April is the cruellest month, but March was most perilous

Update on the seedlings we planted over a month ago…

In March, we installed a new pot hanger in the kitchen underneath the sky lights. The hanger has a shelf that is perfect for plant flats. Unfortunately, the hooks my man used to anchor it to the ceiling didn’t have the stamina for the combined weight of pots, pans and plants, and the whole shebang came crashing down in the middle of the night.

Time-release booby traps are my man’s specialty.

Miraculously, no one was smote and the seeds were undisturbed, except for losing some soil. So far we have tomatoes, cucumber, foxglove, green beans, morning glories, sunflowers and a couple of other things that I can’t quite recall. We’ve lost a few plants to damping off and there is an odd mould growing on the soil surface, despite the fan we set up to prevent this. Part of the problem with lofting plants is that if they’re not at eye level, it’s easy to assume they’re doing just fine. My kingdom for a cold frame that I don’t have to climb a ladder to get to. I have read about sterilizing the soil ahead of time by baking it in the oven, but really. I work. Who has time for that?

We’re now firmly in the cruellest month. The sun is warm on the cheeks if the wind and rain bugger off long enough. The first flowers are in bloom, but snow, freezing rain and frost are still distinct possibilities. Last Saturday was absolutely glorious – and, I had to work. Sunday, my day off, it rained. All week long? Beautiful. This weekend? Cold and rainy. April is the cruellest month, but I’ll take it over March any time.

Coming soon:
The day The Enchilada developed a split personality…

Spring Solstice Sacrifice

I’ve been wanting to start seeds for a couple of weeks now. It’s time. But, every year I have certain trepidations about creating life only to destroy it. Every year, I go through this exercise. I plant seeds, following instructions to the letter, only to watch the baby plants wither and die a few weeks later. Aside from the waste of time and money (two massive peeves for me), I am just not in the Shiva headspace. That, and I’m finding myself dancing around notions of the future, aging and death with my three year old, who just wants answers. A mass extinction of his plants would be less than ideal.

I’m not new to starting seeds indoors. I’ve been doing that home-gardening tango of hope, regret and failure for 10 years now: I’ve had trouble with damping off, over watering, under watering, temperature control, expired seeds and just plain hard-to-start seeds. Neither am I new to spring in Toronto, when the most squirrelly people tend to get even more squirrelly. And they ALL love me. There are a million diversions throughout springtime in Toronto to keep the most well-meaning from tending to their plants, and then there’s the bizarro shit I encounter when all I want to do is go home. I don’t know, maybe the Shiva vibe would actually help me combat that out-an-out weirdness.

Each year, I learn from the previous year’s horticultural mistakes and vow not to let life’s random acts of WTF was that? distract me from my leafy little lambs only to encounter some other issue that spells fatality for my plants. Just like we need to breathe, plants need to grow, right?

Sure they do, but I suspect they would really like it if I would stop trying to help.

Last year’s mass herbicide was the perfect storm of baking in an oven of a greenhouse and utter neglect.

My man had built a new garden shed that included a top-shelf cold frame with lovely, old, paned windows on hinges in the place of doors and a clear plastic roof. Attractive and useful, just like its designer. Also, much like the designer, utterly maddening to navigate. About this time last year, a few weeks after quitting my stupidly stressful job, I was still feeling chewed up and spit out, and nursing an injured back. I decided to ignore my usual misgivings and plant seeds to boost my spirits. When it came time to move the trays outside into the cold frame, a major problem presented itself the first time I attempted to water my tender seedlings.

Here’s how it went down:

In order to reach the trays, I climbed onto a rickety stool. The lovely old windows are hinged at the top, so they swing up and open, which means you have to hold it open to get at anything on the shelf. With one hand holding on for dear life and the other one hefting a 5-gallon watering can, that left my head to prop the window open. In this pose, I then had to twist and stretch with a 5-gallon weight at the end of my arm to reach the trays.

My whole house is full of design treasures like this. Hmm. I wonder why my back hurts.

So, this week, trying not to think of last year’s poor seedlings that died of thirst scant feet from the their own little Eden, I climbed on the stool to take stock of supplies, then drove with my son to the garden centre. All we really needed was No-Damp, a fungicide that keeps seedlings from “damping off” – succumbing to an invisible killer fungi. At Home Depot, we were told they no longer carried the product and had nothing to replace it. At Plant World, I got a little more information – they don’t make it anymore. I panicked. To the sales associate who delivered the death knell, I said, “I better not plant then, because they will die.” Then I remembered my son, pulled back on the melodrama and thanked the very helpful associate.

We planted all of our seeds and had a lovely time doing it. We made a hell of a mess and the mess remains because we had trains that needed playing with after we were done with the seeds. My son checks every couple of hours for progress and is disappointed every time even though I’ve explained it takes at least a week for anything to happen. I am doubt-ridden about the viability of our efforts, but I have decided to be more creator than destroyer. I have a back-up plan.

Virtual Memories

When I was a kid, we kept our family photo archive in the front hall closet. Actually, I’m pretty sure they’re still there. Stacks of slide carriages in yellowing Kodak boxes, and shelves from floor to ceiling jammed with albums. Their covers were the colours of my childhood – avocado green, dark brown, orange – and the inside pages were the sticky ones with the film of plastic that peeled back. No, it wasn’t pretty, and venturing into the closet carried the very real danger of a bookalanche, but it was surprisingly easy to find what you were looking for as long as you put everything back where you found it.

We had special nights where we all strolled down memory lane together. Mom made popcorn. My brothers and I curled up on the couch, our eyes glued to the screen while my dad cycled through the memories. Without fail, I, the youngest by far, would start whining because it took so long to get to any pictures of me, and every time when we finally got to my arrival, it was my bedtime. I always got to stay up late on those nights.

I have my own little family now and we also have a growing collection of memories. Pre-digital pictures are thoughtfully filed away in albums and binders in the basement. They fill a good-sized filing cabinet and are reasonably easy to sort through (if you can wade through the basement detritus to get to it). Digital memories, on the other hand, take about the same space as a hard-cover book in the 3-dimensional world. Three camera’s worth of memories are on our external hard drive. However, we are running out of virtual space. And if you don’t know the precise date of what you’re looking for, you’ll spend hours trying to find it. Seriously, it’s a bit of a nightmare. And just try to get my man to delete something off the camera before he uploads it to the computer. (No, really. Could someone please talk to him?)

Recently, however, we set up the computer screensaver to cycle through our entire collection of pictures. It’s just lovely.


Remember, my man doesn’t like to delete photos. Occasionally, a freakishly unflattering moment will flash across the screen – and it’s always when we have guests. So, editing is still important, but at least, having seen it recently, I have an idea of where to look for it before I send it to virtual Siberia.

Of course, accessing these virtual photos could prove to be an issue in future generations. Future generations? Hell, at the rate technology is evolving, I worry that we won’t be able to view them by the time our son is ready for college. Try buying a VCR these days to convert your old VHS to digital format. Sure, files can be converted, but only for so long before they become obsolete, or at least a huge and expensive pain in the ass.

Maybe it’s time to start scrapbooking.