Articles: February 2010

     As a young farmer and engineering graduate I never pictured myself having such a strong desire to write. There is no proof that I exhibit a writing style that is attractive or makes a bit of sense to an outside reader. I actually imagine it's quite horrible for I have never been good at grammar, let alone have any stunning word choices in the spider webs of my creative brain. Yet there is something about writing, and those that have inspired me to consider the hobby, that has stuck in my consciousness. Perhaps it's the thought of having all my thoughts recorded and organized, which is quite nice from an engineer’s perspective. The question is whether I can portray those thoughts in an aesthetic nature. If not, I know at least Mrs. Hobbs would be happy.

Photagraph taken by the lovely Chloe Hollis

     “Gardner Greats” will be my reflections at the end of each month of the good things in life about being a professional gardener. Even though I have only reached the apprenticeship level, I hope that these thoughts would relate to those with shared gardening experiences...

February 2010,

The clock reads close to 6:00 AM. My blanket cocoon is set at a cozy 70 degrees Fahrenheit.  A radio turns on in the distance, around 6:30, attempting to interrupt my hibernation.  This morning “alarm”, however, has become so engrained in my routine that the effectiveness is negligible.  Any sort of shuffling doesn’t usually happen until 6:45, 8:00 at the latest.  My entire being isn’t sparked until realization finally reaches the brain. At that point, determination shoots me out into the unknown possibilities of another day.

This epoch of awakening is apparent in all forms of life, albeit in different durations of time. Perennial plants take this morning routine and apply it on a monthly interval, instead of half-hourly as we do. If you were to imagine yourself in the roots of a perennial plant, alarms would begin to sound come late-February.  These alarms are guised by the timely calls of some new February friends, such as the Mourning Dove or Western Bluebird. Then, upon hearing these bird calls, you would rustle your roots a bit and hit the snooze button for perhaps another month.  How long you actually snooze depends entirely on your individuality and how many cold days have passed since the beginning of dormancy. Some have already begun to yawn, while others refuse to show any sign of getting up yet. This world of perennials is indeed an intriguing one, which I intend on becoming more engaged in. For now, though, my February has been mostly engulfed in the world of annual plants.

Difficulty arises when trying to make this same analogy apply to annual plants because I wish to focus on the emergence from the seed. The annual’s seed, unlike the other examples, is commonly seen as the birth of a new plant, not so much the awakening of pre-existing one.  However, there is something inherently different within the seeds of annuals that can never occur in perennials, or even humans. If the annual reproduces among its own species the seed is not an offspring, but a reincarnation of the parents. Thus, the annual’s seed is a beautiful display of mimicking perennial motifs.  

Seeds of annual plants have overwhelmed my time in February. They are the basis of field design, a common factor in annual budgeting, and mark the beginning of intense observation and care that is retained throughout the season.  As I write, some annuals have finished their morning ritual and are getting prepared for this theological “day”.  Some annuals have begun shuffling in there warm seed coating. Most seeds, however, are still in that deep sleep, awaiting that 6:30 alarm, whatever that may be.  

Until April,

Bean