Category Archives: Gardening

Peony season is at last upon us – and thanks to an early Memorial Day weekend, and a bit of a delay in lovely weather, our peonies will be opening when we are fully in residence. (We usually miss out on a few days of blooms when we’re in Ogunquit.) I haven’t been able to work out in the garden much this year, and I feel a bit out of the loop right now. It will take some discipline to get back into the gardening way of life, but it will be good for my head to do so. The larger problems of the world get pulverized into proper perspective when I’ve spent a day working in the garden. That’s where the important lessons happen. That’s where beauty resides. That’s where I long to be…

In its shaded and often-forgotten corner of our yard, this Weigela always manages a few blooms every year, to remind me that it’s there, and that I should take better care of it. I’ll pick up some extra manure and give it some love, as this year’s crop of blooms is a lovely addition to the explosion of florals happening for this moment in spring. 

This particular bush was here when we moved in, way back in 2002, so it’s at least half my current age, and still coming back for more. I admire such tenacity and strength in a neglected spot, where we’ve largely left it to fend for itself, and it has consistently performed. 

A couple of years ago I saw a fiery variegated variety with vivid hot pink blooms that was absolutely incendiary. If I see it again I’ll pick it up – we need more tenacity in the garden, especially when it’s this pretty.

My very first dip into the pool this year was perfumed by a potent swath of lily-of-the-valley plants, whose fragrance drifted across the yard to the water’s edge, lending the moment a sweet enchantment. Do not be fooled by its delicate appearance – these are hardy and boisterous plants, who rhizomes will spread to the point of invasiveness in semi-hospitable soil. We have them on the edge of the lawn, and they are not staying there, so plant carefully and be ready to rein them in as necessary.

This was a favorite scent of my grandmother, and I always think of her when they come into bloom. 

It’s a perfect starting point for pool season. 

While these spring bloomers may seem like the earliest reward for working in the garden, they actually needed to be planted in the fall, then slumber for a full six months of cold and awful weather, so I’m not sure ‘early reward’ is entirely apt. Many people see the spring bulbs in bloom now and want to go out and purchase a bunch of bulbs to plant immediately, but that’s not the way it works. By the time fall rolls around, they’ve forgotten or lost interest or simply aren’t aware that that’s when you need to work to get spring results. 

I act in similar fashion, though my version is more one of laziness and forgotten magic. By the time fall roll around, my garden drive has all but dissipated after half a year of watering and wedding and working. The magic of these spring blooms also feels like a distant memory, and I cannot smell their exquisitely light perfume to remind me. Thus I pass by the bulbs when they should be planted, and then I regret that I didn’t do more at this time of the year. 

Perhaps overthinking is the real curse here. 

Today’s lesson in gardening is a lesson for life.

Every year as spring arrives, I’m faced with the daunting prospect of cleaning the entire yard of winter wreckage and rot. This usually takes about 40 to 50 filled lawn bags, and as I step into the yard with the first bag in hand, I always think it’s an impossible task. For years, this gave me hesitation, and it was often difficult to even begin the process because the idea of filling even ten bags seemed insurmountable. My mind was creating an impasse before I even began filling one bag, and I would look around at the yard, which normally felt small and manageable, and think it was endless. 

For a few years, I tried to trick my brain into embracing the process. At that time in my life, I was accustomed to having a constant stream of sound fed into my head – earphones (this was long before the earbud), stereos, sound systems – they kept my head filled with music, but looking back, no matter how fierce a Madonna song might have been, it was all just noise. Like most of us, I was once uncomfortable in silence. The yearly yard-clean-up was my enforced return to quiet and stillness, and though it was jarring at the onset, after a few hours I felt the relaxed ease into a more natural state of quiet – the way the body will often return to its natural calm. This method worked, as my yard cleaning became a sort of meditation that drowned out the chaos of the rest of the world, and the noise that ran about in my head. It till has that effect, and I still worm my way into a meditative state after a few hours of outside work, but there is a greater lesson that translates into everyday life.

