Miracles of the smaller order

White hybrid tea rose

right side second terrace

Lesson in pruning

Cardinal rule: You can't hardly do it wrong, whatever you do. Including cutting every single stem off your nearly 6' tall and rather old tea rose plant, right down to the main stem.

I learned that yesterday, after having watched this rose plant do nothing visible to the eye since the winter passed and every other plant had formed shoots already, including the hydrangea I transplanted last August (worst time, full flowering) from the entry courtyard (fancy name for a small... entry court alongside the house) to the hydrangea bed (jungle) I made down behind the pool (swamp), and then proceeded to completely neglect (abandon). That poor plant had no root system. I planted its tap root and a few straggling roots in the very best soil I could possibly prepare for it, and settled in to wait and hope. Such waiting and hoping as I did being fulfilled last month or so with a shoot.

Sure, it's not much to look at right smack in the middle of the bed, a stump with a single shoot, but it gave me reason to hope -- not unappreciated -- as I gazed on what I did to that tea rose last November and wondered at what I could possibly have been thinking. You are supposed to leave a couple of stems, even if they are only a few inches long.

And it gave me hope for the CRRA. I have since pruned the Camellia again, removing all smaller branches and what remained of the leaves I had cut in half in the hope that additional conservation of energy would help it develop a root system capable of encouraging it to bud. When I pruned it again, there was evidence beyond feeling that it was still alive. The wood was green.

My husband does not believe there is basis for my hope.

Yesterday, weeding the beds nearby, I turned to look and reached down, placed my hands around it and began to pull, as though to pull it up from the soil (I don't know why. It would never work. They have roots I'd have to cut through.), when I saw it. I stuck my head closer to see if I was actually looking at a weed, but it was the right color, the leaves were folded in just the way new shoots of rose bushes do. It grew from the soil just next to the stump.

The white hybrid tea rose had developed a shoot from its base!

The next thing to check is that it isn't just a sucker, unable to produce flowers. I'd say I hadn't thought of that (I had), but I'd sort of forgotten about it in my hopefulness until just now.

It looks right, though. It looks like a real, flower producing stem. If it is, it will take its place and fill in the hole my extreme pruning of it left just before this pink hybrid tea, at the end of the lavender and rose bed.
....

CRRA (The Camellia Rescue and Recovery Action)

The camellia

Pruned, leaves cut in half, and buds pinched

I am turning away from politics and humans today to concentrate on plants and buildings, ducking my head back down below the top of the garden wall, where everything is beautiful and lovely.

Sort of.

The camellia is an exception. Yesterday evening I asked Sam to grab his learner's permit stuff and drive me to Darty for printer ink and Florosny for garden stuff, things I needed for the camellia resuscitation, among other spring treatment products (as many suitable for biological gardening as possible; I am not as stringent with myself there as I ought to be). He hadn't driven since we got out of the car on the return from Chamonix, over a month ago now. Don't worry, he did fine.

It took me some time scanning the shelves in the insect and weed control area, next to fertilizers, to find what I was looking for.

"Why don't you ask someone, Mom?"

"Because there is hardly anyone left here to ask, and if I can avoid troubling them when I possibly can, I'll let them tend to other customers, hopefully getting them to buy lots of stuff so the store stays open." Victor really scared me last Christmas right before he left. "It's got to be here somewhere. I must be looking for the wrong sort of name."

I was. I had been searching for something like "traitement du pourrissement des racines", but I let my mind open up and think of the consequences -- yellowing leaves, dead areas, conifers as well as camellias --, and there it was, right in front of my eyes: Dépérissement des Confères et Feuillus, Action systémique racinaire, efficacité garantie sur phytophthora et pythium for rhododendrons, camélias, thuyas and lauriers. Curasis J.

Phytophthora. That was it.

Meanwhile, Sam had found a children's ball, one of the ones with cartoon characters or superheros on them that sell for $1.99 in big bins at the end of grocery store aisles.

"Look, Mom. I can --" he was concentrating on flipping the ball back between his heel and toes to catch it on the rear foot and chip it into my aisle. He missed. "I just did it before," he said, a little chagrined.

