Of Roots, Pests, and Flowers

Last winter we attended an organic farm conference in Wisconsin -- an epicenter of workshops, tools, products, educational resources and informal conversation.  We did our best to blend in -- Carhartt jackets, jeans, etc. -- and nodded appropriately when the topic turned to fruit tree root stock and insect gestation schedules as though we understood.  As I headed off one afternoon to another pest management session Lori took in a workshop focused on flowers.  She returned enthusiastic, armed with a daunting list of unusual flowers to raise and cut and display.  We happily set to work tracking down the seeds, several of which turned out to be obscure and hard to find.  We did the best we could, ordered what we could find, and when the time seemed right filled a dizzying number of seed cups in the greenhouse with visions of color in our heads.

Our flower launch was unimpressive.  A few of the seeds sprouted, only to wither prematurely.  Early on I blamed some rodent mischief and vandalism -- and I am sticking to my story -- but others simply failed to launch.  The most charitable assessment I can offer is that it proved to be an inauspicious beginning.

By then, however, we had a problem.  The workshop leader had spoken with particular urgency about the value of flowers around a farm's entrance -- at the base of the sign, decorating the approach.  And we were enamored with the idea.  We wanted flowers.  Around the sign.  We wanted color.  Bright color.  But the seeds had not delivered.  Concurrently we had begun working with the Department of Natural Resources and the Fish and Wildlife Service about reestablishing native prairie grasses and pollinator wildflowers on the three acres north of the garden.  We liked the idea of wildflowers and had already ordered a couple of small bags with the thought of simply spreading them in the field.  As the larger plan began to develop and be implemented, we realized those little bags would be available for some other application.

Reenter the conversation about the entry.

We tilled a patch about the size of a full-size bed stretching out from the sign.  We prepared the soil.  we scattered the seed in two sections -- a "yellow flower section" and a "blue flower section" -- and commenced watering.  Given the seemingly insignificant volume of seeds that were subsequently spread over three acres, the seeds we scattered into our little entrance bed could probably have covered an acre of land, but we were hoping for dense and impressive results.

And we got them.  Shoots began to appear in stellar concentrations.  As with so much of what we are doing around here, however, we had no idea what was sprouting.  Weeds?  Grass?  Wildflowers?  Who knew?  Drawing direction from the biblical parable of the wheat and the tares, we opted to pretty much let it all grow without interference, divining that the interlopers would be more easily identifiable once they matured.

And so we watered.

And the seeds grew.

And finally flowers bloomed.

Lots of them.

Densely.

To be sure, we still haven't much of a clue about which are the weeds and which are the wildflowers, but noting that they all look quite attractive, we concluded, "who cares?"  The sunflowers, which we DO recognize, are particularly stunning.  Those, surrounded by other yellows against the backdropping blue.  It really is quite beautiful, and we couldn't have been more proud of the blossoms we intended should they have deigned to grow.  That, plus these should reseed themselves year and year, barring some unforeseen malady.  What's not to love.

So, come to visit -- or at least drive by.  We will be the little house on the left with the beautiful and colorful entry -- just like the workshop leader envisioned.

At least one of us learned something.  I still scratch my head at all that talk about root stocks and pest gestation.