Alan Ilagan

Northern sea oats – rightfully prized for their gracefully arching, texturized seed pods and light green bamboo-like foliage. This is one of the most peace-and-tranquility inducing plants in the garden, and it remains this fresh right up until the very end.

Being that the seed pods are one of its main draws, they are kept on through the winter, and therefore get spread around quite a bit, so the plant pops up in all sorts of places. Pull it out early, as they develop surprisingly strong root systems pretty quickly, but nothing too deep or serious. I tend to let them come up and see what effect they have – it’s not easy to find many plants that keep such bright green leaves this deep into the season – and their look is refined and elegant. I aspire to such lofty grandeur.

Bordering our pool is a patch of mint and rudbeckia that I do nothing for throughout the year. Both are so hardy, all I really attempt is to keep them within bounds, which seems to be the results of a rather harsh and indiscriminating early-Spring session of pulling them all out and allowing what remains to stay (hopefully) where it is.

It makes for an interesting way of gardening, but if you have a system that works, why mess with it because of unorthodox methods?

The blaze of morning glories greets vacationers as we greet the day.

These aren’t your standard summer vines in soft, pastel hues – these are winding stems of flaming red mandevilla, day-glo thunbergia, and psychedelic morning glories that are a far cry from the subtle sky blue shade that is usually seen.

These are the flowers of Ogunquit, filling in every available space – from the ground below, from pots at knee-level, from window boxes at chest-height, and from hanging baskets above – they offer cheery bursts of color and form at every step.

Most of the ones pictured here are warm-weather annuals, or tropicals that only survive in the heat of summer. Given the way they grow and bloom, however, I may have to change my preference for perennials and fill our backyard with pots of some of these beauties next year.

They seem to know their life-cycle is a short one, going out in a colorful blaze of glory, putting out more and more blooms in the long-shot hope that one seed may survive the winter, may make it through to next year. And we get to reap the beautiful benefit of all that effort.

There is no happier sight than a flower lit with the sun of a summer day. It feeds the soul, stoking the heart and saving up a little bit of warmth for when the weather invariably turns.

{To Be Continued…}

Years ago, my brother and I had a summer friend whom we played with during the long stretch of sunny days. At his house, there was a garden border in the back overflowing with evening primrose, bee balm, and towering Heliopsis – a veritable heaven for the butterflies and bees.

There was one creature that baffled and frightened me, as much as it intrigued with its alien-like configuration. It was a ferocious-looking beast that flitted from flower to flower with a long pointed beak that seemed designed to puncture the skin of any boy caught sneaking up on it. It could almost have been mistaken for a hummingbird, such was the motion of its flitting and hovering, and the fast beating of its wings, but upon closer, and careful, examination, it was clear this was no bird, but an insect of some kind.

We watched from afar, approaching cautiously when it seemed safe, and scattering when it sensed our presence. I saw it a few times that summer, always in the monarda, and always instigating a fright with its immensity and long snout.

This week one visited the butterfly bush in my backyard. It turns out that it’s actually a hummingbird moth – or Snowberry Clearwing. Scientifically it’s called Hemaris thysbe. The “snout” that so scared me so many summers ago is simply an extended tongue of sorts – the proboscis – that unfurls when the moth is foraging for nectar.

The one in the photos here, and all of those that have visited my current garden, have been slightly more tame than the ones of my childhood, even allowing some photos and video to be taken of their time at the butterfly bush.

One of the greatest gifts of a garden is the ability to surprise, no matter how well you think you know its rhythms and mysteries. In this case, I was taken aback by the fragrance of a hosta.

Up until now, I was under the misguided notion that there was no noticeable fragrance. I was very much wrong. The scent is delicate, but still potent. It reminded me of a Filipino plant that my Aunt was rumored to have smuggled out of the Philippines hidden in her hair.

Until I can get my hands on the elusive blue Himalayan poppy, this geranium will have to suffice in filling my penchant for blue flowers.

It is said that there is no such thing as a true blue flower.

It is my unfortunate pathology to want just that.

How much is a first-class trip to the Himalayas these days?