Irresistible Iris

Irresistible Iris. I didn't always feel that way about this flower. When my husband and I moved into our home nine years ago this August (wow, time flies!) I inherited a small bunch of tall bearded iris. They were planted in a corner of the yard, under a tree and never performed particulary well. I left them alone for years and years and never gave them much thought.

While I often puttered in the garden, I didn't get really serious about gardening until about three years ago. That's when I decided to give my pathetic little iris blooms a fair shake. I'm so glad I did because they have rewarded me ever since with a stunning display in late spring.

I quickly discovered part of the problem with my existing, lacklustre blooms. Whoever planted them to begin with buried their rhizomes deep under the soil. I don't think the irises appreciated it. The plants were also in a corner that proved to be too shady. I transplanted them to a sunny spot and left the rhizomes exposed. What a payoff! The flowers flourished and have more than doubled in size in the last few years. I'm already planning to divide them for next year (although I'll have to research exactly the best time to do that.)

As a group planting, I like iris best just before they are about to bloom. Their tall, spear-like stems with just a hint of the colour to come just scream "Look at me! I'll be ready for my close-up soon." Once in bloom, a drift of iris looks great too. But why enjoy these blooms from afar? These are flowers that you should get up close and personal with. There's so much to see. First, you've got the Standards -- the three upward-arching petals. Then you get another three petals called the Falls. As the name suggests, they fall away from the blossom. And then there are my favourites: the beards. The fuzzy, brush-like, tickle inducing hairs that sit on the Falls. There's more, but then this isn't a botany class.

I've read in several gardening books that irises aren't worth the trouble. They get attacked by iris borers and their foliage turns brown by midsummer and needs to be plucked away. Bah-humbug I say to those gardener writers. You've got it wrong. I've heard the tall bearded irises described as queens of the iris world, and I for one, am delighted to be in the presence of royalty.

Who Says you Have to "Urn" Your Garden?

I consider myself a dedicated gardener. I'm committed. I'm ready to weed. I spend hours in the dirt. I'm in it for the long haul. But even a committed gardener like myself deserves a little instant gratification. That's what I got today. Upon my arrival home from work, I came upon my brand new window box and two beautiful backyard urns.

If there's anywhere my green thumb fails me, it's in the container garden. I just don't have the magic touch. I pick the wrong plants, place them poorly, and then promptly neglect them. My desire for a beautiful window box and urns is unrelenting though, so I get some professional help.

The folks at Pink Flamingo Garden and Urn Design Inc. have done an amazing job yet again. The proof is in the pictures. Last winter, they did some jaw-droppingly awesome holiday designs too. Hands down, we had the most gorgeous Christmas window in the neighbourhood (but, of course, I am biased.)

I'm determined to water these beauties, watch them grow, and study their designs in the hopes that one day I'll grow to love container gardening too. I doubt it, but that's okay. At least I've got the pros to help me out.

At Your Service

Good garden help is hard to find. Luckily, I've got my almost four-year old to lend a hand. We spent a fabulous Victoria Day Sunday together walking to the garden centre, picking out a tree and some garden accessories, dragging them all home in her wagon, and then placing said purchases in the garden. Of course, my daughter was more interested in making mud pies and squishing them in her toes than in any actual planting activity. Even though our interests in the garden differ, they are compatible.

The big purchase of the day was a serviceberry. I'm very excited about it. It's my attempt to introduce some native Ontario plants to the garden, attain some shade and height, and attract some wildlife in the process.

My purchase came too late to experience the flower show the serviceberry delivers in spring. It produces white blooms in April before the leaves appear. I'm already looking forward to next year. Right now, the berries have already formed. If I'm lucky and the birds don't get to all of them, I might even try my hand at making some jam or pie once the fruit is ripe. Come fall, the serviceberry provides yellow to yellow-red foliage that promises to look spectacular against the backdrop of the yew. As a bonus, my husband really likes its funky shape.

