Category Archives: Gardening

Pages of Hope & Inspiration

Every year around this time the plant and seed catalogs start arriving like lifesavers, thrown out from the garden-planning gods to those of us struggling through winter, no matter how benign or nasty. Mom recently received the Burpee’s catalog, but since she gets most of her seeds locally, she let me take it and peruse the colorful photos and pages. I’m not big on seeds – our short growing season in Zone 4/5/6a allows for limited options, particularly regarding vegetables and fruit – so if I’m doing any of that I simply go out and purchase starter plants which have already been hardened off. Saves time and effort (and an elaborate seed-starting set-up), and worth the extra bit of money. It also allows for a more precise number of plants – with seeds I tend to either get feast or famine, with hundreds of seedlings or none at all. 

These catalogs, coming as they do when many of us are garden-hungry (well, starving), are mostly just inspirational guides for me. Occasionally, for more rare plants, I will order a seed packet and try it out, but I’ve had much success. I only bother with direct sowing anyway, and maybe that’s my problem. My Mom can work wonders with seeds, as could my Dad when he was alive. Perhaps this year I will learn some patience and try again. 

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We Gardeners Are Not Crazy

The USDA just updated the plant hardiness zone map, and after being a Zone 4 boy since my twelve-year-old self wrote a fan letter to Lee Bailey, our area has shifted into… Zone 6a?! Don’t tell me global warming isn’t real – this is insane. While I’m thrilled to be able to possibly grow some new species, I’m dismayed and disturbed by this undeniable trend. 

Of course with my luck, I’ll deck the yard out in Zone 6a survivors only to have a deep freeze defy the new zones. Call me Elsa and let it fucking go. 

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A Lion’s Paw Lies Hidden

Much like this surprise bloom from a backyard hydrangea, the lion’s paw flower you see here, in glorious and furry orange, grew to it full four-foot height behind the thick curtains of some fountain grass, a butterfly bush, and the typically-unstoppable Rosa rugosa. Only now, when things have started to die back, and the fountain grass has wilted a bit and parted its curtains, did the lion’s paw reveal itself, appearing as customarily late as they like to be. 

Oh little lion, thank you for brightening my day a bit, and my apologies for forgetting you too. Even without an ounce of care this season, you grew and bloomed and welcomed me back into your graces. You are the perfect fall flower – tall and stalwart, with hues to match the fiery season, and some fuzziness to approximate the coziness we will soon be craving. 

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A Sweet Secret

A happy surprise revealed itself as I was pulling out of the driveway and heading to work the other morning – a white blanket of flowers caught the corner of my eye on the side of our garage, and I realized that a sweet autumn clematis had seeded itself and grown up over our fringe tree over the last season. My mind and attention had been elsewhere, and I had no idea it was making such progress. Like much of our yard, it snuck by me this season, joining the overgrown and unchecked wilderness that is ever-encroaching on the more manicured spaces I’m struggling to maintain. Time marches on and this summer has passed largely in a haze. 

This clematis is the most fragrant of the genus – which isn’t a heavy lift as the typical clematis varieties are not known for their perfume. The large swath of blooms (which are individually small) blanket their surroundings with a sweet scent, unexpected at this time of the year when dried leaves and resinous pine tend to lend the land a more earthy slant. These blooms are an echo of the seven sons flower, still in full and spectacular show (to Andy’s slight chagrin as they’ve been landing in the pool and filling up the skimmer). 

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Getting Reacquainted with Corey

Meet Corey. That’s the nickname I’ve given to this late-blooming Coreopsis, a plant I completely forgot about  (again) until I saw this cheery bloom hovering near the pink hibiscus by the pool. It could have, and perhaps should have, been a bit more floriferous, but in my forgetful neglect of the past season, I didn’t amend the soil or fertilize or help it along in any way. Still, it bloomed for me, and I’m grateful for the little bit of beauty coming so late in the proverbial summer day. 