"It's always like that when you ask someone to look." He kept trying. I went back to studying the shelves for other things I might need, like the tar to close the sawed off branch wounds in the linden trees. I was just turning, when a flying objet whizzed past my ear and hit the boxes of fertilizer on the shelves next to me.

"Got it." It bounced and rolled near him, where he grabbed it.

"Yeah. I see. Just watch for the display." Whizzzz -- bang.

There's hardly anyone left in the store to even notice, although neither Victor, nor Thierry, nor any of the others who are gone, just like those who remain would mind.

Returning home, I gently dug up some of the roots to take a look at them. They are brown if they are suffering rot, and if they are, it might or might not be too late. I thought roots were always more or less brown, so I hadn't thought much of them.

They were. Healthy camellia roots are fleshy and white. Take a look. That's a great site.

I bent down next to the patient and applied a handful of slow-release fertilizer for acid-loving plants like camellias, rhododendrons and azaleas, scratched it into the soil -- which should be fine -- and measured out the proper dosage of the sweet-smelling fungicude (Propamocarbe HCI 722 g/l) and added the 3 to 5 liters of water required per plant, retrieved the sprinker head from the watering can and applied it all around the base of the plant, letting it soak in gradually. None flowed out the hole at the bottom of the terracotta pot.

This morning, returning from having Rapide's stitches removed (she was a champ), I got out my pruning shears (in need of sharpening) and set to work. I felt like Jules, cutting my hair, moving around the plant snipping off the leafless and budless twigs 2" to 4" long, as well as any others that grew at odd angles, were too long and spindly with tufts of leaves at the ends, one or two along their lengths, and topped the plant a bit. It had a terrible form from having been planted against a northern wall in the entry courtyard in the semi-shade of the gable end of the house, where it strained to grow toward the light, it's rear branches bending over and reaching forward through the plant to join the south-facing branch ends.

Then, I pinched off every damaged leaf and flower bud -- a very few leaf buds, like the ones in the photo, I left just to see what would become of them since they looked vital --, very possibly as much victims of the extreme cold we had -- by our and this plant's standards of typical winters here -- as of the likely root rot and transplant shock. This helps force the plant to make new ones, like removing small branches and cutting back some others encourages it to push new branch-growth, which, if all goes well, could attain 2' to 3' feet by the summer.

If all goes well. Inshallah.

Last, I used my pruning shears to cut off half of each remaining leaf, carefully rolling the tightly curled ones, white powder pouffing off their surfaces every now and then. This helps to reduce the amount of water the plants actually needs to take up with a damaged and compromised root system that is incapable of bringing sufficient water to so much leaf, while allowing the plant to continue to photosynthesize. A little, anyway.

Now, having moved it to where it can receive the morning sun -- its eventual delicate flower buds safe now (although last year, it snowed in April) from surprise frosts --, and aside from spraying for insects, there is precious little that I can do but continue to check its soil 5 to 7 cm below the surface to see when it needs watering. It is pointless to give it too much that will only keep inactive roots too wet, although drainage is pretty good.

Let us hope. Remember, my marital bliss is riding on my success.

I have some sketches to work on for a new grange (wood cabin, masonry gardening and storage space, timber carport) for my sister-in-law, so, if you will be so kind as to excuse me, I must be off.

In case you were wondering, we have not called Joaquim since the work came to an end with the announcement that we'd have to give up some other areas of the contract work to get the whole house covered in chaux -- natural stucco -- as has always been the plan. We've been busy, disgusted, and preferring to remain numb. We'll have to make the phone call and schedule the necessary negotiation.

PS: About an hour and a half has gone by, and I have to fight the urge to go out and check on my patient, absurdly half-hoping for the deep green and the sheen to be returned to the stuff leaves, buds to be forming all over.

Patience.

PPS: Oh, I just did. I couldn't help myself. Do I even need to say there was no change?

Damn. I did it again.

6:37 pm -- Oops! I did it again. I watered. A little. It's 18° C.