All of these plant details are lost on my daughter who is nevertheless fascinated by berries, and birds, and dirt. When I look out at the serviceberry years from now as it towers above the garden, I'll remember what a wonderful day we had planting it -- especially washing the mud from between our toes.

Garden Update

A second straight day of rain. My plants are loving it. Here are just a few photos and an update of how my garden is growing. The tall bearded irises are looking great.




The fir tree buds are a bright, light green and soft to the touch.






Always one to keep me guessing, the hibiscus is finally showing signs of life. The leaves on this shrub are always the last to appear. But what a showstopper late in the summer. I'm setting aside some pruning time this weekend.



My chives look like they are ready to put on the next spectacular bloom show. As a bonus, chives are one of the few "greens" my daughter enjoys.


The giant hostas are well on their way to dominating the shadiest corner of my garden. At their peak, these beauties easily measure four feet across.


Where did all these daylilies come from? I swear these plants double in size every year. I love them. Here's to waiting for them to bloom.

The Accidental Gardener

I can't take credit for some of my greatest garden features. You see, I inherited them. When my husband and I moved into our home in August of 1998, the backyard was covered in grass with the exception of an interlocking brick walkway and a sad little corner set aside for flowers. I would eventually (and very slowly) transform the space to include two large borders on the north and south sides of the yard. A few of the original plants have endured and thrived, much to the delight of my green thumb.

First up, the columbine. They have made themselves right at home in the gravel of my driveway. Columbines are truly spectacular plants. They are super easy to grow. The flowers are complex and fabulous and come in a deep, dramatic purple. Once the blooms have faded, columbines are more than happy to seed themselves, ensuring that I'll always have some. I've often wanted to pick up a few extras at the garden centre but couldn't justify the purchase. Why pay for a plant that is only too happy to propagate itself. As a bonus, the columbine's mounded foliage remains gorgeous for the duration of the summer.

My patch of tall bearded irises has become so large that I think I'll have to divide it after the summer. I inherited a small bunch of irises that never seemed to perform especially well. For years, I was lucky to get one or two blooms. But upon relocating them to a sunnier location and planting them so that their rhizomes were exposed, these beauties really came into their own. They are easily the highlight of my spring garden. After blooming, I cut the stems to the base. The strap-like foliage looks good well into late summer. When it starts to get brown, I just yank the leaves or cut them away.

There's one shrub in the garden that inspires me to proclaim "Yew're terrific." A small yew planted in the south-west corner of the yard has grown into a majestic hedge that blocks the view of our parking spot. Nothing ruins the ambience of a garden like a car. But thanks to the yew, our VW is almost entirely obscured. The yew stands nearly six feet tall and at least that wide. I have never, ever trimmed it. It's got a naturally pleasing form.

I've also got a towering fir. It was a signficant tree when we moved in nearly 9 1/2 years ago. Now it's that much more signficant. Its branches have blocked part of the pathway that cuts through the yard. Everyone has to step off the path to get around it. But rather than touch the tree, I think I'll reroute the path. What a great excuse to finally get rid of the interlocking brick that I have grown to loathe.

And let's not forget the ivy that spontaneously sprouted and started climbing up the side of the neighbour's house. Instead of brick, I get a view of a living wall. The ivy is especially spectacular in fall when it turns a fiery red. I secretly hope the neighbours don't know or care about. They are not plant people (don't get me started about the disaster they call a front lawn) and I fear that they would hack the ivy away.

I consider these the happy accidents of my garden. They're the plants I never got around to yanking or trimming or carefully placing. And what a lucky thing that is.

What a Difference A Day Makes

The other day I snapped this photo of a plump purple beech bud in my backyard. At that time, the tree's copper coloured fall leaves were still stubbornly clinging to their branches. This is a tree that takes its time to get going in the spring. I try not to place too many expectations on it at this time of year. Just like me, it doesn't need the pressure. A steady but leisurely pace will do just fine. As a result, I use this time to watch the buds plump up and count the leaves as they drop.