I’d like to believe that some plants bloom simply for the sake of blooming – to add something pretty and beautiful to this world – and that it’s not just about setting seed and ensuring survival. It’s probably just wishful and fanciful thinking on my part, and I’m sure the form and color and perfume of every flower serves some purpose – I still choose to believe that beauty may be its own purpose. 

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Climbing & Vining

Behold the sunny blooms of the Black-eyed Susan vine – Thunbergia alata. This specimen was grown from seed, and has just started coming into its own after battling it out in a shared large pot with some nasturtiums and hyacinth bean vines. The latter two have started their season-ending decline, and the Thunbergia has come into its own to take center stage at the 11th hour of summer. Better late than never, and this show is especially appreciated when almost everything else in the garden has ceased showing off. 

The cheery blooms have certainly taken their time to appear – only a scant few sporadic blossoms have appeared throughout the summer – not enough to make much of an impression, but there are buds on the way, and more blooms appearing every day. It’s a lovely way to send off the season, and I will probably try these again next year. 

This is the first time I’ve thought about next year like that. It is thrilling and comforting at once. It’s also far in the distance. We have a long fall and winter slumber in which to rest and recuperate first. 

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Ferning

While much of the garden has gone to seed and slumber, drying out and dying back for the season, most of the ferns are still as fresh and verdant as when they first unfurled their fronds at the start of spring. It’s one of the main draws of the fern family – their beauty is almost everlasting. 

It’s an under-appreciated benefit to have such a scene of freshness in the garden this late in the game. There are sunny and warm days yet to come – and even after this Labor Day weekend summer will still technically linger until nearer the end of September. Let’s not hurry it away, even if it has been especially hurtful. 

To make the show last even longer, many ferns can be flattened and dried – they do exceptionally well as pressed specimens, making for framed beauty to see us through the winter. 

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Blooming

Thanks to our recent bout with sickness and grief, I’ve been largely avoiding outside walks and outside activity, but yesterday I went out for the first time in a while and found many things still in bloom. It was a reminder that summer is not quite over, even if I’m ready for fall, even if I feel it in the air at night. Andy has noticed the shift in the slant of the sun too, signifying the month or so left to summer – the final third of what has become a rather dour and dim season. 

Starting on the patio, I inspect the hyacinth beans and nasturtiums that have grown up the poles of the canopy to create a stunning natural curtain of leaves and blooms and, now, poisonous bean pods. The cheery yellow and gold flowers of the nasturtium have been this season’s happy surprise performers. Meanwhile, a scarlet mandevilla winds its way around its support pole – the striking shade of red a vivid contrast to the pool behind it. I haven’t been swimming since July, and I’m not quite ready to resume. There’s a joy in the pool that I don’t want to taint just yet. 

Walking around the corner of the house, I pass the crinkled petals of our Rose of Sharon, and inspect the two fountain bamboo plants I’ve gotten going after their hundred-year-flowering cycle finally ended. The new crop of stalks has pushed through the ground and have reached the height they stopped at last year. Usually they would have bounded past that mark, but this has been a stalled and stunted summer. Every time it seemed we would sail into a heatwave, a deluge of rain and wind set us back a bit. After a while, I didn’t even bother to fight it.

There were rudbeckia and Montauk daisies still in bloom, glowing splendidly in the afternoon sunlight. The cup plants, marred and scarred from the worst aphid infestation I’ve ever seen, still manage to hold their blooms in the air, offering joy to bees and butterflies and goldfinches. Soon, the seed-heads will develop, and the finches will pluck them all away. 

I’m ready for the fall. 

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The Cliffhanger of a Cucamelon

A couple of years ago our neighbor Ken gifted us with a bowl of cucamelons – a Mexican cucumber that has a tart, almost lime-like flavor. It was a zesty taste of summer – bright, refreshing, and new – and it came in the most adorable packaging I’ve ever seen in a cucumber. About two inches long and one inch wide, they were small in size and stature, and their skin looked exactly like that of a watermelon, giving the impression of baby watermelons (hence one of their common names, mouse melon). The effect was utterly enchanting, and I’m not one who is typically impressed by anything especially precious. 

