by Carol Wallace
planted my very first garden from seed. I hadn't really intended to plant a garden, but I was very bored the day the seed catalog arrived, and in that sort of mood where descriptions of scented flowers and variegated foliage sounded enchanting. So I ordered some seed. Ninety dollars worth, to be exact. As I said, I was very bored. I knew, somewhere in the dim recesses of my mind, that seed packets came with instructions, so didn't bother to read up on anything. When the seeds arrived I just opened the envelope, took out the packets and arranged them in order of height and color. Then I went out, scratched up the soil and planted all those seeds. Meticulously, each seed at its recommended distance from the next. Tall in back, medium at center, short in front.
I watered that seed bed faithfully every morning. In mere days I was thrilled to see green emerging from the soil. So I watered even more faithfully, and treated the little haze of green to a dose of fertilizer.
Here and there among the weeds I found treasures--little frilly round leaves and feathery soft ones. Potential plants, I decided, and weeded around them. Any time I saw a cluster of identical leaves that weren't crabgrass, I could safely assume that they were something I'd intended to plant. And so my garden finally grew.
It grew to be a big disappointment. Plants that were described as towering 6-footers reached about 6" in height; some stayed hugging the ground in dismal little rosettes. The short sweet alyssum in front of the bed, which bloomed as promised, assumed gigantic proportions in comparison. My height and color scheme went by the boards, as each plant refused to perform as promised. In despair, I scattered a package of wildflower seeds that promised a fast bloom over the entire mess and decided that I had really wanted a meadow after all.
I swore I would never order from that seed company again.
The next year was a great surprise. I did nothing to that garden except pluck stray crabgrass. That second year I knew what crabgrass looked like. This was an important lesson. I did not know what baby poppy seedlings looked like as they emerged, and so quite diligently pulled up about 1000 of those, while I was at it. This was also an important lesson.
But suddenly I had hollyhocks, 6' tall in back, and no sweet alyssum at all. Of course I saw no zinnias, nor did I see any nasturtiums and cosmos. But I had oriental poppies coming up and blooming, and lupine. And a lot of nasty yarrow that kept popping up everywhere in the bed no matter how many times I pulled it up.
If I had done my homework, I wouldn't have been surprised at any of this, nor would I have so unfairly maligned the seed company. First, I should have learned some good, basic facts about seed starting. One of the best guides to frequently asked questions (FAQs) about seeds is by Travis Saling.
Second, I failed to properly prepare the soil. I just scratched it up and planted, without first letting any ungerminated weed seeds show their ugly heads. I didn't amend the soil, or mulch. In fact, I left those little seeds both hungry and defenseless. The NSCU horticulture gopher gives some good hints on preparing and mulching.
Third, I failed to acquaint myself with the flowers I was planting. Since I had no idea, beyond the catalog description, what they were eventually going to look like, I had no idea whether the green things that sprouted each spring were friends or foes.
Fourth, I failed to realize that there is a difference between an annual, a biennial and a perennial. Biennials and perennials can rarely be expected to bloom the first year; annuals can't be expected to bloom the second year if you pick them for vases instead of letting them go to seed to make new plants.
Finally, I failed to realize that plants do go to seed. I didn't care for the yarrow in that wildflower mix--as a cut flower it tended to leave little white flakes all over my tabletops. So I left it to its own devices, and in my absence it scattered its progeny all over the yard. They are still popping up, 14 years later.
And, 14 years later, I know the how to prepare a planting bed properly, and what to expect from an annual versus a perennial versus a biennial. Even better, with every passing season I recognize more and more weeds as they emerge, without having to head for a plant encyclopedia. Most importantly, I have learned never to take on a gardening project without doing a little preliminary research first.
It just goes to show you--you've got to do your homework, both inside, in books or on the web, and outside in the garden, before you can expect to have that perfect garden of your dreams.
Carol is a garden writer and college professor in northeast Pennsylvania. She manages the Gardening section of Suite 101.com, where she also writes the column Virtually Gardening.
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