Urban legend: n (1979), an often lurid story or anecdote that is based on hearsay and widely circulated as true; often called urban myth.

The term “urban legend” may have been coined in 1979, but these kinds of tales have been in existence since man began storytelling. Many of them may have a basis of truth, but it’s so far buried in embellishments as the story is circulated that it’s hard to distinguish fact from fiction. Some of these stories are now termed “folklore.” Others are so engrained in our history that they’re considered accurate accounts of actual events.

An odd story I heard recently made me ponder what makes a good urban legend, and how they get started.

This spring a local man purchased two pigs, a male and female. He never penned them, neither did he feed them, turning them loose to run wild and forage on their own instead. This has been going on for three or four years – every spring he buys two pigs, and turns them loose for the season. No one quite knows why, or what he does with them – whether he catches them in the fall, and takes them to slaughter, or if they are still left to roam the woods, neighboring farms, and property of other residents in the area.

There were nine pigs total this summer – the boar, sow, and their seven piglets. They’ve been charging through the area and leaving in their wake a swath of destruction likened to “a snow plow run amok” in farming fields and residents’ yards. As the pigs root for food they’ve created networks of ruts more than a foot deep. The neighbors have been “terrorized.” My boss, who told me the story, has a friend who is one of victims of the feral pigs. Not only has her yard been destroyed, but her dog, “Honey Bear,” has been chased by the boar.

The pig owner has been cited and fined numerous times in past years by Animal Control; this year was no exception, although it doesn’t seem to have any effect. In fact, he reportedly told the Animal Control officer that he didn’t care what happened to the pigs, and to do with them what they wanted. Since then, four of the young ones have been caught in large catch-and-release Havahart traps.

It’s a sad story – sad that the irresponsible pig “owner” has so much disregard for the animals he’s supposed to provide for, and sad for the pigs that are left to fend for themselves (although they seem to have no problem doing so). But the story also has the makings of an urban ... or in this case ... rural legend. “Feral Pigs Terrorize Local Inhabitants,” the headline would read.

Sound incredulous? Take then a headline from 2006 on the ABC World News web-site. “Hog Wild! Feral Pigs Invade Texas” begins with “Millions of dangerous pigs are roaming Texas soil …” The article goes on to explain the hogs were brought to America in the 1500s by a Spanish conquistador and are now running wild, eating crops, chicken, and sheep.

The Internet abounds with stories across the country of feral boar attacks on man. It’s known that feral pigs, feeling pressure from being hunted, will become almost nocturnal, staying hidden during the day and feeding at night. They will eat almost anything, even killing other animal species to do so. Sows are extremely protective of their young. And pigs are intelligent – one of the most intelligent creatures in the animal kingdom. Are the feral pigs in this area intelligent enough to realize they’ve been wronged? Can pigs hold a grudge? Are they vindictive enough to seek revenge?

Of course not ... but all it would take is for one chicken to disappear in the dark of night. A family pet runs into the house, quivering with its tail tucked between its legs as the sow protects her young. Perhaps an anxious mother fears for her child’s safety while playing out in the yard. Or a man is attacked by a charging boar. Take the element of fear; add a bit of imagination, a whole lot of embellishment and “The Legend of the Feral Pigs of Fennville” is born. The band of feral creatures roams the night, seeking revenge on any unfortunate soul that crosses their path.

Just like the Melon Heads …

I kicked off my Halloween season this year by attending a book signing here in town. The books are two in the “Haunted America” series: Haunted History of Kalamazoo coauthored by Nicole Bray and Robert Dushane, and Ghosts and Legends of Michigan’s West Coast by Amberrose Hammond. It was a fun evening of telling ghost stories, and listening to the authors’ experiences of the supernatural, many of which take place in this area.

Flipping through Ghosts and Legends of Michigan’s West Coast, one story caught my eye. It was ...

