These Lilliputian flowers were on display at a nearby nursery, bravely standing up to the chilly air and rain rolling through the area, and doing their best to give cheery countenance to onlookers such as myself. Like pansies, these beauties make for a lovely start to the season, though I don’t dare indulge in planting anything until a few more weeks pass and we are past the frost-free date (usually the first week of May in these parts). Still, I enjoy seeing them elsewhere, and I’m giving a couple to you in this post.
As the full moon begins its April rise this week (a Pink Moon no less) we are going to need all the help and calming efforts we can muster. That means checking in with our friends and family, even if it’s just to say hello. You never truly know what another person is going through, and by the time stress and tension and problems outwardly show, who knows what damage has already occurred? Most people aren’t strong enough to show their vulnerable times of need, or ask for help when they require it. I understand such reticence, and so I reach out to people even, and especially, when I haven’t heard from them in a while.
That’s why I’m posting these cheerful Gerbera daisies – a little gift for you or anyone who needs a little boost, a little check-in, a little message that someone is thinking of you.
This powerhouse of an orchid has been in bloom since January 30 – that’s six weeks of this beauty going strong – longer than any other bouquet I could have purchased. Best of all, this marks its second blooming cycle with us, so double that number for the real flower power at work here. I thought I’d give an update, as no one has asked, because that’s what I do.
It’s just beginning to show some browning at the edges of some blooms, but this has held up remarkably well. I’ve been upping the humidity to prolong the blooms for as long as possible, and it seems to have helped. We will likely get a good two months of bloom, which is unprecedented in this house, where paperwhites and butterfly amaryllis and the odd Christmas/Easter/4th-of-July cactus are all that provide brief and unpredictable floral exhibitions.
Here we have a casual bouquet of white and yellow tulips, bending and curving in their whimsical, slightly wayward design. It defies rigid order and traditional bouquet rules, but rules are for fools, and tulips are for tricksters.
One of the first orchids I ever had as a boy was a Dendrobium – it was the typical purple/fuschia version that sprays its blooms in arching form like some glorious surreal fountain. It sent up its segmented stalks accented with thick green leaves and loved the extra water in the air that a humidifier provided, but never received the care required to rebloom. Since then, the Dendrobium was a plant I admired from a distance, and never enough to try at home.
When preparing for a visit from friends last year, I needed a bouquet and found this unlabeled orchid at Fresh Market. Intending only to have it for a few weeks and then bring it outside for a farewell summer, I ended up leaving it on the front windowsill, which gets the most light, and then forgetting about it.
As the universe tends to go in matters of gardening and flower culture, a little sign of hope and fight appeared as a tiny mode swelled and expanded into an offshoot near the end of an otherwise-bare stalk. Taking that as a sign, I nudged the humidity up a bit and began fertilizing the little guy, eventually repotting it from its plastic home into a prettier glazed ceramic orchid pot.
Every two weeks or so I gave it a healthy dose of fertilizer, and for a year it showed bits of new growth. This winter, it began to exhibit a few bumps, and while I first thought they might be more offshoots, I was pleasantly surprised to see them develop into flower buds.
As this mystery variety was unmarked, I looked online and the closest I can guess is that it’s a variety of Dendrobium nobile. The blooms have been going strong as pictured for a few weeks now – far longer than any cut flower bouquet could ever muster. The surprise for me was their fragrance: light and elusive, it’s not always present. More maddening, there doesn’t seem to be a specific time when it’s more pronounced, the way some flowers emit their most powerful fragrance at night or in the morning. I still can’t get a read on when this one is at its most potent, so it remains a lovely guessing game.
The majority of our houseplants do not flower (save for this wildly unpredictable cactus) so I am treasuring this moment, and this orchid, and doing my best to keep it happy.
Putting Miley Cyrus and her empowering ‘Flowers’ song aside for the moment, these roses were a gift to my husband for a good deed he recently did. It’s always risky buying flowers in the days leading up to Valentine’s Day, and we certainly don’t exchange roses on that jacked-up floral holiday, but Whole Market finally had a deal that I could use with my Amazon Prime membership which had two dozen boffo-big roses on sale for $34.99. That’s a steal on an average day in June when roses are tumbling off the trellises. Finding them a few days prior to the day of love was a moment ripe for the picking, or purchasing.