This morning when I looked out at the tree, it looked different. All the leaves had fallen off and the beech itself looked taller, fuller and more mature somehow. I rushed out to take a closer look and realized the beech was about to make a show-stopping, grand entrance. A fresh batch of dark purple and crimson leaves was opening and the tree seemed to say to me "I'm back."

Welcome back buddy! My husband and I planted the purple beech for our daughter on her first birthday almost three years ago. It was a tiny little thing and unspectacular to start, or so I thought. As it turns out, "unspectacular" is the wrong word to describe the beech.

In spring, its leaves are purple to start and tinged with bright red as they open. In late summer they turn a deep green. Come autumn they are a fiery orange. In the light of a sunset, the tree positively generates warmth with its glow. Long after other trees are bare, crinkly, copper leaves continue to hang on to the beech providing months of vibrant colour when I need it most.

Last summer was an exceptional time for the beech. I read online that a little extra water in the heat of late July and August was a good idea and might even result in a growth spurt. That advice was bang on. I swear the beech shot up by about a foot through the end of summer and into fall. I plan to follow through with the same regime this year.

A beech has the potential to reach 100 feet tall. Pretty impressive. But even at six feet and counting, I'm already impressed.

Nutty for Tulips

I wonder if there are squirrels in Holland? If not, then perhaps we can ship some of our Canadian squirrels over there. They could munch on Dutch tulips instead of mine. I'd drop them off in Keukenhof Tulip Garden near Amsterdam, the largest tulip garden in the world, and tell them to "Go Nuts!" Get it?

Holland grows and exports most of the world's tulips. I'd be happy to grow one decent bunch that lasts for more than a day before becoming lunch for a rodent. But I can't blame the squirrels. Tulips are deliciously elegant with their long, tall stems. And with thousands of varieties to choose from they are the smorgasbord of spring bulbs.

I'm both happy and sad to report that a precious few tulips have survived the squirrel onslaught. Happy because the survivors are beauties. Sad because there are too few of them. I considered not planting any more tulips to cut down on squirrel frustration but that sentiment won't stick. I think I'll succumb to a better solution: plant more tulips. How many can the squirrels possibly eat?

Fritillaria & Iraq

It's a good thing gardeners love to post pictures of their plants on blogs. Just the other day, I was trying to identify an unfamiliar plant in my garden. During my search for answers, I popped over to kbgardenblog.com and wouldn't you know it, there were two very beautiful pictures of my mystery plant.

Turns out I have a fritillaria. More specifically, I have fritillaria uva-vulpis. I love their purple, bell-like blossoms with the yellow edge. While reading up on these bulbs, something really jumped out at me. The plants are native to Turkey, Iran and Iraq. That's right...Iraq.

It's difficult to associate anything of beauty with Iraq these days. I work in the news and not a day goes by that some horrific event doesn't play out there. I hate to say it, but a car bomb that kills only one or two people doesn't warrant a mention in the news anymore. If a suicide bomber manages to score a double digit death toll, perhaps there's time to squeeze it in. Violence and bloodshed have become so commonplace that the only time anyone ever takes notice anymore is when coordinated attacks on crowded places like markets kill 80 or 100 or more people at one time. And sadly, that kind of catastrophic loss of human life is increasingly a reality in Iraq. It's a crass truth about tv news that death tolls do count. But the fritillaria has revealed to me a greater truth.

The fritillaria in my garden and the fritillaria growing in Iraq are evidence that all us have something in common. When dealing with death tolls, its easy to forget that the victims of the insanity in Iraq are mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, sons and daughters. It's easy to forget that like all of us, they have dreams for themselves and for their babies. It's easy to forget that they work long hours to make ends meet. That they love to sing and dance. That they laugh at a good joke and love a good meal. And that they fall into their beds at night exhausted by all the good and bad that life has to offer. Sounds a hell of a lot like me.

