Dahlias were opine of the first plants I ever planted as a kid – drawn solely to the picture on the label, I expected grand dinner-plate-sized blooms and every day that summer I went out and inspected them for growth and buds, all to no avail. I didn’t read the fine print about how late they started blooming, and for a kid that was an interminable exercise in patience and waiting. Throughout that summer, I watched them slowly rise, but by the time it took to get to the blooms it was already August, and the light and wind had change, signifying fall and taking away some of the summer joy that was only present on the front end of the season.
These days dahlias carry different meanings and memories ~ some sorrowful, some hopeful and bright, and some promising of some future assignation for blooms to come closer to fall. A good flower – the kind that lasts for centuries – carries shifting resonance and meaning, offering varied readings as life shifts and changes.
Having grown up in an age without the internet, and being around for the technological revolution that brought the entire world online, I’ve always had a relatively healthy balance between online and real life. (It seems like I’m on social media all the time, but the truth is I’m usually on three times a day – just to post links to these blog entires.) The time-crunch is in writing these posts, not bopping around on social media, so when this place went offline this past week, I had a lot of time and freedom to touch grass, as they say.
It felt in some ways like I was returning to the world, and I absolutely loved it. The idea and feeling of free time was entirely foreign to me, so it did take a few days of adjustment where I felt like I was walking around like a stunned mullet. (The fish, not the hair-style.) It takes a while to adjust to that when you’ve been doing daily posts for decades. Being quickly adaptable allowed for me to switch swiftly into this new groove – spending time outside, swimming in the pool, picking up the gardening chores that had been piling up, and making multiple trips to the nursery for mulch and soil and plants (the one drawback of the Mini-Cooper). Suzie and I met for Yemeni coffee (well, matcha) at a new place in Latham (Shibam) where I handed off keys for Boston – she’s heading there for a Belle & Sebastian concert this week. (Hello Fox in the Snow.) And I’ve resumed outfit preparation for dinner and a show with Sherri and Skip in a few weeks (lots of sequin and bead work before I go as blind as a nun). Life is for living.
The past week felt a bit like living a secret life, where the curtain was closed, and all the behind the scenes action became the real story – untold except for those directly participating. It was thrilling, and a welcome reminder that it’s good to shake things up to jumpstart a whole new chapter.
We reluctantly return to where we didn’t quite last leave off in our lilac spring, as my website has been down for about a week thanks to the company, Enom, who held my domain name. Apparently the folks there had a difficult time figuring out that I, Alan Ilagan, am the actual owner of alanilagan.com, and it took a full week to convince them that the person running alanilagan.com was in fact Alan Fucking Ilagan. Way more on that later – for now, a recap on what you probably missed, as most of these posts went up the the site was down. Ahh, technology…
Bane of our lawn’s existence, I still have a soft spot in my heart for these little violets that still manage to break through in the spring despite all the treatments. When I was little, behind our family home was a little stretch of woods, and behind the black iron gate of the pool, a swath of these violets had naturalized and provided an enchanting carpet that was lit up with purple and white violet blooms each spring.
The variegated white and purple variety was far more ubiquitous, but I always coveted the more rare pure violet blooms like the one seen here.
That I’m weighed down by your beautiful Collapsing underneath your perfect Drowning in your wonderful And I’m letting you sink in It’s, it’s almost unbearable I’m suffering inside your magic Love you something terrible And I’m letting you sink in And I’m letting you sink in
Convallaria majalis, better known as lily-of-the-valley (despite the fact that is in no way a lily of any sort) is currently perfuming the garden with its heavenly aroma, and does so in a way that almost shy. Its bell-like blooms dangle mostly just below the tops of the pretty foliage, bashfully hiding their faces from prying eyes. It’s a plant I understand better than most.
It also carried great nostalgic significance – my Gram loved lily-of-the-valley – she’d use the fragrance in her soap and lotion, finding comfort in its sweetness. My love for my Gram inevitably spilled over into a love for lily-of-the-valley. Yes, they are invasive in conditions they enjoy, but the foliage is handsome throughout the dogged days of summer, when some fall victim to drying out or decay – these keep going until the frosts of fall, when the foliage turns ghostly pale before almost evaporating into paper-thin tissues.
A battle between these and the sweet woodruff would make for an especially lovely woodland war, but so far our swaths of each are removed from one another. There’s enough war in the world right now.
These happy blooms, and their accompanying fragrance, remind me of Gram, of being a boy in the spring and happening upon them in my solitary adventures through the backyards of neighbors, of finding them bleeding into the woods and stealing a few pips for my own garden.
Hidden among this spring’s collection of lilac-themed posts, a song surfaces, breaking through the din of the food hall at Moynihan Train Hall as I find myself departing New York after a Mother’s Day weekend on Broadway with Mom. It’s been decades since she first brought us to New York to see ‘Peter Pan’ when I was just a kid, and though our roles have flipped somewhat (with me planning and steering us around the city as best I can) it’s still fun to see shows with the woman who instilled a love of theater from an early age.
