloom in the yard, because they are a spreading pestiferous impenetrable nuisance.) Every area has microclimates: small climates-within-climates that are formed by being by the cool creek or on the hot south-facing slope or any number of things that make your place cooler or warmer than another place just down the street. In cities, the amount of heat-holding cement around you can make the temperature higher by 10 degrees F (about 12 degrees C).

We need specific signals to the seasons, because it’s just too easy for humans to go off on a fantasy that we’ve really got it all under control. If we want to plant right now, it will work, we figure – because we want to do it right now. It’s a pretty thought that disguises our own troubled relationship with the the rest of nature.

So we may know, in our heads, that tomatoes, squash, and other plants can’t tolerate frost. But when it warms up in early spring, it’s hard to restrain ourselves from putting out all our plants and seeds. It’s so warm. Surely it will never freeze again. That devil blend of hope and hubris that’s led so many of us to disaster.

I think some of this comes from a feeling that our gardens are our own private universes, where (of course) we hold sway. In a way, our gardens are are private universe. But they are also a part of the world around us. Maybe because I came to gardening from hanging out outside, I have always included the rest of nature in my garden notebook: the cranes flew over, the willows are leafing, the moon’s in the last quarter. But I still miss a lot.

Our local farmer said he learned about the blackberry-flower method from the old-timers thirty-seven years ago. If I had used my eyes, I could have worked it out at least a couple of decades ago. You could be quicker than I was: what are some natural signals for your own planting times?

 Sylvia (from England) sent this letter for us to share.  My friend Ed tells me that changing author names is not something WordPress allows you to do, so I’m just announcing that the photos and the rest of the text in this post are all by Sylvia. 

Dear Pomona

December and January is the hardest time for me to have flowers in the garden. There are a few hangers on like these yellow Banksia roses and I have some winter bedding like this viola I grew from seed but the gem in the garden is Iris unguicularis Mary Barnard. I bought this plant in March 2007 and was delighted that it flowered last winter from January to March.  This winter it started flowering in November. It will only have one or two flowers at a time but it has flowered continuously with only short breaks.

I had seen this plant in other gardens and coveted it for a while – don’t we all do that! But placing it in my garden was not easy.  It requires a sunny, dry place in poor soil and as it is winter flowering it didn’t seem much point growing it if I couldn’t see it from a window. In winter the only time I get to see the garden is as I have breakfast and at weekends, usually looking out of window over looking my tiny back garden – so this would be the best spot for the Iris. Planting it in this spot was a risk this spot doesn’t get sun all day, it is shaded by the house.  It is helped that it is backed by a wall but there are other plants on the sunny side of it as you can see from this view. In the right corner is one of my hellebores getting ready to bloom.

It wasn’t until I looked at the photo that I realised it had been eaten, not a perfect flower but beautiful colour and I can’t see any imperfections from my window. The leaves are rather tatty looking but it is forgiven because of the winter flowers.

Can I take this opportunity to wish all my blogging friends across the world a very Happy New Year.

Best wishes Sylvia (England)

Years ago, I read something in a Dave Wilson catalogue that changed my understanding forever: cold air is like water. It sinks.

Since heat rises, this makes sense. (Cold air molecules are more tightly packed than the molecules in warm air. This is what makes cold air heavier. ) These physical facts make a lot of difference to your plants.

If you live on a slope, like everybody in my area does, you can imagine the cold air running down it just as water does. If there are depressions in the ground–bowls or valleys–the cold air will pool there.  If there’s a steep downslope, the cold air will keep on flowing until it finds a place to rest.

When you understand how this air flow works, it’s easier to take advantage of it–or to mitigate it, if it’s a problem. Cold air can back up behind houses and fences, the way water gets backed up in a dam.  (Check the bottoms of fences, hedges, and walls for frost; if you find it, that’s a sign that this may be happening in your garden.)

All this can mean the difference between frost and no frost, which can mean the difference between a dead plant and a live one, or a bearing plant and a fruitless one.  In my area, almonds (and often peaches and plums) don’t bear, because their flowers are way too early for the climate. They bloom, frost hits, boom.

Some people recommend planting these marginal early-blooming trees on a north slope: that way their sap stays cold and sluggish for awhile longer, and they bloom later, maybe late enough not to get frostbit. We live in hope.

If you allow for ‘drainage’, you can warm up those areas: an opening along the barrier will act as a kind of sluice, letting the cold air drain down the slope, and keeping the planting area by the barrier marginally warmer.

Even people who live in flat areas generally have some contours in the ground; dips and streambeds surrounded by trees; a slight grade to the ground behind the house. This allows cold air to back up in the same way. (Since it’s been a long time since I’ve been in a flat place, maybe someone else can answer this question: does a flatter gradient mean fewer degrees of frost, or not?) Just look at your ground and imagine water flowing over it, or a big rainfall. Where would the puddles and pools be? These are your cold spots.

Besides “draining” your cold spots, you can also just avoid them when you plant something that thrives on heat, or really should be growing in a warmer climate. I’ll have to test this, but it seems possible to me that it also works the other way around: if you have a plant that really prefers a cooler climate than the one you’ve got, doesn’t it make sense to try putting it in the cool spots?

Anyway, back to mitigating cold–besides draining, you can do it in the time-honored way, by wrapping plants in burlap and bundling them up with leaves, pine needles, or straw. Or, you can do it the modern way-with a spray that protects leaves from sunburn, or with hot caps, water walls, frost blankets, and other coverings.

Another possiblity is using passive solar heat by putting up a west-facing stone or concrete wall. The wall will absorb the sun in the day, and release it gradually at night.  As long as the wall is “drained”, it will keep plants next to it just a little warmer . Warning: if you are in the shade (or in a cloudy climate) it doesn’t matter what direction the walls face; they will always be cold and clammy. There’s nothing quite as chilling as really chilled stone.

If you’ve played with this idea in your garden, I’d be interested to know how it worked for you. I don’t care if it was a success; I just want to know what you learned.

References:

ancient Dave Wilson catalogue, since buried in the archives (read: piles of printed matter)

and from my local nursery: Weiss Brothers Master Nursery newsletter, Nov/Dec 2008