Winterizing the Last of the “Kids”

[singlepic id=37 w=320 h=240 float=left]It’s finally done. Tonight I finally finished winterizing the last of my carnivorous plants. Should’ve done it at least a month ago, but somehow I just couldn’t bring myself to do the deed. But a couple hours ago, with A Prairie Home Companion playing in the background, I set up shop and prepped my Sarracenia rubra ssp. wherryi and S. leucophylla for the fridge. They’re now nicely bagged with sphagnum moss (treated with sulfur to prevent white mold) and are nestled with the rest of my plants in the vegetable drawer. There they’ll stay till late March.

[singlepic id=38 w=320 h=240 float=right]Winterizing my pitcher plants and Venus flytraps is my least-favorite part of growing carnivorous plants. But there’s no getting around it. American carnivorous plants have a winter dormancy requirement; they need their “sleep” just like you and I do. If I lived in a warmer growing zone, I could simply let them stay out on the balcony and endure the occasional frost. But here in Michigan, living in a third-floor apartment in a state where winter temperatures routinely drop into the teens, I have just one option, and that is to bag the plants and stick them in the refrigerator. Once so ensconced, they go into a deep dormancy until the spring.

[singlepic id=39 w=320 h=240 float=left]I’m not crazy about the sphagnum moss I used with these last two plants. It’s purported to be Sphagnum magellanicum, and it’s a South American moss rather than the Canadian stuff I’m used to. No problem there, but this stuff is colored a bright, unnatural green that smacks of some kind of dye. I’m leery of putting my plants in contact with unknown chemicals. But since this was the only sphagnum available at Fruit Basket, I guess I just have to take my chances. My carnivorous plants are dormant, after all, and I only need to store them for three months. So–cross fingers and hope for the best.

By the way, the S. leucophylla is the striking white-topped plant in the center image, and the S. rubra ssp. wherryi is shown in the bottom photo. The Venus flytrap (Dionaea muscipula) at the top of the page needs no introduction. Click on the photos to enlarge them.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

 

 

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Christmas in Heaven

Merry Christmas, friends. I’m sitting here in my La-Z-Boy couch with a mug of rather potent eggnog that Lisa has made. The rum in the eggnog is speaking to me in a manner that disinclines me to write a lengthy post. Yet it is Christmas Eve, and I must say something.

I am tired of the political correctness in this country that insists on squelching what Christmas is and has always been about: a celebration of the birth of Jesus. I have no issue with recognizing and respecting people’s right to practice non-Christian traditions, though I do not subscribe to them. But our thin-skinned culture of today attempts to patronize all faiths simultaneously with a naive and stifling syncretism that respects none of them for what they really are.

This is Christmas. And in honor of what Christmas is about, I thought I’d share with you a poem by the wonderful British author Adrian Plass. I find it honest, eloquent, moving, and beautiful, and I hope you will too.

Christmas in Heaven
By Adrian Plass

When I’m in heaven
Tell me there’ll be kites to fly,
The kind they say you can control,
Although I never did for long.
The kind that spin and spin and spin and spin,
Then sulk and dive and die,
And rise again and spin again,
And dive and die and rise up yet again.
I love those kites.

When I’m in heaven
Tell me there’ll be friends to meet
In ancient oak-beamed Sussex pubs
Enfolded by the wanton Downs,
And summer evenings lapping lazily against the shore
Of sweet, familiar little lands
Inhabited by silence or by nonsenses,
The things you cannot safely say in any other place.
I love those times.

When I’m in heaven
Tell me there’ll be seasons when the colors fly,
Poppies splashing flame
Through dying yellow, living green,
And autumn’s burning sadness that has always made me cry
For things that have to end.
For winter fires that blaze like captive suns,
But look so cold when morning comes.
I love the way the seasons change.

When I’m in heaven
Tell me there’ll be peace at last,
That in some meadow filled with sunshine,
Filled with buttercups and filled with friends,
You’ll chew a straw and fill us in on how things really are.
And if there is some harm at laying earthly hope at heaven’s door,
Or in this saying so,
Have mercy on my foolishness, dear Lord.
I love this world you made—it’s all I know.
When I’m in heaven
Tell me there’ll be Christmases without the pain,

No memories that will not fade,
No chilled and sullen sense of loss
That cannot face the festive flame
Nor breathe excitement from the ice-cream air.
Tell me how the things that Christmas should have been
Will be there for eternity in one long, shining dawn
For all of us to share.
I love the promises of Christmas.

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The Ultimate Michigan Potato

[singlepic id=35 w=320 h=240 float=left]What’s the big deal about Idaho potatoes? Michigan potatoes are by no means also-rans. Potatoes-R-Us, to the extent that the communities of Edmore, Munger, and Posen all host an annual potato festival celebrating your favorite tuber and mine.

Presumably each town has a Potato Queen, a potato parade, potato cookoffs, a potato dance, and probably a lot of people on high-starch diets who resemble potatoes wandering the streets, browsing the fabulous array of potato-related arts and crafts.

Questions arise: Does the Potato Queen ride on a float that looks like a giant potato? Does she wear a costume that resembles a large spud? Are blue ribbons awarded for the biggest potato, the ugliest potato, and the best potato, and if so, what criteria are used? Do food fights occur that involve massive quantities of mashed potatoes? Does the fire department break them up by hosing down the combatants with chicken gravy? People naturally wonder. I, for one, would like to know what makes one potato uglier than all the rest, as I have yet to come across a potato that would win any beauty contests.

I have, however, seen one that looked like state of Michigan–specifically, the Lower Peninsula mitten–and it was right here in my apartment. Lisa, who loves potatoes, was preparing a batch in the kitchen when she [singlepic id=36 w=320 h=240 float=right]discovered the anomaly and brought it into the living room to show me. “No way!” I said. Nevertheless, there it was before my eyes: the Ultimate Michigan Potato. I doubt that Idaho can produce anything like it. For their sake, I hope not.

Here are some pics to prove that here in my humble abode, the Ultimate Michigan Potato paid a call. Too bad for it, because it got eaten. However, the photos are still available. Edmore, Posen, and Munger, I’m taking bids.

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