7:21 pm -- Can you blame me? This reminds me of the vigil for the Chasselas Doré grapevine last year this time.
....

Fish kisses

Trust

That's one of my four fish friends. The survivors. If I talk to them in their fishcan [trans.: a trashcan containing fish, rocks and plants], they will come to look at me. If I put the tip of my finger to the surface of the water, they will come and see if it isn't something to eat. This does not frighten me. They are not barracudas. It kind of tickles. A little bit of a suction effect. Like a kiss. A fish kiss. I haven't offered my own lips yet. The ends of my hair would get wet, and Baccarat might bump into me and send me headfirst onto the reefs below, scaring the few wits she possesses right out of Rapide, not to mention the fish.

Rapide has, by the way, been doing wonderfully since the vet operated to remove the cyst from her left tear duct almost two weeks ago. It's amazing. When he first saw her a couple years ago, he said that it looked like she had an inverted lower eyelid on the right side. It was true. You always saw the inside of the lower eye, sort of droopy and red. It seemed a bit of a shame for such a noble dog. It ran a lot, too.

Then, he noticed the cyst back in January.

"How long has she had that?" he asked in French.

"Je ne sais pas. Depuis toujours, ou longtemps au moins." I couldn't recall it not having been there, but I couldn't be certain either, and, besides, he notices everything. Wouldn't he have said something before?

"On devrait l'enlever," he said. I visualized myself writing more checks and Audouin sighing heavily over our pet budget. He's starting to wish he had gone to veterinary school and not medical school.

Let's check the earliest photos, taken in September 2006, just after we brought them home.

Oh. Hm. Not much there, is there? Maybe a tiny little something, if you look really close. Now I have to go through all the hundreds of photos to see when it first really showed up. It must have been very progressive because I look really closely at these dogs, a camera lens practically glued to my own eyes.

When she came out of the vet's clinic the day she had it removed, she was a wreck.

"Elle est terrorisée," said the vet, as she crashed into the door frame with her lampshade thing around the head and jumped back in fright. I barely recognized her, all scrunched up and shaking, her head swaying this way and that, trying to see to her side and figure out why she didn't make it around corners anymore without a jolt to her head.

"Je vois ça."

The lampshade thing protecting her stitches lasted all of 3 1/2 days. It was supposed to make it through 14 and be removed along with the stitches on the 15th. On the 5th, however, I was carrying it in my hand into the vet's office. The assistant took one look at it, glanced at Rapide, and asked, "How long has she had that off?" in French.

"Depuis avant hier soir."

"Et elle a toujours ses pointes de sutures?" I nodded.

"Elle ne les a pas touché, mais elle ne supporte pas cette espèce d'abat-jour." She nodded, looking doubtfully at Rapide. The vet laughed when we walked through his door.

"Elle a fait exprès," I said to him. At least not in the beginning, but after running into enough pillars and posts, corners and doorframes and seeing that it was breaking, she started in on it with energy and application, batting it with her huge paws until it tore clean to the collar, and when a second tear formed at the peripheral edge, she went at that one until I found her the previous morning with the thing bent back over her shoulders, a large section missing.

It was pointless to leave it on her. I watched to see if she'd go for the stitches, but she did nothing but gloat at her own accomplishment.

"Ben, si elle ne les touche pas, on peut le laisser tomber."

"Je pense," I said, "qu'on n'a pas de choix. C'est elle qui décide."

Upon examination, her eye was perfect, her stitches intact.

"Elle a ouvert son oeil quand?"

"Son oeil ne fut jamais fermé," I said. "Vous avez du très bien réussi. C'est ouvert et clair depuis que je la cherchai à la clinique l'autre jour, vous savez." Which reminded me that we had also noticed, or I had, anyway, that the droopy, red lower lid on the other side had disappeared right along with the removal of the cyst, and the eye teared less. I explained it to him, asking, "Est-ce que le cyst fut réponsable pour l'autre oeil?" He looked up from her eye and right at me.

"Non, pas de tout."