A vase of flowers does wonders for the soul, and I always forget that until a few weeks pass without them. They are a luxury item in the winter, but some luxuries are worth the cost, especially if they result in such joy.
(And as Miley proclaims, it’s absolutely fine to buy yourself flowers, which is what I usually do. These just happen to be for Andy.)
My Mom’s friend Diane grew African violets. She had a shelf of them in the small kitchen of her Guilderland apartment. I was only there once, but the colorful violets left an impression that has remained for forty years. Diane was also the person who taught me how to force paper white narcissus bulbs – a lesson I pestered her to repeat at least three times on a trip we took to Cape Cod. She passed away many years ago, but her stories of flowers have stayed in my memory bank, and I’m passing them on here because I was recently struck by the beauty of these African violet blooms.
For all their occasionally-reputed ease of indoor cultivation, and willingness to bloom on a regular basis, I’ve never grown them, but Faddegon’s just got a new shipment of them and they may be too pretty to resist. Like certain other passions, the obsession for certain plants and flowers is a cyclical thing, ebbing and flowing as the universe designs. Finding my way back to the African violet may be one of the things that gets me through this winter – like nail polish or chess.
Is it strange that the freshest green of the season is to be found in the flower rather than leaves of this amaryllis? If so, it’s a strangeness that is as gorgeous and beautiful as it is mind-pondering. It’s taken me many years to find the exquisite beauty of cream and light green flowers – for so Lon I considered them a waste of floral splendor. What’s the point of putting all your time and effort into a bloom that is the same color as a leaf? I’ve spent the last few years making up for that error, indulging in bouquets that are monochromatically cream and green, as gentle and easy on the eyes as they are simple to assemble. Sometimes a single bloom, when it’s as spectacular as this amaryllis, is all that you need.
Our home is due for another bouquet, to stave off the winter, to make the days bearable.
Whenever I see someone purchasing an orchid in full bloom from the market I wonder at what will become of it. I know most people will use them as an extended bouquet of flowers, and once they’ve finished their show they will be discarded, or perhaps stuffed into some corner for a long and slow demise. I don’t have the heart to do that, so I usually don’t bother with bringing oneinto our home.
About a year ago, however, we had guests visiting for a weekend, and I needed something for the bathroom. There weren’t any great cut-flower selections, but there was a smaller-statured orchid in glorious full bloom. At a reasonable price for its small size, I chose that and let it entertain the guests for their stay. After the blooms faded, I moved it to the front window of the living room, where it would get the most light. (Most people make the mistake of not giving their orchids enough light after their blooming cycle is done – that’s if they care enough to even try to take proper care of them.) It remained there, and as the winter continued, I added a little fertilizer and additional humidity so it might be happy.
One of its bare stalks began swelling, and soon a little sport appeared, sending out a wavy nest of roots. I let it stay there until it grew a bit bigger. The months passed, and after it seemed to be acclimated to its window perch, I repotted it into a new pot and some bark, continuing with the fertilizing and increased humidity.
A few weeks ago, I noticed three little bumps appearing on the main stem of the plant, and I assumed they were roots embracing their humid surroundings. I watched as they swelled a bit, daring to hope that they might be more than roots, and as they grew longer and developed into something more, I realized they were indeed flower buds.
I’m not getting too invested just yet, as I’ve seen buds drop off with a wayward draft or changed watering schedule and I just don’t think my heart could handle seeing that happen, so I’ll contain my excitement to a reasonable level, while still embracing a little bit of hope.
As for what variety or orchid this is, I cannot say. It was not marked with a name and so it remains a mystery until some plant expert can give a positive ID. Until then, it is a spark of green life and gratitude in the middle of a bleak winter.
In order to save Frosty, his friend and creator Karen boards a train to deliver him to the North Pole, where he won’t be in danger of melting. As they near their destination, and the world turns all wintry and white with snow, they find themselves outside, where Karen is chilled and in need of warmth. As happens in magical situations, there just so happens to be a greenhouse in the middle of this snowy night, and they duck into it to spend the night and warm Karen up.
Frosty: ‘Cause when the thermometer gets all reddish, the temperature goes up. And when the temperature goes up, I start to melt! And when I start to melt, I get all wishy-washy.