Over the last couple of years, whenever I felt the seemingly impossible expanse of yard work looming impassable in my path, I would stop my brain from its automatic resistance to the totality of the operation, and simply focus on the very next step ahead of me. The idea, and very real impossibility, of filling 40 lawn bags on that first day of clean-up is not an idea anyone can overcome. However, I could easily fill one or two, or even five bags, at a single time, and that’s what I trained my brain to focus on – not the totality of the process, but the very basic first step. It was a freeing moment, because I also understood that the barrier to beginning was only in my head, and since then I’ve applied the process to any challenging situations that at first feels too formidable to conquer. Very rarely do our greatest accomplishments happen in one fell swoop – anything worth completing is going to take time and effort, and likely repeated attempts and trials, but if we distill it to one manageable step at a time, everything becomes possible. 

Baby steps. 

Because sometimes babies aren’t that stupid. 

Much like this crocus, which I almost missed entirely, the Lenten rose has come into bloom without fanfare or announcement, so I almost missed it, given the late date of my garden examination and clean-up. Happily, the blooming season of the Hellobores is rightfully renowned for its duration, even if it has been known to bloom through the snow at precisely the point when it’s likely to be missed. 

I finally got around to start the yard cleaning, and I was on my fifteenth lawn bag or so of leaves and branches and debris when the sight of this Lenten rose stopped me in my tracks. Maybe it was the sunlight glinting through its pink petals, or the surprising warmth of the day, but it felt like I was seeing it for the first time – and I heard the universe whispering in stern voice to pause and take in the spring days, even when they feel dreary.

The wintry rush that formed the bulk of April had me wanting to hurry into May, but the laws of science have it that an object in motion tends to stay in motion – and if the motion is increasing, it’s more and more difficult to slow things down. We will want the days to slow to a leisurely trickle come summer, and this is the time to start practicing that. 

Every year I forget we have this single crocus corm, and every year it takes me by pleasant surprise as it comes into bloom, that is when I’m lucky enough to capture it before the lingering winter weather turns it to mush or some greedy chipmunk plucks it in its pretty prime. This year it managed to find a pocket of sun and warmth (before the latest shower of snow and cold weather) in which to bloom, and fate had me walking in the side yard to spot its glorious color amid a landscape of browns and grays. 

For all its whimsical magic, the way it takes me by surprise every year, there is also something comforting and reassuring about the notion of tradition and repetition. In a world that feels less stable by the day, nature reminds that she will not be swayed or rushed or nudged or defied. Whenever I get bogged down by the mess that we humans are making of things, I return to nature and the lessons she has always taught us when we care enough to stop and listen.

Pansies have smiled here before, and will hopefully do so again, even if the air still feels depressingly like winter. 

Pink pansies have also graced these virtual pages.

They’ve shown up after the rain, and appeared in full royal purple splendor. 

It’s pansy time again, and though I have never planted any (their season it too short, too early, and over too soon for me to waste the energy or space) but I still thrill at seeing them around. Admiration from afar is the safest form of admiration. No one gets hurt, especially a pansy that deserves the sort of pampering I can’t be bothered to give. 

All this time I simply assumed that Rosa rugosa was so named because the plant was so rugged – able to withstand salt-spray and the often-inhospitable environs of seaside survival. Turns out that ‘rugosa’ in Latin translates to ‘wrinkled’, and Rosa rugosa is so-named because of the wrinkly nature of the leaves. Words are magical, and often defy expectation; it’s always worth looking things up before assuming. 

As for the plant in question, here is its wondrous late-fall wardrobe – one of the few spots of color left in the garden, and reason enough to keep this prickly beauty around, aside from its happy connotations to seaside memories. 

The leaves look striking against a blue sky, which this November has afforded more than it usually does. Another moment ripe for gratitude, another glimpse of beauty in the garden, even at this late stage of the gardening year. Slumber will come soon enough… 

This little coreopsis, bless its heart, has made its annual surprise appearance – though after three or four years it shouldn’t be such a surprise. I think I’m still amazed that it perseveres after no real coddling or care – and sometimes outright abuse (the groundhog or rabbits usually sheer it down to the ground at least once a season). 

This year I managed to capture two blooms as they were just opening up. It’s always such a joy to see something come into bloom at this time of the year, even if our pool days for the season are officially over. I will mark it this fall so I know where to watch for it come spring. 

And then, if I remember to be so kind, I will pamper it with some manure and mulch, keeping it well-watered, in the hope of bringing it back to more robust form. Such faithfulness and continued commitment, even in the face of neglect, deserves a reward.

