We did not know what to call it because the word “greenhouse” sounded so commercially spectacular, and it is, after all, just a part of our living space. Then one day, an Italian friend referred to it as la casa di flori, and “house of flowers” it has been ever since.
We bought it for less than you might think, and my husband assembled it one sunny day in December four years ago.
We promptly began to fill it, blithely compelled by our desire for something green and sweetly unfettered by our gross lack of experience.
I wanted it placed over the south bedroom window so I could look out into it as often as I pleased. This proved wise, for the gas main came into the house at that point because there was already a water faucet.
The ground sloped just a little so the drain could be hidden directly over the sewer in a corner. Eventually, the window gave way to a door with glass panels. These were excess materials because the door was never closed anyway.
When the small gas heater was installed, the little plant room became the most lived-in spot in our home.
And, by the way, we have had many people ask us about the use of gas, seeming to be under the impression that it is very harmful to growing plants. Of course, artificial gas should be avoided, but a well-vented natural gas stove is appropriate.
We found that the freshness of dewy sprays in summer, and the fullness of the southern sun in winter, grow children and plants.
The south bedroom soon became the boy’s room, and the concrete floor of the house of flowers took the gaff from 6′ clomping feet so constantly engaged in comings and goings.
With a flick of the watering hose, snow, mud, and all those other trailblazers that drop off children wherever they stand, they went down the drain instead of on the rug.
Blooming All Day Long
In summer, the little glass house is covered with a silver lace vine, and the most magical assortment of blue morning glories is glorious in October and November when they bloom all day long because of the relaxed atmosphere.
Their warm, frost-sheltered spot keeps them green and blooming after everything else is black and low until really hoary weather sets in.
Inside, during the summer, there are primarily ferns, my few exotic plants, begonias, gloxinias, etc., and my husband’s magnificent folly —a gift to me of a lovely, winter-blooming orchid.
This last is suspended from the rafters, in line with the fog spray, and protected by the flickering shade of the silver lace vine.
The little fog spray rims night and day during hot weather in some corners of the greenhouse, filling the south portion of our dwelling with a constant, fresh, woodsy atmosphere.
We love to sit in there, around the children’s little table, sipping lemonade and talking about the day’s events.
It is an insect-free picnic spot. There is more space, too, in the summer because the large pots with the dracaena, palms, and my fig tree sit out along the patio.
Saving Garden Annuals
We are saving garden annuals. In the fall, we dig the garden and try valiantly to get it all inside the little house of flowers. But, invariably, we exhaust our supply of pots and space and, ruefully, bid farewell to the melons, corn, and castor beans that must die at the end of Nature’s allotted span.
Yet, you’d be surprised how many of our so-called annuals. It can be lifted, poked into a large can or box with perfect drain holes, and trimmed down a bit, ready to continue blooming from late.
November until you either cruelly shove them out to make room for seed flats or, as I kindly prefer, cut them down again and crowd them into a corner to be set outdoors in May.
I have a nasturtium plant – only one – of the trailing variety that I have kept alive for three years and which is, at this writing, covered with 30 blossoms on streamers suspended in Various directions.
For something of this nature, the best spot is with the plant’s back to the wall; then, all the flowers and foliage will turn out into the room toward the light coming from the opposite sides.
Mine is on a top shelf in a corner, and my favorite trick is to plant two or three Heavenly Blue morning glories to follow along the nasturtium’s long tendrils.
Periodically, the nasturtium dies down, and then I tear away all the old foliage and rest it for a time until it springs again to delight everyone.
A Garden Living Room
Winter is the time when even a conventional greenhouse receives adulation. But, have you ever sat beside a flickering gas stove on a moonlight night when snow intensifies the mystic luminosity cast in from the outside chill?
The lush jungle is about you, and you smell and hear the pregnant hush of growing things. This is the essence of wondrous beauty – our sanctuary.
In the depths of winter, how the children love to sit upon the wooden, portable step under the whole light of the winter sky and create infinite varieties of modeling-clay animals to “eat and browse” in the succulent verdure which abounds about them,
On sunny days, even though it is freezing outside, we lift the vents a little and open the door, allowing the health-rich rays, straight from Old Sol, to pour in upon plants and children alike.
Easter Bounty
At Easter time, we give away many of the coleus, hydrangeas, geraniums, and begonias to make room for the seed flats. Then in May, we have all the celery, pepper, tomato, eggplant, petunias, etc., to give to everyone.
This makes them happy and us, too, as we feel like good missionaries obliging some of the reluctance to put in a garden this year.
Stocking The Greenhouse For Christmas
We were stocking the greenhouse. We have learned many things. The first bleak December found stark nudity in the little glass addition.
We asked everyone we knew, including an acquaintance who operates a local commercial nursery, what we could do to till our space.
He said, in that disgusting way of professionals, “That all depends on what you have in mind for a specialty.” We told him we had absolutely nothing in mind and only wanted. To know what was best to have in mind.
He looked our small space over and poked an exploratory finger into the heavy, clay-loam-filled tables which flanked the place like counters in a five-and-ten store.
Then he spied the few odd flower pots which littered the dark, damp space under the benches and said brightly, “You might try an assortment of begonias and ferns in those.”
This we attempted to do—at two to five dollars a plant. These specimens, however, only looked lonesome in there, for Christmas is no time to arrange such luxurious equipage of a new greenhouse. The unfilled spaces stared at us in sad nudity.
We were starting with seeds. But those psychological miracles of salesmanship, the January seed catalogs, now began to arrive, and our enthusiasm was unbounded.
“Behold,” we told each other, “while others must still pine away for the first robin, we lucky ones may begin at this very moment.”