When Karen wakes from her nap, all she finds is Frosty’s magical top hat and a big puddle where Frosty used to be. My heart always broke at that scene, no matter how many times I’d seen it. I wondered if it was as traumatic for anyone else.
As much as the scene tramautzed me, it also intrigued and enchanted. A greenhouse in the midst of a snowy night felt magical, like one of those gorgeously contrasted sensations when one cuddles into a nest of blankets in the midst of a chilly room – the feeing of being warm and cozy while in close proximity to a cold and wintry world.
I also love a greenhouse in the middle of a frightful winter – it is good for the soul. I make weekly pilgrimages to the local nursery during the winter just to save my sanity. Breathing in warm and humid air and smelling the earthly delights is a balm for my mental well-being – at any time of the year, but particularly so in the winter.
Santa Claus: Don’t cry, Karen, Frosty’s not gone for good. You see, he was made out of Christmas snow and Christmas snow can never disappear completely. It sometimes goes away for almost a year at a time and takes the form of spring and summer rain. But you can bet your boots that when a good, jolly December wind kisses it, it will turn into Christmas snow all over again. Karen: Yes, but… He was my friend. Santa Claus: Just watch.
As for Frosty, the happy ending always rang a little hollow, but every year I would watch it all over again, hoping for some other outcome, hoping he would escape into the world of winter when he had a chance, save himself before he needed to be saved, and live happily ever after. We all want the Christmas miracle.
When it’s still in the mid-sixties in almost-mid-November, there is a chance that the daisies seen here may not be the very last daisies. Given that we’ve had roses in December in previous years, anything can happen. Still, without any new buds on the way, it looks pretty certain that these Shasta daisy blooms will be the last the gardens puts forth this year. I am grateful they have been coming for this long, and seeing them beside the covered pool makes me realize we’ve made a pretty good headway into the fall. Every day we get a little closer to spring.
On this Sunday morning, I’m appreciating a few quiet moments before the day begins in earnest. This is Etude by Joep Beving:
The weather is forecast to be rainy today, then growing colder, more aligned with the Novembers I remember. It will be a good day to make soup, or maybe just some tea, then to snuggle into something cozy – a sweater or a blanket or a couch. A good day to light a candle or two.
And it will be a day to look out at the last two daisies and see how they are faring in this brutal world.
At the start of summer, when this clematis traditionally blooms, its color is a dark violet, illuminated by the strong overhead arc of the sun during the day. This summer I fed it a weekly regimen of fertilizer, as some years it has gone neglected, but always manages to bloom. Such consistency and determination deserves rewarding. It was in the service of next year’s show, but apparently it paid some early dividends, as the clematis went into a rare fall re-bloom with our recent brush with warmer sunnier weather.
Even better than this reminder of summer is the way the afternoon sun lends a warmer aspect to the blooms, emphasizing the underlying red tones of the middle of each petal. It absolutely sets the vein-work alive with hints of magenta and fuchsia in the midst of the purple. A magical moment that could only happen in the fall.
The tale of a shortened weekend in Boston will be told here tomorrow. For now, a brief sunny respite, in the form of these lemon-hued flowers seen along the Southwest Corridor Park. They form a notable contrast with the chilly darkness of these fall days, and provided the only glimmers of happiness in my quick overnight in Boston.
Mondays need such a cheerful boost, and a canary-yellow pair of blooms when summer has already departed must serve the purpose.
Standing in the garage, I watch the rain pour down over the driveway and feel a sense of calm. The scent it sends up where hot driveway meets cooling rain is one of those intoxicating perfumes that rivals anything that might be conjured from the linden tree, or even the lilacs of late spring. While I am leaning into the scene, and feeling a profound sense of gratitude for the rain on this humid, sticky day, I recall the petunias in the backyard, the ones that are likely drooping in the rain. They retained such a sense of freshness just that morning, and I remember thinking how lovely it was that they were still putting forth blooms, even when we had mostly moved indoors for the scant remainder of the season.
It was a banner year for the return of the petunia, something I shall put into play again next summer, even if my heart knows it won’t be the same. This was a magical time. Watching the rain fall down, I inhaled the beauty of it all – the idea of summer flowers closing their show for the year, and the idea of rain nourishing them until the very end. A little flare of fall flutters on each falling raindrop, tiny sparks of light that will soon ignite a whole new season. For now, it’s just rain – calming and soothing rain.