Somewhere in the insanity of Iraq, I bet that someone has stopped to admire a fritillaria and maybe even put a bouquet of its blooms on the dinner table. It's called being human. Searching for beauty where you least expect to find it. And today, its that beauty that moves me to say I stand in solidarity with the innocent victims of a senseless war.

It's All a Matter of Perspective

In gardening, as in life, perspective counts for a lot. Take for example the two pictures posted here today. Garden #1 is the stuff of garden magazines. Lush greenery, well placed garden architecture, and a hint of spring blossoms all bathed in the late afternoon sunshine. Filmmakers call this time of day "magic hour" for good reason. Gardeners should adopt the phrase and make it their own.

Garden #2 reminds me of amateur hour. Lots of bare patches, not much colour except for the grey of lean soil, not much variation in height or texture. And what about that rickety old fence! Yuck with a capital "Y!"

If you haven't guessed by now, these are pictures of the same garden. My garden.

Depending on the day and my mood, I see one of my two gardens. Garden #1 makes me go "Wow!." I take pride in having transformed a boring strip of grass into a border bursting with shrubs, flowers, herbs, and a whimsical garden statue or two. What an awesome sense of accomplishment.

Then there are days that I see my "other" garden. Garden #2. You know, the one where weeds run rampant. The one where there are too many coneflowers and not enough sedum. Too many globe thistles and not enough heather. The one without a strong overall design. The one where the rickety old fence threatens to blow over in a light breeze. And don't let me forget the one where a wrong step on a really hideous interlocking brick path could mean a broken ankle.

So my one garden really occupies two spaces. The first is where I want to be and the second is where I'm at. And depending on the day or my mood, one will take precedence over the other. It's sort of like using the "glass half-empty" or "glass half-full" analogy to describe one's garden. In other words, it will take a lot of work to get to where I want to be, but, baby, look at how far I've come!"

Gardening, it seems, really is a matter of perspective.

To Compost...or Not to Compost?

I was composting before composting was cool. For years, my composter sat next to the now huge yew in my backyard collecting kitchen scraps, grass clippings, fall leaves, and my failed gardening experiments. While it never produced copious amounts of compost, it produced enough that I could dig in generous amounts around plants that needed a little extra attention. From beginning to end, the process was super easy.

But last year I had every intention of getting rid of my composter. In late fall, I used up ever last bit of compost available and then I stopped feeding the black beast. I planned to pull it out of the ground this spring and chuck it in the trash.

You see, my composter was sitting on some prime garden real estate. When I was just getting started, it didn't matter much because I had lots of other places to cultivate. But as the garden started filling out and I started looking for new places to transform, that composter just started screaming out at me. Get rid of me! Wouldn't a tree look great here? This would make a perfect woodland garden spot!

I decided the composter had to go. And there really wasn't any reason to feel bad about getting rid of it. The City of Toronto picks up kitchen scraps every week as part of its green bin program. And yard waste is collected every two weeks in spring and fall, and every week in summer. All my kitchen and garden waste was going to be composted anyway!

Today was the day I planned to say so long to my composter. But when it came time to do it, I couldn't follow through.
My composter has been nourishing my garden for nearly a decade. Just chucking it would be no way to treat a friend. The composter also offers a rare opportunity to personally divert waste from the big garbage machine. Sure the City will turn my scraps into compost -- but they will have to load them onto noisy trucks that suck up gas and spew out pollution as they cart my waste miles and miles away to be reborn as "black gold." Why not just toss those scraps and clippings in the backyard instead?

In an age when the threat of global warming and its catastrophic consequences has been accepted by thousands of scientists around the world (just check out the findings of the last three reports from the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change), it would seem to me that composting is a good idea and quite possibly a moral obligation.