And begin we did. The local merchants were shocked at our demands for cucumber and zinnia seed, so we were sent away for everything.
As soon as the first orders arrived, I poked the seeds into flats I had kneaded and worked over with joy, such as I had never felt since my mud-pie days.
Damping-Off
The heat and humidity brought those seeds through in record time. Brought them through and up like the fabled beanstalk until they were so thin and pallid we could blow the entire flat low in a single huff. I thinned them repeatedly, but the damping-off process was too much.
Later we discovered excellent means of artificially hardening off. Through ventilation, sterilization, and synthetic sunlight. But that first year was filled with surprises, both pleasant and otherwise.
“There is more to this greenhouse gardening than meets the eye!” So I told myself and then decided to do earnest thinking and eliminate before we arrived nowhere too fast.
I concluded that it was a case of either no beat in the greenhouse or giving up raising lettuce, spinach, and radishes and my fond hopes for green onions before my neighbors this year.
But, already, the not-yet-crowned house of flowers had become the main entrance for the boys and the place where our dog loved to lay or shake himself after a bath.
We could not dispense with the heat in there, so we gave up the early vegetable idea and let ourselves (as, in truth, we secretly longed to do) go on flowering plants and those lovely foliage varieties of vegetables, such as cucumbers, which thrive in humidity.
A Bout With Whitefly
In March, just as everything seemed to be coining along so beautifully, we discovered, to our utter horror, that tiny whiteflies had somehow become phenomenally ensconced in the house of flowers.
When I shook the plants, great clouds of these went up from the foliage, and nothing we could do seemed of any avail, for following our use of sprays, the plants seemed to fold up along with the masses of dead flies.
The truth was, of course, that the whiteflies had so completely ruined everything before we acted that the plants were all but dead anyway.
We rid ourselves of these pests no sooner than a new batch hatched out from the tiny eggs that dotted the undersurface of practically every leaf.
At last, in desperation, we arranged to have a professional fumigator attend to the affair. He finished the whitening), but the ragged foliage was too much for me, so we cut everything down to earth level, threw out much of it, and started over again. After that, I watched for bugs!
Starting Seeds
It was early April, and already outdoor gardening was enticing us away from greenhouse adventures. But I bought some tomato seeds and a few other items, such as bell peppers, and filled the space with seed flats. Then, as the seedlings developed, we thinned and transplanted until we had almost a commercial stock of tomato plants.
This transplanting process we repeated about three times per plant. The result was a very fine, sturdy prod-tier which proved itself two to three weeks earlier in fruiting in the garden of every one of our neighbors who received them.
A series of shelves. This was encouraging, but we still needed to have the faintest idea of making the house of flowers a presentable part of la Maison propre. But, inspirationally, my husband conceived the tiers-of-shelves plan, and we were utterly appalled at the additional pot space this gave us.
Little did we dream of how soon that pace would give way to vegetation and the crying need for more. Next, all shelves were suspended from the afters and deep rose boxes, for the larger plants lined the walls along the floor.
Rooting Cuttings
It was quite by accident that I discovered what would happen under a fog spray. Simply everything would take root. I had thrown down some encumber twigs, and they had taken root.
By removing the shoot taps, early fruiting is encouraged. “Hur/fah!” I shrieked, “Now – now, I, too. Can have a countryside or choice and mixed evergreens, just like any rich estate owner!”
Surreptitiously I began my snitching. Front parks, and even cemeteries, I plucked, wetting the ends of the evergreen snips in my lips before furtively thrusting them into my purse.
Into a box of vermiculite and peat moss, I poked these snitching. After a few months, the little, hairy root beginnings could be found on many. So now, heaven not forbidding, I shall have an evergreen-lined driveway from here to Timbuktu.
Insects And Vertebrates
But I must tell you, too, about the menagerie in the house of flowers. First, there were the canaries.
We let them loose in there, and they were so delighted they Mated at once, built a nest under the nasturtium, and began raising a family. They sang and sang and fertilized the plants. But they nipped the tender things so severely that I was obliged to cage them again.
This was sad, but a friend gave me a wild young mourning dove who could be trusted. All day he sat in his preferred pot and cooed at me in his loved, throaty voice.
Sometimes, he would fly into the kitchen and peck at my feet to remind me his food dish was empty. But in the summer – we gave him complete liberty – he found a mate who convinced him that humans were the lousy company for doves, and they went south together.
We discovered the crickets last February when the warmth of the greenhouse awoke them before their time. How pleasant their song was! But, for eating the plants, they were worse than the canaries and the morning came when we had to hunt them down.
Two such giant, sleek insects you never saw! The children took them out and placed them gently under a log, hoping they would go back to sleep until spring. For who could kill them? Not any of us!
We still have the frog, Caruso, with us, though now we rarely see him. He permits no crickets and positively keeps the place clean of slugs.
He sometimes adds his gentle croak to the din when the boys are boisterous. But it sounds very tired of late, and I wish someone would tell him it is winter so he could get some shut-eye.
When people ask me what I would consider the most practical stock to use in starting a miniature greenhouse—just as if we all lived to attain practicability—I answer, “It all depends on what you have in mind for a specialty.” And also recommend Ernest Chabot’s excellent book, “Greenhouse Gardening for Everyone.”
Then, I show them my six Tiny—Tim tomato plants yield a handful for salads every other day. In addition, the four cucumber vines are climbing the uprights, contributing to salads.
There are the pepper plants and, my prize idea, a large boxful of rhubarb-chard plants, which give enough greens for the family and some extra for the rabbits, too. And, in appearance, they’re handsome enough to be mistaken for some rare, tropical plant.
44659 by Fauntella Thurber Jensen