Easing into a Sunday morning doesn’t always require something this bright and bold, but who am I to deny the punch-packing power of the garden when it wants to show off? Here we have two very different plants – the garden-variety Asclepias (relative of the milkweed, and just as irresistible to monarchs and their caterpillar form) and the vining Clematis (the common-but-no-less-lovely-for-it variety that one sees on many a mailbox pole). Taken together, they form the kind of combustible combination that thrills the senses. Such a strong statement is not for everyone. I know many who prefer a kinder, gentler palette of pastels, the cooling calm of lavenders and soft pinks, or the silvers and whites of downy foliage and airy blooms. For me, like much else it all depends on the mood. Today, I’m feeling feisty. Bang bang, zoom zoom feisty. Orange and purple feisty.
Even when the heat of day has rendered the concrete walkway around the pool unwalkable in bare feet, the lavender remains upright and true. Though the main flush of flowers has long since passed, these hardy plants will throw out a few random blooms from now until the fall. Long a signifier of peace and calm, lavender has been a favorite of mine since I was a kid. The fragrance alone is worth putting in a few plants, but the neat and tidy form, along with the soft gray-green foliage and enchanting blooms further recommend this as a necessary garden addition.
Its rustic elegance can be utilized in both formal and cottage-style gardens, and its silvery-gray hues lend a cooling aspect to the hottest days of summer. Individually, the bloom stalks are delicate and small – taken together they form a cloud of purple, a lavender haze that bees adore and worship. I don’t blame them.
He had invited me earlier in the year, when the winter raged, and thoughts of the garden were all that kept me sane. In his lovely way, he asked me to visit him “when the roses bloomed” and then he included his address and contact information. His name was Lee Bailey, and he was the man who wrote my gardening bible, ‘Country Flowers’ – the first book I ever read on the subject. I’d written him a fan letter when I was only eleven or twelve, and he’d written back then, pleasantly surprised by my age and interest. I thought nothing of it until a decade or so later, when I wrote him another fan letter, and he responded with the invitation to see him in the city.
I didn’t make it down until the end of June or early July, passed the point of the first flush of roses, at the height of heat and the nastiness that accompanies summer in New York. At the Chelsea Pines Hotel, in some starlet-themed room of garish and gaudy excess, I stood before the raging air conditioner, cooling down before my meeting with Mr. Bailey. ‘Poses’ by Rufus Wainwright was playing in my mind, its references to Fifth Avenue and flip-flops an apt correlation to my time there.
Out on the street, the heat was instantly intense. It was only a few blocks to his penthouse, but I knew they would be grueling. Taking it slowly, I stayed in the shade, waiting in vain for a breeze that never arrived. Normally I’d have slipped into shorts and, yes, flip-flops, but for this meeting – for the first face-to-face with an idol – I donned khakis out of respect, and a short-sleeved button-up shirt, with few buttons undone in deference to the heat. Something told me, in the friendly and casual way he had of writing, that Mr. Bailey wouldn’t stand on ceremony when it came to clothing or attitude.
On this sunny summer day, on a sticky and somewhat stinky sidewalk of New York, I made my way to my hero. Writers and artists and gardeners were always more impressive than Batman or Superman (but perhaps not Wonder Woman.) Suddenly I was very nervous about meeting him. In some ways, it was a moment that was a decade and a half in the making. He was someone who’d been with me since I was a child. Even if he had no idea, he was there guiding my choices, aiding in my decisions. Mostly it was in garden matters, of course, but there were other lessons cloaked in the guide of caretaking and tending to plants and flowers.
All these poses such beautiful poses
Makes any boy feel like picking up roses
In the lobby of his building, I paused, trying to cool down before going up in the elevator. I had never been in anyone’s NYC penthouse, and as the doors opened and deposited me in the hallway of his place, I felt wholly removed from New York, and almost everything I’d ever known. I’d seen similar things before, and had spent time in several mansions and the occasional Senator’s home, but it always impressed me to see how the other half lives. There was an ease to it, a grace you don’t always feel when you’re struggling, even if I knew that such wealth and comfort had its own sets of problems and worries. So much was simply relative.