In the end, I did manage to get back some prime garden real estate. I relocated the composter! Instead of being in front of the yew, it's behind the yew -- out of sight in an area that would never get used anyway. Now I've got a fertile patch of ground all ready to accept a new addition to the garden. What that will be remains to be seen but I'll keep you posted.

Get rid of my composter? What was I thinking.

My Garden Catalogue: Keeping a Tradition Alive

It's a rare occasion that anything interesting arrives in the mail these days. After all, how exciting can bills, fast food flyers, charity request forms and a note from my local MPP get? Oh sure, there was a time when getting personalized address labels and notepads was a fun novelty. Soon everyone caught on, though, and now even these "gifts" have been relegated to the junk pile.

But several times a year, the mail makes my day. You see, that's when I get my Lee Valley Garden Tools Catalogue.

The arrival of the catalogue is serious business. Its pages are not to be casually perused. They will require careful and repeated study. There's just so much to consider: page after page of products that will make me a better gardener. Do I really need an ergonomically designed stainless steel transplant spade? Absolutely. How about a "Make Your Own Plant Marker Stone Kit." Definitely. Or maybe a high-fired clay hanging bird home designed especially for warblers, wrens and chickadees? Without a doubt!

Of course I won't end up ordering any of these products (except maybe the bird home). But it sure is fun to imagine all the possibilities. In a world that offers up hundreds of tv channels, the internet, movieplexes, theme parks and endless distractions, I need look only as far as my catalogue for endless hours of entertainment.

I guess catalogues appeal to my childhood self. Doesn't everyone have a memory of flipping through the Sears Christmas catalogue, turning down the corners of the pages with the stuff you want and then placing your order? Roch Carrier's classic tale "The Hockey Sweater" beautifully depicts the anticipation that follows. After his mother places an order for a Montreal Canadians hockey jersey, a young boy experiences heartbreak when a Maple Leafs sweater arrives in the mail instead. Who hasn't felt that kind of crushing disappointment? And when you think about it, aren't all orders, even those that are right, a bit of a disappointment? It's just a fact of life: our expectations and dreams are usually a lot better than the reality. And that's why catalogues are so much fun. Lost in their pages, one can create one's world as one would like it to be.

Catalogues are a great reminder that longing for something is sometimes more satisfying than achieving it. They're a reminder that the journey is as important as the finish line. While many catalogues have gone the way of the dinosaur, its fitting that garden catalogues still exist. A garden, it seems to me, is always a work in progress. There's always a longing for lusher foliage, more abundant blooms, more potent fragrances, or a better overall design. And what better to inspire than a catalogue full of possibilities.

My Garden's Keeper

Meet Phil. He's a permanent fixture in my garden. He sits contentedly between two winged euonymus keeping watch. In the spring, he welcomes the first burning bush buds. He disappears almost entirely under their leaves in summer but peaks through when the occasional breeze blows through. He's there for the fall's spectacular fiery display and he waits for winter to end without complaint with about a foot of snow on his head.

Good old reliable Phil. I know I can count on his happy mug every time I look out the kitchen window. It's like being greeted by an old friend.

Phil was a gift from my in-laws. I liked him from the very start. But I never expected that he would grow on me so much. Without him, my garden is just incomplete. I think this has everything to do with Phil's attitude. He sits there with his chin resting on his hands and a vague smile across his face. The picture of serenity.

Of course, that's exactly why he's the perfect fit for the garden. After all, aren't gardens meant to be an escape? An oasis of calm in a crazy world? A peaceful hideaway? My garden is all that to me. So it's fitting that my garden's keeper embodies the serenity I seek.

Thank Goodness for Daffodils

May Day! May Day! Spring is missing in action! May 1st and there was not a ray of sunshine to be seen. After a glorious Sunday, the last two days have offered up the worst of the season: cold, grey, and wet conditions. I still can't shake the chill from my bike ride home from work. And yet, one flower towers head and shoulders above the rest in these conditions and puts on a fantastic display.