“The Legend of the Melon Heads”

I first heard about the “Melon Heads” just a few weeks ago when I related something strange I saw one morning to my co-workers. It was still dark, and I was sitting on the back porch, drinking coffee while I let Quetta out. Suddenly she stopped in her tracks. The fur along her back rose, and she growled low from the back of her throat. A white ... thing ... bounced up the hill from the ravine. Bounced. It did not run, hop, or leap – it bounced. Like a ball. And it was round. Like a ball – about the size of a basketball, actually. It “sat” there for a few seconds, Quetta started barking wildly, and it bounced away, back down the hill and through the ravine. It was weird; I couldn’t – and still haven’t figured out what it was.

“Melon Heads!!!” my co-worker cried in mock terror.

Huh?

She grew up where the Melon Heads supposedly live and ever since she can remember the story has existed. “You gotta be kidding,” I said when she explained the Legend of the Melon Heads.

The legend goes that once there was a hospital that treated children with hydrocephalus – water on the brain that causes the head to swell to an extremely large size, hence the very cruel name “melon head.” Experiments were supposedly done on these poor children, leaving them incapable of the thought process we would consider normal. When the hospital was forced to close, the children were abandoned to the wild, banded together, and lived in the woods in what is now Saugatuck Dunes State Park – one of the most beautiful places in the area which I’ve visited many times, I might add, without ever once seeing a Melon Head. But many others have ... and still do insist they’ve seen small bodied, large-headed feral creatures roaming the woods and peering into steamy windows of parked cars inhabited by teenaged couples doing what teenagers will do in parked cars in remote areas.

Apparently, some of these creatures have kin in Ohio. Stories down there are nearly the exact same as the stories here, right down to the hideous experiments done in the hospital, excepting the Ohio Melon Heads are more vicious than the Michigan Melon Heads. Ohio Melon Heads will rip you apart limb from limb if given the chance. Michigan Melon Heads just scare the crap out of you. A two-minute drill on the Internet produced stories of Melon Heads that inhabit areas of Connecticut and across the sea in England as well.

None of this is true; there is no record of a hospital in the area, let alone one that performed hideous experiments – or no insane asylum as another version of the story goes. There was though, a school for disabled children in the early 1900s, and speculation says it’s quite possible some of these children suffered from hydrocephalus. And because kids can sometimes be cruel toward what they don’t understand or those they perceive as different, it’s also quite possible some of these hydrocephalic children were taunted and called names ... like Melon Head.

Despite the many theories, myths, and that it’s all improbable, Melon Head sightings are still reported to this day. As ridiculous as the Melon Head myth is, or that it’s beyond unlikely that a herd of feral pigs is roaming the countryside seeking revenge, we have a fascination with tales such as these. I love a good creepy story … even a bad one, especially during this time of year with Halloween right around the corner.

Ludicrous perhaps, but walking through the woods on a cool autumn evening, the rustle of leaves triggers a recall in the back of our minds of a story we once heard. We feel a prickle along the back of our necks, and we wonder what’s lurking behind that tree, or around the next bend. Ravenous pigs? Melon Heads? Or perhaps something else; something sinister ... something conjured up by the imagination and retold over and over until it becomes a local legend.

They’re out there ... so let’s hear ’em. What haunts your neck of the woods?

Walter’s Garden in Zeeland, Michigan – the country’s largest wholesale field grower of perennials, says yellow is the official color of the year, not only in fashion and home décor – but in the garden as well. Yellow is the color of “hope, warmth, radiant optimism, and positive energy,” and as we start to see improvement in the economy, yellow has become fashionable again. I’m glad! For years, I’ve heard the phrase “anything but yellow” when helping people plan their gardens. But it’s such a sunny, cheerful color! Is there anything that heralds the coming of spring so much as the yellow trumpets of daffodils. Or anything that signals autumn is approaching more than a field of goldenrod, dotted with purple asters? Yellow brightens dark corners in the garden, combines well with both cool and warm colors, and as an added benefit, is an attractant to pollinating bees.

From the first breath of spring through autumn’s first frost, yellow flowers are a welcoming sight in any garden.

