Category Archives: Flowers

Though I pride myself on having a green thumb, I’ve had a number of notable failures in the garden – chief among them my difficulties with roses. Aside from the fool-proof knockout series (a bland thing if ever there was one), I’ve yet to have a successful rose endeavor.

When I was a kid, I begged and pleaded with my parents to order a few roses from Jackson and Perkins. Their catalogs were practically porn for my floral-fixation, and I narrowed it down to a selection of six rose plants, each with a fancy name and pedigree. A few weeks later they arrived in a big box – monstrous things that were alien-like in their bare-rooted form. The planting instructions called for them to be soaked/submerged in water for a few hours prior to planting, so I filled the bathtub with lukewarm water. Ahh yes, the brain of a child. I don’t recall the mess that was made because it was so bad I likely put it from my mind. While they soaked (and left their dirt rings on the tub) I set about preparing six enormous holes in the front and side gardens. Visions of dazzling rose bushes filled my head, with blooms that spilled forth with abundant floriferous vociferousness.

I amended the soil and dug deeply, with ample manure and generous dashes of bone meal. I left a mound at the bottom of each hole, as per the elaborate directions included with them, and somehow hauled the beasts out of the tub and back down to their new homes. Gently, I fanned out the roots over the mounds, then backfilled and firmly secured the plants with crowns at ground level. A small basin designed to catch water surrounded each plant, and I watered them in well. I could almost sense them growing, and I stood there when the last one was in, just waiting for some sign of growth to occur. Again, the mind of a child: ever-hopeful, ever-antsy, ever-anticipating.

Only the two in the sunniest spots did much. In fact, they were the only ones that survived that first year. Fantasies of armloads of rose blooms spilling out of baskets and bouquets were left as just that. The pink and yellow and white varieties I so wanted to see in person didn’t make it. Only those two stalwart red plants survived the winter. They did well enough, and the next year I did manage to coax a few blooming spells from them, but their upkeep and insect control were too taxing to be enjoyed, and their spindly form left much to be desired. I gave up, and roses left my life until I met Andy.

This year he’s trying the variety you see here. Lightly fragrant, and beautifully shaded with an almost lavender blush, it’s a beautiful specimen. I just hope it’s not too fussy.

The smiling pucker of a pansy is sometimes enough to lift the darkest day. Even bowed down by a shower of raindrops, their little faces are still there, ready to face the sun when it deigns to show itself again. While I love seeing these beauties in pots and in yards in the early part of the season, I’ve never grown or planted them myself. A few years of Johnny-jump-ups were all I could muster.

That distant cousin of the pansy, with the much-smaller blossoms and tenacious reseeding tendency, makes a charming-enough companion in the garden, would pop up in unexpected and not-always-welcome places. They always kept me on my toes, and I was usually too guilty to pick them up and move them somewhere more appropriate of aesthetically-pleasing, choosing instead to let them fill the edges of borders or poke through a cement crack. Their unpredictability was a lesson in accommodation, and I knew it was a lesson I needed to learn.

Now, I admire the pansies and the Johnny-jump-ups from a distance. Our summers are simply too long and hot for them to last much beyond June or July, and when you need something to see you through August and September, these just don’t cut it. This gardener doesn’t have time for that.

The island in the middle of Braddock Park features a fountain and a line of trees protected by a wrought-iron gate. Beneath the trees are patches of ivy and a few clumps of spring flowering bulbs. The first – these lavender-hued crocus – are a bright burst of happiness, and one that I was not expecting. We’re behind because of all the snow, but we’re getting there, and my heart jumped when it caught sight of these beauties.

I planted a great number of crocus in the backyard back in upstate NY, but with all the hungry squirrels and chipmunks it’s unlikely that many of them survived. For some reason if they make it through the first season they’ll usually last. It’s the first season that’s the most dangerous. The animals sense newly-disturbed ground and smell the seductive relatives of saffron, feeding upon the corms in the fading warmth of fall. We’ll see if any made it through the wilderness. I’ll remain hopeful.

I’ll also keep trying, because there is no greater harbinger of spring than these happy blooms. From the dreary brown and gray detritus of winter, the bursting of the crocus gladdens the weariest of hearts.

Many years ago, I convinced my parents to buy me a Butterfly amaryllis for Christmas. At the time, it was a new introduction to the market, and was priced accordingly. Billed as a rare South American import, I cradled it lovingly in my hands before potting it up and setting it up in a prime southern-exposed window, beside a humidifier that kept the room in a near-tropical state. The plant promptly sent up two spindly leaves, the ends of which soon curled and burnt. It survived, but never thrived, despite my extra administrations. As for the exotic blooms, they never came. Eventually I gave up and it went the same way as other plants I’ve pampered and fussed over – such as a lady’s slipper orchid from White Flower Farm (the most expensive perennial I’ve ever purchased – dead after two years of watering with dechlorinated water. You try keeping that shit up in the heat of a Northeastern July).

Sometimes, the more you coddle, the less you get. And vice versa – as seen in the photos of this Oncidium orchid. I picked it up from Trader Joe’s on a whim last year, to accentuate the new kitchen, and I’d planned on throwing it out once its bright blooms faded. After that happened, however, the foliage remained bright and green, and it seemed in good health, so I put it in the front window near the other houseplants and soon forgot about it except to water it once in a while.

This past summer, when remembering to water it again, I saw it had produced a flower spike that was just about to start blooming. I almost missed it. Then, just last week, the same thing – another flower stalk already in bloom. I quickly added a bit of Miracle Gro to its monthly watering, and felt a little bad at my apathy toward such a strong performer. (Plants get me all anthropomorphic – even more-so than animals.) I’m not sure what I’m doing right, as the humidity in the house is typically low at this time of the year. I think it’s a combination of unintentionally sparse watering habits, and a slightly potbound situation (a number of plants will only bloom once their roots start crowding in on themselves.) Whatever the reason, it’s pretty – and beauty is a harbinger of the upcoming season. At least indoors…