Thank goodness for daffodils.

Of all the bulbs I've ever planted, the daffodils never disappoint. For years, I had just one big clump of them. They were always the first to make an appearance, standing tall and proud at the back of my border. Their colours are unsurpassed, the blooms are long-lasting and make a great cut flower! Last year, I decided a few more were in order and a bulb fundraiser at my daughter's pre-school gave me the perfect excuse to splurge a little. So in went the bulbs. Now I've got four fabulous clumps in bloom with a fifth group of flowers on the way.

My daffodils are planted in full sun. Even though I've been working to improve my soil a little at a time for years, I'd say it's still a little on the lean side. The drainage is good. Once the flowers have faded, I cut the main stems down to the ground. I leave the foliage alone until it turns yellow and then just pull it out of the garden with a good yank or with a quick pass of the rake. I leave the bulbs in the ground instead of digging them up in hopes that they will multiply.

Honestly, it doesn't get much easier than that, and what a payoff! Thank goodness for daffodils. They'll keep me going until the warmer weather arrives.

Finding the Time to Garden

Being the mother of a three-year-old and a full-time career woman presents one big challenge for the gardener in me. When do I find the time to do any gardening?

Mornings are a blur of activity. Get up, get dressed, make breakfast, take Maja to pre-school and rush off to work. Upon my return home (some nine-and-a-half hours later!) dinner and bedtime stories take priority. Best case scenario, I get out into the garden by 10:30pm.

As a result, I've been forced to adapt. My new best friend and favourite garden tool is my flashlight. Every night, with flashlight in hand, I tour my garden to check on its progress. There's much reaching and squinting to get a better view of the night garden. And there's not much choice but to focus on individual plants rather than the garden as a whole. Inspecting the garden is relaxing as can be. But under the cover of night, I find it even more so.

Tonight, I ventured past looking at the garden with my flashlight to working in the garden with my flashlight.

Thanks to a neighbour's planned construction of a garage, there's a massive, gaping hole in our backyard fence. The area has been closed off with orange construction fencing as a temporary security measure. Now I'm hoping to transform this monstrosity into a wall of blooms.


I dug a trench through the gravel along the length of the construction fencing and planted dozens of sweet peas and morning glories. I sprinkled a light layer of soil over the seeds and then gave them a good soaking with the watering can. The soil here is poor to say the least so I don't know if the climbers will succeed, but the columbines seem to like it so I've got my fingers crossed.

So it seems that finding the time to garden is indeed possible. I just have to make sure my batteries are charged.

Hope Springs Eternal

April tries my patience. After months of grey, dreary and often frigid weather, April teases me. It entices me with warm breezes. It pulls me outside with the first aromas of thawing earth. It washes me in the golden light of mornings and the pink skies of sunset. Then it slams me back into reality with endless days of cold and rain. Sigh.

I have to forgive April its somewhat split personality. The by-product of the push and pull between a stubborn winter and an emerging spring is an abundant supply of hope and anticipation. I feel like my three-year-old daughter before a birthday party. She wonders if there will be cake and presents and balloons. I wonder what surprises the garden will hold.

Will the tulips survive an onslaught of squirrels? How much lemon balm will I have to pull out of the ground? If I start early enough, can I get rid of the rhubarb I dislike so much? Did the foxtail lilies multiply? I planted something right there, but what? I'll just have to wait and see. The anticipation is too much.


There's already a lot to suggest success lies ahead. Several new patches of daffodils and chionodoxa are in bloom. The grape hyacinths, a personal favourite, are poking through the earth to display perfection in miniature. The cranesbill, veronica, and liatris are all reaching for the sun. In typical fashion, the purple coneflowers (which never disappoint) are coming on strong. And it appears my inaugural session of lilac pruning last summer was a success. The buds appear ready to burst.