(As a side note, if you’re ever in Zeeland, stop in and take a walk through Walter’s Garden trial gardens – absolutely gorgeous!)

The first frost might be hitting many gardens much earlier than normal next year. ‘First Frost’ has been named The American Hosta Growers Hosta of the Year for 2010. This medium-sized hosta is aptly named; it leaves hold up well until the first frost. A sport of the ever-popular ‘Halcyon,’ ‘First Frost’ has the same vibrant blue-green leaves, but each one comes with a gold margin that changes to white as summer progresses.

The 2010 Perennial Plant Association Plant of the Year is a native plant and an old-fashioned garden favorite. Baptisia australis (Blue False Indigo, left) is long-lived and easy to grow. From mid-to-late spring, bright indigo-blue flowers bloom above a dense mound of bluish-green foliage. After the flowers fade, long, black seed pods develop, providing interest through autumn and into winter.

Breeders continue to develop new varieties of Echinacea in shades of red, orange, and yellow. I love coneflowers, but I have to admit I’ve been disappointed with most of the newer varieties for the past few years. Coneflowers are supposed to be vigorous and easy to grow in most any type of soil, right? But unlike the those garden stalwarts – the sturdy, indestructible, Echinacea purpurea ‘Magnus’ and its white-colored cousin, Echinacea purpurea ‘White Swan’ – the red and orange varieties seem to always look weak and scraggly. The yellows seem to be a bit more vigorous, but not nearly as much and the purple and white. Though I’ve heard some positive feedback from some of my customers, most have been as disappointed as I am, so I stopped carrying them at the nursery a couple of years ago, and one of my largest perennials suppliers stopped growing them for the same reason.

During the Independent Garden Center Conference and Trade Show in Chicago this August, I had the opportunity to speak with a representative from Terra Nova, which developed many of these Echinacea hybrids. I asked him why they don’t seem to thrive, and often fail. They are hybrids developed from Echinacea purpurea (purple coneflower) and Echinacea paradoxa (Ozark coneflower), he explained. In order to develop a more vigorous plant, the flower buds should be cut off just as they start to develop for the first one or even two years. Do not allow the plants to grow very tall either; pinch them back as you would mums. The problem with vigor may lie with the traits Echinacea paradoxa brings to the hybrids. This yellow coneflower, though very hardy in zones 3 to 9, has a very deep taproot. In its native habitat, this species may not reach its full size or may not flower for the first few years until that taproot develops. Cutting off the flower buds and keeping the plant from getting leggy will aid in developing a larger root system quicker.

Placing my perennials orders for the nursery this fall, I could not resist ordering at least one of the red coneflowers. Echinacea ‘Hot Papaya’ has flaming red-orange pom-pom type flowers. Though a hybrid, it’s touted to have the sturdy stems, foliage and habit of Echinacea purpurea.

We’ll see more of pom-pom type coneflowers in garden centers next year. The good news (in my book) is the majority of them are Echinacea purpurea varieties, both in the purple tones and in white. ‘Coconut Lime’ was a nice white-flowered variety this year; additions to the white pom-poms are ‘Meringue,’ a double-white with a green cone, and ‘Milkshake,’ a shorter variety.

Green coneflowers are becoming popular, and there’ll be a few more varieties available for 2010. One of my favorites is Echinacea purpurea ‘Green Jewel.’ It’s fragrant, fairly short at 2 feet tall, with a large light green petals centered around a darker green cone.

It’s not just the Echinacea, of course, that have plant breeders busy. In the shrub department, Lo & Behold^TM ‘Blue Chip’ butterfly bush (Buddleia x ‘Blue Chip’) is the first in a series of new miniature butterfly bushes that bloom continuously without dead-heading. Bloomerang^TM Purple (Syringa x ‘Penda’) is a new reblooming lilac, with fragrant flowers in spring, mid-summer and into fall.

