Category Archives: Flowers

Behold the seven sons’ flower, which is actually the name of the small tree that carries these delicate blooms. In their third or fourth year, the two specimens we have in our backyard now tower above me (like so much else) and their bark is just beginning to peel off in the enchanting manner that first drew me under their influence.

The flowers, which just started blooming last week, appear at the end of summer, but the exact date is wildly variable. Some years they’ve begun as early as July, others as late as late September. Regardless, their sweet perfume is more than welcome at this time of the year, because it’s often a slow time in the garden. As much as I love gardening, I find my drive and excitement waning around now. My focus tends to turn inside, back to clothing and cologne, and away from the out of doors. I lose my interest in the start of the dying season, which is why I’ve never been very ambitious as far as fall bulb planting goes (and why I’m so often kicking myself in the barren spring).

It’s the same sort of thing that happens on the last day of a trip. I just want to cut my emotional losses and go. Why drag out the inevitable end? Yet lately part of me has been wanting to hold on, to make the most of the last moments of a vacation or trip, or even a season. It’s like the last-minute saving grace of a pear cocktail in Las Vegas – a final 11^th hour appeal to hold onto the ticking of the clock – a plea to slow and still what cannot be stopped.

The seven sons’ flower blooms regardless of all this, always near the end of summer, just before the long slumber to winter commences. It doesn’t feel regret or remorse, doesn’t think ahead to its last gasp before a hard frost – it will bloom until it can’t, and then it will start all over again next year.

With a common-name like LadyBells one might think that I would adore this plant unconditionally. As it is, I have a few major conditions, and because of them I find it hard to love this Adenophora through and through. The flower is exquisite, with an elusive shade that almost borders on the blue. Not many flowers come that close, so those that do are highly prized. (Some contend there are no true blue flowers; I’m not that quick to be so definite, but I do know it’s a rare hue.)

My problem, therefore, is not with the flower, but with the form of the plant. Its style is too loner-like for my taste. I like my plants in mounds or mats, with groups of stems that combine to create an overall impression. The single and solitary nature of Adenophora goes against that. From a design standpoint, I know the power and importance of vertical aspects like this – my issue is a personal preference I cannot get over. The one small patch I have going in the side garden – brought in by accident with another perennial – has actually expanded into a mat of sorts, but the results, as seen here, still bother me. Again, some people adore the effect, and I do admit that when grounded by ferns or hosta it works – I just can’t bring myself to love it. Sorry, lady.

It has the somewhat unfortunate common moniker of ‘weed’ attached to it, so I prefer the scientific name of Asclepias when referencing this favored stomping ground of butterflies and bees. A relative of the milkweed, these are the more refined border versions of that prolific native plant, whose colors have been honed into bright oranges and vibrant pinks. They make an excellent addition to the sunny perennial bed, as their colors are strong, and they produce at the height of summer.

Their milkweed association becomes more apparent when the flower-heads go to seed, producing the distinctive pods that we used to open and pry apart, releasing the feathery parachutes into the wind, a seed on the end of each. Like a dandelion, they were designed to spread far and wide by the lift of the wind. As such, these tend to re-seed throughout the garden if allowed to ripen (I usually dead-head the blooms so as not to weaken the plant for the following season, but the past few years it got away from me, so there are several more of these than intended. Not a bad thing for such a great plant.)

As mentioned, the butterflies love the Asclepias, and the caterpillar form especially may find its way along the stems, chewing on the developing seed pods. For the regally-striped monarchs-to-be, I allow them the snack.

This pink version grows slightly taller than its orange counterpart, falling closer in line to its milkweed kin. Its bloom time is also slightly earlier, but a bit shorter, making it the lesser of the two in my opinion. Still, I wouldn’t throw it out of bed or border.

The title of this post takes its name from a saying that my friend Chris and I first heard from a server in San Juan. We asked her if she was into women (hey, it’s the conversation you have in Puerto Rico when you rack up a $300 bar tab between two people) and she replied very matter-of-factly that she was “strictly dickly”. Well, me too. That brief nonsensical aside over, this is the prickly pear cactus – one of the rare cacti that is hardy in the Zone 5 winters of upstate New York.

This small patch is located on a Southern-slanted hill that I rarely visit, so it’s always a surprise when I hear word from Andy that it’s in bloom. It’s largely left to fend for itself on a rather barren piece of sandy soil, its only shelter the thinning limbs of a struggling pine tree. Yet each spring it rises miraculously from a pool of withered, desiccated paddles, and each year it has steadily expanded, happy in its dry environs.

The ‘prickly’ aspect of its segmented ‘leaves’ keeps me from getting too close for weeding, but I’ll risk the proximity to capture some of the blooms, as they are exceptional. The texture of the petals is almost like velvet, and of the clearest yellow, set off by a throat of flaming orange. Like a rose, these pretty things come armed, and that’s something I can appreciate. Prickly and pretty. I can only hope to aspire.