Now, to exercise some patience. Let the rain and sunshine and earth do their work. April, you tease.

Sunshine in the Deep Dark Shade

Go to the darkest, dingiest, most inhospitable corner of my backyard and you will find the cheeriest of blooms. The spiky petals are an intense yellow. They sit atop thick, fleshy stems that remind me of chicks and hens or even cactus. There's not much to the foliage right now, but as I recall from last year, the leaves are enormous. They hide the dirt and gravel patch at the back of my driveway where nothing will grow, except this mystery plant.

I set out to solve the mystery this week and it wasn't long before I realized this spunky little plant was bad news. A search of the internet using the key words "yellow blooms in deep shade" resulted in almost immediate results. I had a case of Tussilago Farfara.

Perhaps you know it by some of its other names: assfoot, clayweed, dummyweed. Not exactly inspiring. The Canadian Encyclopedia of Gardening lumps it into the dreaded perennial weed category. And almost everything I have read describes it as "invasive" and a threat to native plants.

Just my luck. I really like those sunny, dandelion-like blooms. Surely there must be some redeeming qualities to assfoot!

Turns out there are, but just a few. Tussilago Farfara is a perennial herb (that's much nicer isn't it?). It has been used throughout history to relieve coughs and respiratory problems. Is that enough to trump its invasive status? What to do? Let it grow or yank it. As to be expected, once it has spread its roots, it's tough to get rid of.

On this gloomy, grey, rainy day, Tussilago Farfara gets a reprieve. I won't touch it for now. It can brighten my backyard corner for a little while longer. But at the first signs of an invasion, I'm going to kick some assfoot.

Crazy For Corkscrew

Let's get some quick business out of the way first. With this entry, I am joining the blogging revolution! It's a big step.

You see, I'm slow to try new things. I've lived in the same neighbourhood for 36 years. I rarely use a cell phone, don't like the Blackberry, and my knowledge of computers is limited to checking email or turning the computer on or off. It took my husband years to convince me about the power and convenience of HD television, digital cable and the almighty PVR (thank god I came around). I am currently having panic pangs over our decision to replace our existing boiler and water tank with a newfangled tankless water heater. Never mind that the technology has been around for more than three decades and wildly successful in Europe. It makes me nervous.

I can go on and on. But in short, I don't mix well with new things. I think the old stuff works just fine and I'm slow to accept change. Hence the title of my blog. My Roots Run Deep. My husband might suggest that a better title might be "My Roots Run REALLY Deep."

But there is another reason behind the choice of title. I've heard that in order to be a successful blogger, one must choose a topic one is passionate about. For me, that's easy. My passion is my garden. It ranks right up there with my family, cat, and the cinema.

So there you have it. Let the garden blogging begin. Today's topic: crazy for corkscrew.

Last fall, I decided to let the pros at Pink Flamingo Landscaping help me out with a gorgeous Christmas window display and two fantastic urns. They were jammed with evergreen branches of all sorts. Fruits and berries too. And for height, some red dogwood branches and several corkscrew hazel branches.

I've long been an admirer of the corkscrew hazel. A mature shrub lit just right in winter time evokes memories of childhood fairy tales, magic forests, and witches ready to swoop by on a broom with a flying monkey in tow. It's amazing that even a single twisted, tortured branch can have such a dramatic effect. But alas, I've never had the space and I've always considered them to be pricey plants.

So imagine my surprise when I noticed this week that one of the branches was in leaf. I was cleaning out the urns to prepare for spring and there they were: leaf buds! I was ecstatic. I transplanted the branch into its own pot and left it on the deck right next to the urn. Since it rooted there and produced leaves there, I'm leaving it right there. It receives sun for most of the afternoon. As for water, I'm letting the spring rain take care of things for now.

I don't know if I'll end up with a viable plant but for now it's all very exciting. After work, I rush out onto the deck to see how my little leaves are doing. Crazy for corkscrew, indeed.