This year, I planted a large rectangular pot originally designated for tomatoes with about a dozen cucamelon seeds, hoping for a hefty harvest. They desire hot and sunny weather, and this season did not start off strong on either of those fronts. They sat in damp soil doing nothing for a couple of weeks. Only when I surrounded their support stakes with plastic wrap (as a preventative measure against a chipmunk or squirrel that had been digging there) and created a greenhouse effect did they begin taking off.

Lately, they’ve enjoyed the hot and humid weather we’ve been having in between thunderous rainstorms. We’ve been pampering them a bit, rolling their planter beneath the canopy whenever rain threatens as they are still in danger of rotting if the soil gets too waterlogged, then pushing it back out into the sun, where they can bake and grow. Right now they have just reached the top of the tomato fences, so I added four bamboo stakes to allow them additional height and support. It’s not the prettiest concoction, but it seems to be satisfying their preference for something to grab onto. 

This past week, we witnessed the first bloom – a tiny little yellow flower that came with a bulbous base that will soon turn into the cucamelon if all goes well. Supposedly this will happen in seven to ten days from the time the bloom appears, which seems too good to be true. I’ll keep you posted on the progress ~ a cliffhanger the likes of which hasn’t been seen since ‘Dallas’ had the world asking, “Who shot J.R.?” Stay tuned… (and blessings and good health to anyone who is old enough to remember that reference). 

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A Happy Banana

The tropical weather we’ve had of late has made for one very happy banana tree in our backyard. It’s been a few years since I grew one of these, and their tropical vibe melds well with our loose bohemian summer theme. The foliage is the main draw here, with a single gigantic leaf being produced once a week when the weather cooperates. We don’t have a season long enough for this plant to go to fruit, but the leaves are more than enough. 

In our one pot, there may be two bananas – which makes sense for a home with two guys. One variety is plain, as seen above, and the other is beautifully variegated as seen below. Together they make a pretty scene, a dazzling duet to see us through the summer. 

Oh, did I mentioned there is ribbing too? Striking ribbing. 

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A Preponderance of Pink…

Electric pink, to be precise. 

This shade seems to be all the rage on the nursery scene, as I found a trio of plants employing the not-so-subtle hue and plopped them into the front of our garden near the pool, where their shocking Day-Glo brilliance could best be appreciated. For all my talk of evolving into someone who now finds beauty in the calmer and quieter aspects of the garden, my heart still responds to bold and unabashed colors. 

First up is this gorgeous variety of bee balm (Monarda) on which I am not completely sold just yet; its form has been a little too compact and crowded for my taste (and for its own, as it seems to already be succumbing to mildew rather early in the season for such things). We shall see how it plays out the rest of the year, and whether it comes back at all next year. For some reason the last Monarda I planted did not make it through the winter.

Next up in the pink parade is this pretty petite petunia, whose petals are perfectly perimetered by green. A hard ‘G’ might ruin the sentence I had going, but visually it’s a knock-out. 

Finally, a twist on the purple and blue salvia that proves so deliciously irresistible to hummingbirds (if and when they show up – haven’t seen any this summer yet). This one will hopefully call out to those exquisite creatures, beckoning them with its bold color combo and offering sweet succor for their dainty little tongues and beaks. 

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The Place with the Yellow Flowers

Like clockwork, the bright and sunny blooms of the evening primrose (Oenothera fruticosa) appeared almost to the day that summer begins. Also known as sundrops, these plants have a grandly exuberant flowering right now, and will occasionally repeat the show in smaller scale as the summer progresses. (Such floriferous behavior often wears itself out in this first showing, so enjoy it now as a second show is not always guaranteed.) 