How the squirrels and chipmunks chew through the mealy, gritty fruit of the dogwood tree is beyond me, but as long as someone is getting sustenance out of them, I’m happy to see these beauties go to some use. A number of years ago I tried crafting a cocktail out of the dogwood fruit – heating and pulverizing and straining them into a semi-simple syrup (anything that involves an extra step of straining is not purely simple, hence the semi – and if you’re a regular here you probably enjoy a semi). 

This is the next to last show of the season for the Chinese dogwood. These fruits will ripen into something that resembles a reddish cross between a strawberry and a cherry, dangling in pretty profusion until the rodents or birds or rainy winds pull them all down. It sets the stage for the final stunning moment – the colorful autumn foliage. It looks especially resplendent when backed by a falling sun. 

The hosta flower spikes often sneak in and sneak out without much fanfare or notice. They arrive at the height of summer, when far more showy flowers are showing off and stealing the focus. Sometimes, they stay hidden beneath the hosta’s handsome foliage until the last moment and I miss them entirely, especially if there are days when the rain keeps me inside. 

There have been a number of those days recently. 

The hosta flower is like a lily, and some varieties carry the most delicate and elegant fragrance, held close to its petals and only found when you bring yourself right next to its beauty. 

Mid-August is when the garden begins its wind-down. Summer has more than a month to go, but we sense what’s coming. Andy just remarked that the sun is different in the sky. I knew exactly what he meant – it carries a different shade – softer in its focus, but sharper in its shade and color. A mix of factors, a mix of emotions. 

This Rose of Sharon was a gift to my Mom for her front yard, and it has come up and started its bloom season thanks to all the heat and rainfall that Amsterdam has had lately. A member of the Hibiscus family, the Rose of Sharon is one of those ubiquitous shrubs that often gets overused, but its happy colors and ease of coaxing into bloom make it worth growing. This variety is not as common, so it takes pride of place at my Mom’s garden. I love how the bloom of the featured picture hides bashfully behind a leaf – a coy, shy bit of beauty in a summer of quiet healing. 

While my Dad was always the family’s main gardener during my childhood with his vegetable expertise, Mom knew her way around the annuals. Her garage-side garden of impatiens was a simple but spectacular summer tradition. In her current home, she’s made the gardens her own. I’ve given her a few more Rose of Sharon plants, as well as a couple of lilacs that are still trying to take hold in the rather inhospitably-humid summer we’ve had this year. She’s also been able to grow the spectacular love-lies-bleeding plants that Dad used to grow from seeds he gathered one year in Ogunquit. That’s something I’ve never been successful at doing. 

Next spring we’ll look into refining the gardens she has now – a pine tree that my brother planted too close to the patio needs to go before it becomes unmanageable, and an unused fire pit will have to be repurposed as well. I’ll advise her to take photos and write down measurements now, so we can remember when snow is on the ground and we are desperately leafing through flower catalogs hoping for a hasty return of spring and planning for the next season of the garden. 

Island breezes are few and far between in these landlocked parts, but things have certainly felt tropical here. While I’ll never complain about summer being too sunny and warm, I also wilt like a hothouse flower in extreme heat. The plants and garden, however, are loving it. Our pair of fountain bamboo plants have sent up about a dozen stalks into the warm air, rising and rising but not yet releasing their foliage. It feels like they are behind, but I’ve lost track of their timing so maybe this is all as it should be. There are still almost two months of summer left.

Water droplets on banana leaves in upstate New York look gloriously incongruent to the tropical locales they naturally frequent. Along with a couple of palms, they are giving a very tropical vibe to our back patio, which retains pink elements of our coquette summer. 

Let’s have a quasi-tropical song then, where all of nature is wild and free – this is where we long to be…

Summer drains of a little color of late, the flowers in the gardens largely spent, the fresh bright green now watered down into deeper hues, or dried up into brown and tan like many of the ferns at this point. Yes, I’m hinting at fall, the way the slant of the sun has hinted at it, the way it always does this time of the year. 

Every year around this time the gardens start to give up a little. Once-verdant stretches of ostrich fern are brown and burned (despite my best efforts to keep them watered), the floral stalks of hosta plants are weighed down with pendulous seed-pods (which I am late in dead-heading), and the first thrust of blooms from the potted patio plants has declined. 

Still, there is hope, and this is the time that a renewed fertilizer cycle and some judicious but drastic pruning can result in a second summer showing. I was reminded of that when this begonia began making its own efforts to that end. Here you can see it forming buds for new flowers after taking a couple of weeks of rest. 

Summer is still going strong.