His assistant brought me into the main living room, flanked on two ends by French doors that were open to the wrap-around balcony. That would be where the roses bloomed, I surmised. She offered me a glass of water and I accepted. Shortly after, Lee Bailey entered his living room. Walking with a cane, he exhibited the passing years since ‘Country Flowers’ had been published, but the spark was still there, and the wit and charm that seeped through his prose were still in evidence now that he stood before me in person. We sat across from each other, on parallel couches, and shared a lovely chat.
I don’t recall the specifics. Mostly, I just marveled at the pinnacle of a journey that began in the winter nights of my childhood, when I pored over the photographs of his flowers, imagining the expanse of his gardens, and drifting to sleep with the hardcover by my side. I explained, in slightly faltering form, how much he had influenced me, but it’s never easy to get across how much it had meant.
We talked of things other than gardening, too: men and boyfriends and his friend Elaine Stritch. He knew several other celebrities whom I would later see at one of his parties – Joel Schumacher, Liz Smith, Hal Prince – but they were merely his contemporaries, people who populated his past like Suzie or Chris populated mine. Though it seemed like my silly life had paled in comparison to his, he treated me as an equal, and such gracious respect would be one of his great lessons.
All these poses such beautiful poses
Makes any boy feel as pretty as princes
The green autumnal parks conducting
All the city streets a wondrous chorus singing
All these poses oh how can you blame me
Life is a game and true love is a trophy
And you said
Watch my head about it…
Our waters done, and sweating on a pair of coasters, we rose and I helped him toward the balcony. He apologized that the roses were done blooming for the moment – and recounted their beauty from a few weeks ago. Here was where the breeze lived – cool and refreshing and so very far from the sidewalk down below. We walked once around the entire length of the balcony, and then I sensed it was time to go.
He promised an invitation to his holiday party – a promise he kept, and a party I would attend right before Christmas – the first of a couple, and I was honored to be included. On that day, we parted quietly, easily, as if we’d known each other all our lives, and for one of us that was kind of true.
Back on the street, the heat had not abated, and I undid another button of my shirt. Mr. Wainwright came back to my head, and a gently meandering piano line plotted my return to the Chelsea Pines Hotel. I’d met my idol. The day was filled with promise and sparkle, with a melancholic undertow that scored all things bright and beautiful.
Reclined amongst these packs of reasons
For to smokes the days away into the evenings
All these poses of classical torture
Ruined my mind like a snake in the orchard
I did go from wanting to be someone now
I’m drunk and wearing flip – flops on Fifth Avenue
In the green autumnal parks conducting
All the city streets a wondrous chorus
Singing all these poses now no longer boyish
Made me a man, but who cares what that is?
Up until now, I’ve never given much thought to filler, particularly of the floral kind, though I realize its importance. Particularly in larger pots of mixed plantings, where contrast and scale can be skillfully manipulated to create illusions of grandeur, the use of tiny trailing plants like these is of the utmost importance. Bigger blooms and brighter blossoms may get all the initial notice, but it’s the one that draws you nearer that is remembered.
Like quieter voices or more nuanced shades, these little flowers command a closer look, demanding that one approach for further examination. It’s a trick that often works.
Though more demure in their request, they still ask to be noticed.
Even in the floral realm, a whisper can yield more than a shout.
Some of the first plants I ever grew were the tuberous begonias. Unlike the common begonia that was available for mass planting, these were larger and more temperamental plants. They demanded dappled light and coaxing from their tubers before they would reward with rich blooms such as the ones seen here. The foliage was just as handsome, and together they made a powerful punch. Yet for all of that, their form never quite appealed to me. It was slightly erratic, as if it couldn’t quite make up its mind to be upright or trailing. I don’t like that kind of indecision.
This year, I gave them another try, and though the color and beauty of the flower form remains enchanting, and the leaves are as pretty as I remember them, the form still irks me. I keep expecting the taller portions to flop over, debating a stake before letting nature decide if and when it should fall. Too many things in gardening are ungovernable – I don’t need another. So enjoy these luscious flowers for now; their time is limited and their tubers will not be saved.
I have no idea how this wild sweet pea came to be in our garden. Unlike the equally-questionable Japanese knotweed specimen that I actually planted (a variegated and less rambunctious variety than the wild one) I don’t recall intentionally putting this pea in. Yet there it was, so I stuck a wire frame for support into the surrounding area and watched the plant climb.