"C'est drôle. Ce fut immédiat, et ses deux yeux semblent mieux." Maybe he is on the verge of a veternarial opthamological discovery. He has a specialty in this area. I did not, however, insist. Let him discover for himself. I'll bet you dollars to dozens that he'll be on the look-out now for the same with other dogs presenting the same symptoms and condition.

The cyst in protective fluid that went off for testing in Toulouse appears to have been benign, since we have had no news of it. Tant mieux.

So, the camellia.

....

The sick Camellia japonica

The camellia bush. I tremble.

My husband came home from work last evening just as I had let myself out the lower gate to take the dogs for a walk. I opened the large sliding gate for him to park his motorcycle. He got down, have me a kiss hello from inside his helmet and I cast my eyes down somewhere beside the rear wheel of the bike.

"Tu vas te fâcher contre moi."

"Pour qoui?"

"Parce que," my volume lowering defensively, mumbling, "j'ai oublié, en fin, je n'ai pas pensé à temps d'aller à la boulangerie chercher de pain, ni de vin."

"Comment? Je n'ai pas entendu." I grimaced. I hate having to say I didn't go get the baguette and wine before the stores closed.

"J'ai dit qu'avec le changement horaire, il faisait plus clair plus long et je ne me suis pas rendu compte qu'il fut déjà si tard, alors j'ai raté la boulangerie. Et le vin."

"Ah, il n'y a aucune importance. J'ai pensé que tu allais dire que le camélia est mort. Je l'ai vu ce matin. Ca -- ça c'est grave. Tu n'as pas de montre pour voir l'heure?" Actually, no. I haven't had a watch for awhile and I sort of avoid going to the store when I don't feel like it. I had both my cell phone and my laptp right next to me or in front of me. I could have checked the time.

"Il n'est pas mort. Je suis allée le voir aussi. Il a l'aire d'être mort, mais il ne l'est pas." Not yet. He looked as far from convinced and reassured as I have ever seen him look. Plants die. They die of all kinds of things. Sometimes you notice in time, sometimes you don't. Sometimes you can save them, and sometimes you can't. You replace them when you can't. Audouin does not choose to accept, nor to forgive.

It's stressful being the resident gardener around here.

"Je vais m'en occuper demain. Je te le promets. Il se peut que c'est juste le choc d'être rempoté."

So, I did.

It could be anyone of several things:

1. Root rot. Phytophthora cinnamomi Rands. Hm. Somewhat complicated to determine the causality. But, I did use sterile potting soil.
2. Dieback. I don't think so. I don't see the telltale signs. Thank heavens.
   
3. A case of the planting soil drying up and becoming hydrophobic, meaning that when you water the plant, the water just runs right through the planting soil, which is no longer able to absorb it, hence, the roots can't get the water you are offering and the plant dies of thirst. Soil doesn't look that way. I have done that often enough to know what that looks like now.
   
4. Not enough water for other reasons. Neglect comes to mind. No chance with my husband's feelings about this particular plant. His ex probably gave it to him. [Die plant, die!]
   
5. Too much water. Overattention and fear of being yelled at by one's husband come to mind.
6. Too much fertilizer (engrais), or the wrong kind. Liquid fertilizers, it turns out, are too potent for camelias. They prefer long-release [Oh my! The frogs just started to make such a racket!] fertilizers, the granular forms. I used the only one I had available when I replanted it -- in acidic soil for camelias --, a liquid fertilizer that might not have been weak enough that I added to the water in the watering can. Oh oh.
7. Rootbound. Not in this case. I gave it a bigger pot.
8. Concrete pot, leaching lime into the soil and causing alkaline conditions. Nope. Nice terra cotta pot.
9. Transplant shock. This is what I suspect.
   
10. Leaf galls. Nope. Not life-threatening.
11. Sooty mold. Yah. Not life-threatening. Will treat.
12. Lichens. "Lichen are not organisms that damage camellia; instead they show up when the camellia (or some other plant/tree) is stressed for another reason. It is, thus, an indicator of a problem rather than a cause. Determine if the camellia soil is kept wet too long such that the roots are developing root rot." This is a back to the drawing board problem.
13. Virus variegation. Not my problem.
14. Root-knot nematodes. I'm getting bored.