Spring Meadows in Grand Haven, Michigan, has bred what I consider the most exciting recent breakthrough in hydrangeas. Nearly everyone is familiar with the ‘Annabelle’ hydrangea. It’s world’s most recognizable and most popular hydrangea. “Foolproof,” “ironclad,” “indestructible” – whatever you want to call it, it’s a cultivar of our native Hydrangea arborescens, and it’s extremely hardy.

But it only comes in white – that is, until now. Spring Meadows introduces us to the first ever pink ‘Annabelle’ – Invincibelle^TM Spirit (Hydrangea arborescens ‘NCHA1’). With a USDA hardiness rating of zones 3 to 9, ‘Invincibelle’ promises to be just as hardy as the species. The blooms begin a dark pink, maturing to a clear pink, flowering from summer through first frost.

As this year’s garden season draws to a close, we take stock of what worked in our gardens, and what didn’t. Already, we start to plan what changes we’ll make, and look forward to the coming season with optimism. These plants are just a few of the offerings that may be waiting for you at garden centers in 2010. Hope to see you there!

Note: Hybridized plants listed in this article, excluding Echinacea purpurea ‘Magnus,’ Echinacea purpurea ‘White Swan’ and Hydrangea arborescens ‘Annabelle’ are trademarked, patented, or patent-pending and must be listed as such at the point of purchase. Asexual propagation of these perennials is prohibited. Propagation of and/or the sale of listed shrubs is prohibited without a license.

There are times here that I feel like the black sheep of the GRIT blogging family. The one bad egg in clutch of good eggs. Why? Chickens, of course. I believe I might be the only blogger here that doesn’t keep chickens. I’ve never raised them. Not one itty-bitty chick; not once. Neither have I entertained the idea of keeping them in my backyard, nor do I (gasp!) have a desire to do so. It’s not that I have anything against them; I like a good chicken as much as the next person. I like them grilled, baked, or fricasseed. I don’t dispute the benefits of raising chickens. I know they taste better, are healthier, and there’s a sense of satisfaction in raising something yourself and presenting it to your family. That’s why I vegetable garden. But me raise chickens? No.

The same goes for eggs. I see no need for my family to keep a chicken coop in the backyard to provide us with fresh eggs. A carton of eight eggs can last our family one, two, sometimes three months. We just don’t use that many except for the Easter egg dying tradition, the every-so-often Breakfast for Dinner, and the occasional art project.

I noticed Shelby coming down the stairs the other day headed to the refrigerator with a carton of eggs in her hand. “Uhm, Shelbs ... why did you have eggs up in your bedroom?” Call it Spotlight on Eggs. Her art assignment was to draw a still-life of eggs emphasizing the shadowing techniques they were working on in art class. My following question was how long she’s been working on the project, and more importantly how long have the eggs been up in her room. Three days. Time for them to hit the trash. They expired a month ago anyway.

But I’ll make an attempt to join the flock to put a chicken in every blog, and a coupe in every backyard. Or in the case here, I suppose that should be a “coop” in every backyard.

There I go, mucking up a perfectly good saying again. If I think about it, I may have qualms about killing chickens in my backyard, but I’ve never thought twice about slaughtering English and the idioms and adages that are derived from it. Actually the phrase most everyone knows is “a chicken in every pot, and a car in every garage”, which has been attributed to our country’s various presidents, most often with the credit going to Herbert Hoover. But it wasn’t Hoover who said it. Without Hoover’s approval, a slogan paid for by the Republican National Committee during the 1928 campaign touted the prosperity gained during the party’s administration, claiming to have “put a chicken in every pot. And a car in every backyard, to boot.”

While Hoover himself claimed “the slogan of progress is changing from the full dinner pail to the full garage,” he never uttered a thing about chickens or backyards. Henry IV did though, in seventeenth century France. Great guy, that Henry. He reputedly said it was his wish that the each peasant in his kingdom have “a chicken in his pot every Sunday.”

