God willing and the creek don't rise, dahlias will make a debut appearance on The North Forty sometime in July. I can't wait!
My Papaw Bauer grew dahlias in the garden that graced the north side of his house, a garden whose layout remains etched in my mind, 50 years later. Dahlias, of the hot pink variety, occupied the southwest corner of the garden, every year, without fail. They were supported with beefy posts of locust. I LOVED those dahlias, just as I loved the zinnias, the gooseberry bushes, the rambling red rose, the lettuce patch, and the Kennebecs. I loved the smell; I loved the perfect arrangement of the petals; I loved the bright, clear, almost fluorescent color. But mostly, I loved going to the garden with Papaw to pick luscious armloads of them with their stout straight stems.
It would seem only natural that I should want to grow dahlias myself, and I can't imagine why it has taken me all these years to finally do so.
This past February, I placed my first dahlia order with Sunny Meadows Flower Farm, an urban flower farm located just outside Columbus, Ohio, one day before beginning my cancer journey. In placing the order, at a moment in my life when certainties were few, I believed that, one way or the other, life would go on. And if life were to go on, then gardening would follow right along behind it.
Life is going on. So is gardening. While the physical mechanics of the cancer journey will end in May, the emotional remnants and worries will rattle around in my brain forever. I am grateful, however, beyond measure, to be a survivor.
As so frequently happens, I seriously digress or did I digress seriously. On to the dahlia adventure!
This afternoon, while Toddler Grandson napped, I nabbed a thermometer from the kitchen drawer and strolled up to The North Forty to take the temperature of the soil. No, I haven't told Better Half I used a food thermometer to take the temperature of dirt. He would have difficulties with that concept. It read 78 degrees, well above the 60 degree planting minimum recommended by dahlia growers. Looks like it's time to plant the first 13 of the 28 tubers I ordered, but in order to do so, I needed stakes and bonemeal for the bottom of each planting hole. Better Half willingly agreed to fetch both stakes and bonemeal from the feed store.
Armed with tools, tubers, bonemeal, stakes, and loads of determination, I made my way to the fortress on The North Forty, which used to be called a garden, in pre-deer days. These days, one must unlock a gate, remove bright orange string hanging across the entrance, and wind through a maze of black plastic fencing to gain access to the garden.
In preparation for planting I arranged some of the splintery 6 foot stakes and began to pound them into the ground, only to have the heads of both hammers fly off the handles. The first head collided with my hand, bruising my knuckle, while the second head actually flew over my shoulder, landing with a thud in the dirt behind me. The green tape holding the handle together should have been warning enough
I was left to use a sledge hammer and a plywood stool to pound 6 foot oak stakes into the ground. Needless to say, I pounded in only enough stakes for the tubers I intended to plant. Wow, what a workout! Better Half assures me he has repaired the offending hammers.
Next to each stake, I dug a 6 inch deep hole, and threw in a small handful of bonemeal. There is nothing I like about bonemeal after my experience with it. It smells weird, and the powder flies everywhere. But, dahlia gurus recommend the addition of it to the planting hole.
Each variety took up residence next to its personal stake in preparation for planting. Here, Eggplant patiently waits its turn to be planted.
The first 13 of 28 tubers are ready to go into their homes for the next several months.
This beauty, called White Dinnerplate, was planted horizontally at the bottom of the hole. You can see the white bonemeal residue. Only a splash of water was added to the hole, as dahlias, at this stage, do not like excess water. The tuber was enormous. I am expecting big things of White Dinnerplate given its expansive name. I closed each hole by pushing dirt over it with my workboot, just as I saw Papaw Bauer do decades ago.
The sunshine is about gone from The North Forty by the time I finish planting my fledgling group of dahlias. The next group of 15 will be winging their way to The North Forty soon. They are coming from Swan Island Dahlias, a family farm in Canby, Oregon.
As I return to the house, I am grateful for this new dahlia experience. I am grateful for the exquisite beauty of the waning April day. I am grateful to be able to garden. I am grateful to the remarkable team of medical professionals who have helped me to regain my health. I am grateful, most of all, for life.
Swan Island Dahlias