They bring to mind this song about “the place with the yellow flowers” which kicked off our summer season here a couple of years ago. When toying with a theme to get my head around this summer, I found my memory jogged all the way back to 1990, but that feels like an undertaking to which I may not have the time, stamina, or ambition to properly commit. It was probably one of my most favorite summers ever, and in some way I’ve tried to return to it too many times to have it mean much at this point. 

In the meantime, there is all this sunniness, coming from the ground up, as storms and showers line the foreseeable future in the sky. Summer has begun in restless and uncertain terms, so I’m taking the sunniness wherever I may find it. 

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Where Water and Sun Collide

For some unfathomable reason, the sight of these Lysimachia Aurea (Golden Creeping Jenny) flowers always brings running water to mind. While they do love an abundance of water, and are often employed near streams and ponds and such, I’ve never had occasion to encounter them in such a setting. Yet whenever I see them they bring to mind the cooling sound of water. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking and an overactive imagination. Regardless of the why in my harried brain, I find them a refreshing sight. The foliage of these is less chartreuse than when the plant originally went in several years ago – re-seeding may have dulled the brightness of the foliage, though it still feels fresh. It’s possible that the sports revert to the duller green, emboldening the nursery to propagate rather than the poor home gardener such as myself.

In this case, I planted a few of these in potted plants several years ago; they trailed and escaped into the surrounding ground, and I let them remain there as it wasn’t an area I was tending to anyway. When they took off a bit, I increased the caretaking and watering, and did well enough to coax out some flowering. Here they stay, spreading a bit more, to the point where they may need to be contained at some point. Those are the good gardening problems to have. It’s so much easier to cut back and cut out than to repair or regrow. Except in the case of bamboo. Don’t get that started, unless it’s a clumping variety. (And I’m told that those aren’t as well-behaved as some literature would have one believe.)

 

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The Marvelous Mandevilla

It’s no surprise that I’m not keen on doing what everyone else does. Call it a natural defiance, call it a contrariness, call it basic immaturity, I simply don’t like following the masses. That goes to my taste in plants as well. When we were kids, my brother and I got to pick out one plant for each summer planting season. He would also go for something basic but colorful – a marigold or snapdragon – while I would seek out the unknown ones which hadn’t bloomed yet – a portulaca one year and a dahlia another. While those are all pretty common now, my taste for the rare and not commonly-found items stayed with me, and for many years I tried things that weren’t well-known or widely available. That began to subside the older I got and the more reasonable I grew. These days, it’s not uncommon for me to celebrate the most mundane and common plants, appreciating them for all the reasons they became to popular in the first place. 

Case in point is this strikingly-vibrant mandevilla – a flowering tropical plant that is basically everywhere these days, and one which I have constantly avoided because of its ubiquity. 

I don’t know why I fought such beauty simply because it was so popular. Going against the grain comes with its own efforts and weariness, and when you’re resisting a thing of prettiness it all feels pretty pointless. Hence this pot of mandevilla, currently burning brightly against a cool blue backdrop. Fired up to handle the heat, it’s a powerhouse bloomer, and one which I am kicking myself for not employing until this year. Better late than never… burn, baby, burn.

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Second Night of Summer and Out-takes

This morning’s tour of the gardens was so comprehensive that it overflows into this post, with a couple of out-takes featuring Lychnis and the Japanese Aralia ‘Sun King’. Fuchsia and chartreuse will always be one of my favorite pairings. This electric combo exemplifies the summer season, with its bold and bright refusal to bow-down to something subdued. Some of us may wish for something calm, but summer is tricky in how she grants, and doesn’t grant, wishes. 

The second night of summer is one of those trickier spots to navigate. Still so new, but not quite as new as yesterday, the second night suffers a bit of the sophomore slump syndrome. Even my muse has admonished, ‘Don’t go for second best, baby!‘ and I always listen to her. Better yet is this song created expressly for this particular date. It screams summer in the most primal form, and still manages to retain an underlying calm, like all that still water at the bottom of a pool. 

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