Unlike the early-season sweet peas that are more delicate, and more varied in flower color, this version is hardy, but lacking in charms like fragrance. It’s also an invasive weed in many areas, but if you haven’t grown up with it, the blooms are just as enchanting as the more refined garden version. Its perennial nature is also a nice boon if you happen to miss the early planting season for its showier counterpart. (Yes, I missed it.)
When confined and controlled, even the most invasive of plant pests can be beautiful when examined singly. If dandelions were as rare as Adonis, they’d fetch similarly exorbitant prices. Scarcity is a powerful thing.
While it will bloom for much of the summer, it tends to get quite scraggly-looking as soon as the first flush of blooms is done. As soon as that happens, I like to cut it back to a foot or two from the ground and it will send up a fresh mound of growth, often resulting in a second flush of blooms later on in the summer, when flowers and color are more badly needed.
It was one of the first arresting fragrances I remember. In the hot entryway of Suzie’s Victorian home, a bouquet of mockorange blooms stood unobtrusively on the shelf that housed the Guest Book that I never failed to sign (I think I held the record for most signatures in that book – at the very least, I’m a strong contender – and I’m adding to it every few months.) On the day recalled here, the book was beside that vase of flowers which filled the space with the sweet scent of summer – the mockorange. Commonly named from its fragrant approximation of the sweet citrus blossom, it came at the very start of summer, when the world was at its seasonal happiest. Here, tamed in a smaller space than the expansive side-yard of Suzie’s house, it released its potent perfume, and I all but swooned at such sweetness.
Certain flowers carry their power in their fragrance. Peonies, lilacs, certain roses, lavender – each packs its own olfactory punch, conjuring memories of childhood or summers long gone by. The mockorange is one of them. Unassuming and rather rustic in leaf and form – even the flowers are simple and white – it makes up for the lack of visual pizzazz with a scent that would blow more stunning show-offs out of their colorful orbit. I like an underdog that can surprise in such a manner. And I love a mockorange in bloom.
Behold, the evening primrose. Scientifically known as Oenothera, these perennials also go by the more apt moniker of ‘sundrops.’ Either way you refer to them, they are a burst of bright color at this time of the year, and provide a striking anchor for a perennial bed or border. They spread quite well, and will reseed if given the chance, though their blooms are so happy I can’t imagine many would be too upset by this gentle bit of invasiveness.
As is often the case in such matters, the most fiery of blooms are often the most fleeting, and while these yellow stunners unfold over a number of days, they will not last much longer into the summer, so take this into count when you’re counting on color for late July and August. They will occasionally offer some autumnal color, however, so don’t fully dismiss them. The best plants are full of such surprises.
Cities often suffer in the summer. Once that heat gets into the concrete and the subways, it’s there until October. Still, there are spaces and moments of reprieve, such as in the dappled shade afforded by street trees, or the increasingly-landscaped stretches of the Southwest Corridor Park, where these photos were taken.
Here, some snowdrop anemones and blue flags find comfort beneath the filtered sunlight before the heat becomes unbearable.
At this early stage of the season, everything is still fresh, everything is still cool. The greens are softer, the edges pristine, and the blossoms unripped by hot winds.
It’s the secret side of Boston, unknown to tourists, and often unnoticed by locals, and I hold it more dear because of that.
The lips of an iris are sealed, the petals of an anemone silent.
Sometimes summer doesn’t shout – sometimes it whispers.
Perfectly-timed to fill in when the traditional lilac just begins to fade, the Korean Lilac offers an even more potent fragrance to ride on the spring wind. The flowers are, individually, a fraction of the size of the common lilac, but massed in clouds of blooms, as is their habit, their perfume can spread throughout their surroundings. That’s a damn fine trait for a scent this sweet.
They can grow into decent-sized shrubs, and the two in our backyard will need to be cut back as soon as they finish their show. (As a general rule, the best time to prune any flowering shrub is immediately after it finishes flowering. Most of us forget that next year’s blooms are based on the growth that’s happening now. Pruning things later in the season runs the risk of pruning out those buds.)
This plant also has neat and tidy foliage, the kind that seems to defy the mildew that plagues many other lilacs. That’s a boon for the hot and humid summers of the Northeast.