When I was a kid I built a kingdom There in my bed Filled it with wisdom And all of my friends They were like superheroes We’d go outside and play in the garden I’d shown my eyes and give ’em a warning And they’d run and hide while I counted down to zero And forever I know I won’t stop dreaming, won’t let go
A few years later, when I was in middle school, Suzie and Missy joined us for a trip to New York, where we saw ‘Jerome Robbins’ Broadway’. A little older, and on the verge of knowing everything as teenagers, we thought we were shit as much as we thought we were the shit. Simultaneously uncertain and entirely sure of ourselves, we walked around the city like we were untouchable (except for the lady who patted me on the head and said my hair was so softy and shiny).
I know we’re older Carrying the world upon our shoulders But I know that forever we’ll be young and bold, oh, we’re full of hope I know I know, I know I know we can be giants Somewhere, I know there’s a world that’s waiting out there For you and I to shine like we are made of gold, we were made to glow I know, I know, I know, I know we can be giants We can be giants, Oh, we can be giants We can be giants Yeah, I know I know, I know I know We can be giants
A couple of years after that, Suzie and I and our Moms were back in New York for a pair of shows that remain favorites: ‘Lost In Yonkers’ and ‘Six Degrees of Separation’. Full-frontal male nudity with our mothers was not on my bucket list, but we checked that box that trip. Suzie and I were growing up (a floppy dick bouncing around on stage does that to a person…) and in our friendship I found a certain strength and stability that I didn’t sense with anyone else.
When I was a kid I was a dreamer My room wasn’t big, my house wasn’t either But I had enough love to fill up a city And all of those nights I watched the stars They lit up the sky, filled up my heart I won’t let go
By the time I was in college, Norma Desmond and ‘Sunset Boulevard’ had taken hold of my psyche, and Mom and I were back on Broadway seeing Glenn Close in her Tony-winning turn. The next year we saw ‘Master Class’ with Zoe Caldwell as Maria Callas – diva-dom was still calling to me in delusional grandeur, and it would be a little while until I could take myself out of the scenes to enjoy from afar; I always felt things too keenly, too deeply, for my own good, and for my own safety. But growing up changes that, no matter when it happens.
I know we’re older Carrying the world upon our shoulders But I know that forever we’ll be young and bold, oh, we’re full of hope Yeah, I know, I know, I know, I know we can be giants Somewhere, I know there’s a world that’s waiting out there For you and I to shine like we are made of gold, we were made to glow Yeah, I know, I know, I know, I know we can be giants
Galiuum odoratum, more commonly known as sweet woodruff (love that name), forms a handsome carpet if you give it space and semi-shady moist conditions. Some might say it’s a little too aggressive, and I can’t disagree – I just happen to love it so much I don’t mind a little expansive colonization of the beds where it lands. It works especially well in a woodland setting, where it might roam free, producing these little white blossoms at the most beautifully tender time of the year. The flowers almost feel like an added bonus, because the foliage is so handsome in its own right.
We have several patches of this, and I’m planning on transplanting several clumps to fill in some tricky bare areas – places where tenacious aggression is actively encouraged. Gardening is a battle – some might say a war – and troops must be deployed where they are needed most.
Spring is the season of rebirth, of new beginnings, of a renewed sense of purpose and life.
I’m not sure I’m doing spring correctly this year, but it’s all good. Once the weather settles a bit, and once that sunny warmth arrives with summer, the heart will quiet itself, the nights will allow for sleep, and the journey will continue.
Reaching the almost-mid-point of a thus-far rather chilly May, the birds and the bees and flowers and trees have still been putting on their annual show. Nature hustles to catch up to its own delays, and for now I pause to enjoy the coolness because by August we’ll likely be melting and wishing for relief. Live in the present moment, and remember what the days were like in February. On with the mid-May weekly blog recap…
Almost everyone loves lilacs – some common trigger of childhood nostalgia and spring’s ephemeral enchantment – but not everyone knows how to cut them for a bouquet. Lilacs are one of the trickier ones too, ever-ready to droop and fall in mere hours, but they can last if you follow a few helpful tips.
First, go out and pick your lilacs first thing in the morning, ideally before the sun has started to beat down and take away some of the plant’s moisture. If you can’t manage that, wait until the evening, when it’s had some time to replenish its fluids.
Second is how to strip the stems – I usually make two vertical cuts in a cross, about two inches into the branch’s bottom. That’s usually messy enough to strip some of the bark off in the process but if it doesn’t, peel some back manually. That should allow for maximum intake of water through the bottom of the branches. Finally, remove most of the leaves, as they will take away from the water pull to the flowers (they also tend to wilt no matter how fussy you get about the stems).
Usually this is enough to get you a decent vase life – sometimes you have to give it a second go, so repeat the process if they start wilting in a couple of days. Otherwise, simply inhale and enjoy.