I think our Camellia japonica has transplant shock. It had to be pulled up from the entry courtyard for the work on the house in August, and I couldn't respect any needs it might have had in terms of timing and weather. According to The Old Farmer's Almanac, the best time to transplant a camellia is:

"before they bloom in spring, but a second option is when they start their new season of vegetative growth right after flowering, usually February to May for camellias. Transplanting young plants is easy, but older plants can be difficult. If you're thinking of moving an older plant, you may want to consider heavy pruning instead."

It sat in a pot, large enough to hold the root ball that I could dig up, a sad affair at best because the acidic soil-loving camellia and hydrangeas planted in the entry courtyard where stuck into the existing, lime-ridden chalky dirt. They were fairly scrawny, with the exception of one hydrangea that nearly killed me to dig out, with large main roots.

Audouin and I had carried that one together down to my new hydrangea border in the bottom garden, back behind the pool, and I did everything I could to take as much of the root system along intact. It wasn't much, and all the dirt fell off the roots. I had prepared a brand new bed with acidic soil, and I did my best to distribute it's roots in the new soil with care, watering profusely and tying the plant back to hold it in place. Of course, I should have cut it back significantly before transplanting it, but it was in its height of flowering glory, and I couldn't bring myself to do it.

It wilted some, but as it's flowers died, I cut them off, taking a good deal of the supporting stems, and the plant picked up a bit. Now, coming out of the winter, there is a good deal of healthy new growth at the base of the plant, and buds everywhere. I need to cut it back now to insure full, bushy growth, rather than a spindly plant.

As for the camellia, though, I didn't know where I wanted to put it. It needed more friends, and Audouin wanted to put it somewhere where it would be easily seen an enjoyed. If it were up to him, the entire garden would be right in front of the door to the house. The rest of it -- well, what would the rest of it be mon chéri? Tu veux un grand jardin, mais tu te plains que tu ne passes jamais dans la plupart du jardin pour pouvoir profiter de ses plantes.

I am under the obligation to plant lovely things throughout the garden, or suffer the criticism of neglecting it.

Il va falloir que tu aprennes de prendre le temps pour y errer. [Excuse me, he barely speaks English.]

And, so, there it sat while I wrestled with these problems in my head. I wanted to get it two more Camellia japonica plants and put them all down by the pool, where there are already azaleas and a rhododendron, ferns -- acid-loving plants. He wanted it in a pot in the front courtyard. It sat.

"Je suis sur que les racines ont gelées."

"Non." Maybe.

"Tu dois vraiment faire quelque chose."

"Oui." Yes.

I emptied a large terracotta pot of a dead pine, rinsed it out and set to work filling it with acidic planting soil for azaleas, rhododendrons and camellias, placed the camellia in its hole and watered copiously, adding a liquid fertilizer to the water in the can in the correct proportion. It still might have been too strong for a camellia, though. If this is the case, the problem will pass as the plant is watered over time. I hesitated to remove all the old dirt from among its roots, even though it was the gloppy, chalky crap mostly. It was still holding its minor root system. I hoped that the new dirt around its edges, broken into it, would make up for it. I added (I think) root stimulator and set it where the morning sun would not burn its fragile leaves.

It slowly withered.

Then, it appeared to be dying.

Finally, it looked outright dead.

And, having looked into the affair, I conclude that it may have root rot and it is likely suffering from transplant shock. In the case of root rot, I have to dig up the roots and check to see if they are brown, and if they are, improve the soil conditions. Possibly apply a fungicide to the soil. This would surprise me, since I did what is needed to avoid it. I worry about checking for it, since if it is transplant shock, it would prefer to be left alone.

The best option might be to follow the advice of trimming it back, cutting each leaf in half, adding some sugar to the water and doing what I can to make sure the soil is draining well, including setting the pot on a bed of gravel to make sure that the water seeping from the soil in the pot is not saturating the ground below and preventing it from being able to drain fully. If the root tips are sitting in overly moist soil, the roots will rot.

Wish me well. I will win big marriage points if I carry the day with this camellia!
....