It’d be nice indeed, to have a potful of chicken each Sunday. Oooo, Keith’s homemade chicken soup is to die for. But what about the poor chicken going into the pot? Well, uhm ... she died for it too. A farm animal, such as a hen unable to lay eggs anymore, was considered to have outlived its usefulness, and therefore “went to pot …” and then onto the dinner table. We’ve all seen better days; a chicken in every pot might not be possible in an economy that’s gone to pot (unless you have them handy to pluck from your backyard, of course).

There are many sayings featuring chickens, and a great deal of them are disparaging. With all these negative connotations, it’s a wonder anyone would want to be associated with them, much less keep them in such close proximity as one’s own backyard.

You can “scratch out a living” working for “chicken feed” trying to feather your nest with the end result having built a nice, little nest egg for you and your family.

But don’t count your chickens before they hatch, or put all your eggs in one basket, lest you end up with nothing. And that’s no cock and bull story.

You can be called bird-brained, a dumb cluck, and be mad as a wet hen when someone refers to you as no spring chicken. Your writing can be as indecipherable as chicken scratch. Feeling too hen-pecked lately? Just go ahead and fly the coop then.

Chicken Little cried, “the sky is falling, the sky is falling” as nobody paid attention, while Henny Penny felt she did all the work. They both ended up running around like chickens with their heads cut off ... eventually ... when they went to pot.

You can be taken under someone’s wing, but be wary that the protectiveness does not become too overbearing or you might feel mother-henned to death.

You can be chicken-hearted, chicken-livered, and chicken out when the going gets rough. Being called “chicken,” plain and simple, is often accompanied by hand motions and an audio of bird calls as the name caller flaps his arms, and “bawk, bawk, bawks” in a bad imitation that should leave him tarred and feathered.

Shake your tail feathers and you’ll be proudly strutting like a rooster across the dance floor. Unless it’s a wedding reception, and the obligatory Chicken Dance is played. “I don’t want to be a chicken, I don’t want to be a duck, so I shake my butt.” Clap, clap, clap, clap. (Yes, somewhere along the way, the 1950s oompah accordion song was assigned lyrics.) Then you won’t appear to be a cocky rooster, but rather a certain part of the anatomy of another barnyard animal. This may be compounded after having imbibed in too many cocktails.

Speaking of which ... it was Betsy (or maybe it was Betty?) Flannigan, who owned an inn in Pennsylvania (sometimes it appeared to move to Virginia) who invented the cocktail, or at least the word “cocktail.” Serving drinks to the soldiers of the American Revolution, she used tail feathers of cocks as swizzle sticks. Or she served a soldier a drink mixed with the different colored liquors like that of a cock’s tail. Maybe she stole a rooster from a British supporter, roasted it, and served it up with accompanying drinks decorated with the rooster’s feathers. The Betsy/Betty from Pennsylvania/Virginia stories are but a few of many surrounding the origins of the word “cocktail,” which first appears in print in 1806. More then forty supposed etymologies existed in 1946 surrounding the drink, many of them still making the “rounds” today. Most are as muddled as one’s thoughts might be after slugging back a few of the drinks.

Ah, but does it matter? After putting eggs in your basket and counting them before they’re hatched, scratching out a living, and getting hen-pecked in the process, you must be tired. Sit and relax a spell. Have one of Betsy/Betty’s cocktails. I promise I won’t tell if you perform the Chicken Dance poorly.

And as I run out of bad chicken sayings and analogies, I vaguely wonder if I’ve laid an egg with this blog. Perhaps ruffled some feathers and will end up with egg on my face for displaying chickens in a negative light. They say curses, like chickens, eventually come home to roost. Some one will cry, “Fowl!” and I’ll be politely asked that I quietly leave without putting up a squawk.

Maybe I’ll join you in that cocktail now. While the eggheads of the world run around scrambling to decide which came first, the chicken or the egg, we’ll talk turkey about life’s more important issue: Why did the chicken really cross the road? Let’s ask Betty; maybe she knows.

If not, we can always try Betsy.

Photos courtesy of my fellow GRIT blogger who does raise chickens, the very generous and talented Lori Dunn.