Transplanting is a terrible thing to do.

by | Apr 8, 2012

Transplanting is a terrible thing to do.
When I was a youth my parents moved us around a lot. Frequently, they came withus. The common explanation given had something to do with my father’s profession, but since I never listened to my parents I have no idea what we were doing. What I do know is that at each new school I had to go through the human version of transplant shock: I wilted and sometimes even lost a few leaves. Once I flowered prematurely. I have determined not to do this to our indigent boarders. No transplant shock for them; they may become root bound.
I bring this up because this last week I transplanted some onions into the garden. I started them March 8th in the basement under some lights. Due to the unseasonably warm weather, I was able to start taking them outside earlier than usual to “harden them off.” My parents tried this too, but I enjoyed “college” a little too much.
In years past my onions have not performed well. In following the advice of many books, I trimmed their tops so they wouldn’t get “too tall.” This year I didn’t do that and they have thrived. By the end of March I had lovely green mini-scallions. Nevertheless, I knew that eventually the plants would grow better in the garden.
I worry when I transplant.
Last year I did some experiments in which I grew a small plant, the plant lab rat, Arabidopsis thaliana in petri dishes so that I could examine the root hairs under a microscope. After the seeds germinated I waited a few days for the roots to begin elongating. Under a simple dissecting microscope I could see happy root hairs very clearly. To do my experiment I had to move the plants to another medium: I had to transplant them. I moved them far more quickly than one could ever do with a large garden plant and yet every single root hair on every single plant burst and died. Luckily within a few hours new ones began growing and the experiments went well. So don’t worry about me, I’m fine. The plants, ultimately, died under searing irradiation.
I thought of this when I moved my onions. I waited for a cloudy day without too much wind. April first worked out quite well. This is supposed to help with transplant shock. Too much sun and the plants transpire a great deal of water and wilt. Too much wind and they get knocked over. I made small holes at the bottom of shallow depressions in the bed I was targeting. After planting I gave them a good soaking (wet soil to 3 or 4 inches). But without root hairs no water is getting in those onions. So I worried.
The worrying just burned calories. The plants had no problem getting started and are now growing new shoots after less than a week. Some may wilt, but others will thrive. It’s really just like my family.
Onions in the northern latitudes start bulbing when the nights start getting longer again (the summer solstice). I want them as big as possible by then. They’ve got 3 months, they better get growing.

When I was a youth my parents moved us around a lot. Frequently, they came withus. The common explanation given had something to do with my father’s profession, but since I never listened to my parents I have no idea what we were doing. What I do know is that at each new school I had to go through the human version of transplant shock: I wilted and sometimes even lost a few leaves. Once I flowered prematurely. I have determined not to do this to our indigent boarders. No transplant shock for them; they may become root bound.

I bring this up because this last week I transplanted some onions into the garden. I started them March 8th in the basement under some lights. Due to the unseasonably warm weather, I was able to start taking them outside earlier than usual to “harden them off.” My parents tried this too, but I enjoyed “college” a little too much.

In years past my onions have not performed well. In following the advice of many books, I trimmed their tops so they wouldn’t get “too tall.” This year I didn’t do that and they have thrived. By the end of March I had lovely green mini-scallions. Nevertheless, I knew that eventually the plants would grow better in the garden.

I worry when I transplant.

Last year I did some experiments in which I grew a small plant, the plant lab rat, Arabidopsis thaliana in petri dishes so that I could examine the root hairs under a microscope. After the seeds germinated I waited a few days for the roots to begin elongating. Under a simple dissecting microscope I could see happy root hairs very clearly. To do my experiment I had to move the plants to another medium: I had to transplant them. I moved them far more quickly than one could ever do with a large garden plant and yet every single root hair on every single plant burst and died. Luckily within a few hours new ones began growing and the experiments went well. So don’t worry about me, I’m fine. The plants, ultimately, died under searing irradiation.

I thought of this when I moved my onions. I waited for a cloudy day without too much wind. April first worked out quite well. This is supposed to help with transplant shock. Too much sun and the plants transpire a great deal of water and wilt. Too much wind and they get knocked over. I made small holes at the bottom of shallow depressions in the bed I was targeting. After planting I gave them a good soaking (wet soil to 3 or 4 inches). But without root hairs no water is getting in those onions. So I worried.

The worrying just burned calories. The plants had no problem getting started and are now growing new shoots after less than a week. Some may wilt, but others will thrive. It’s really just like my family.

Onions in the northern latitudes start bulbing when the nights start getting longer again (the summer solstice). I want them as big as possible by then. They’ve got 3 months, they better get growing.