B-Movie Annuals

It's been a wild couple of weeks up here in the land of the hamburger hot dish, Governor Jesse "Ready-Fire-Aim" Ventura, and the hardest working team in baseball, the incomprehensible Minnesota Twins.

What had been a fairly pleasant spring was wiped out by two days of ninety-degree weather, which pretty much took out the tulips, daffodils, and other spring bulbs blooming across our patch of Zone 4. I was dividing a few perennials the day after the heat wave and the soil was hot three inches down, hot to the touch, July soil. I should have watered just prior, to keep the soil temperature down. Then cool weather returned, and some much-needed rain, so who knows where we are in what season? The only thing I know for sure is that people buy the wackiest annuals.

How do I know? I've spent this spring working part-time at a local nursery center, something I've always wanted to do. This nursery is in the Twin Cities suburbs and does a nice job of growing annuals. Sure, every flat, hanging basket, and pot they pull from their vast labyrinth of growing houses and bring into the giant retail greenhouse to sell to the public features annuals in full, glorious bloom, but I really can't blame them. All their competitors do it. If this one grower were to do things correctly — allow the growing process to proceed at a natural pace, and sell annuals to be planted in your garden before they've entered the bloom stage — they'd be selling a superior product while going out of business. (For more on this topic, see the column, Annual Disasters.)

As I help people choose the annuals for their containers, window boxes, and gardens, I continue to be astonished by the popularity of Gerbera daisies. Granted, it's a question of taste; I happen to prefer annuals that bear some mild correlation to the perennials with which they are combined. Gerberas just don't fit, their ridiculously large, plastic blooms floating like spinning pie plates atop too-long, scandalously erect stems that vault from flopping waffles of the saddest, ugliest foliage known to botany. A table of them looks like sunflowers tripping in a field of Boston lettuce. I cannot conjure up a single spot on my half-acre where I could plant these South African Frankensteins and have them look as if they even remotely belonged.

Of course, if you love Gerbera daisies, the Renegade thing to do is to buy and plant plenty of the little darlings, and to hell with me. Don't let it affect you one whit that I find Gerbera daisies terrifying, unnatural, obnoxious, obese, garish, and grotesque. They don't even look real; every time I pass by the tables on which they collude I don't know which I expect more, to be sprayed by water, like a clown's flower, or to hear the tallest of the bunch utter, "Feed me!" If Gerbera daisies were people, they would steal. I'm certain a Gerbera daisy is what the devil wears in his lapel when he comes to call.

Well, I'm glad we had that little chat. What I started out to say is that it's important to be a smart shopper while you spend the next few weeks buying the last of your annuals. Here are some tips:

And if you do decide to try Gerbera daisies, lock your doors at night.