Category Archives: Flowers

During the Victorian era, orchid collecting reached such a high pitch among some of the wealthy that the term ‘orchidelirium’ was born. Not unlike tulipmania, it was as much a past-time for the rich as it was for those genuinely interested in botany and plants. Such frenzies have always fascinated me, not for the fevered hunger it incited in people, but for the realization that many orchids, for which some of the wealthiest families would pay thousands of dollars, can now be found at your local supermarket for $19.99, if not less. 

Such is the fanciful way human nature works. We are a silly and superfluous species in so many aspects, particularly when it comes to our fleeting obsessions. They burn with the passion of a thousand suns, and just as brightly they are as quickly burned out. That didn’t mitigate the wanting, and sometimes the only way to conquer a temptation is to yield to it. Or so Oscar Wilde would have us believe. Living to the moral compass of Mr. Wilde may be temporarily thrilling, but even Oscar himself may have some hard-won wisdom given the way his life worked out. 

The point of this post is orchids, and the Victorian era, and for me that brings it all back to the atmosphere and surroundings of decadence and beauty. Lacking a proper greenhouse room, our living room and its bay window are the closest we get to such extravagance, and so it is here that I have assembled a little collection of plants to hopefully see us through the winter. A well-known harp piece introduces the scene at hand. Do give it a listen and see if it calms the frenetic November wind just outside the door. 

This little beauty is named ‘Jumping Jack’ which is more silly than one would expect from the Victorians, and it makes sense since it’s a relatively new hybrid. I fell in love with its lush green foliage, and then that beautiful flower tinged with chocolate and kissed with violet cemented the deal. Some varieties are said to smell sweetly of hyacinth mixed with a bit of black pepper, which sounds absolutely divine. Woefully, I have yet to detect a scent emanating from this fellow. No matter. Something this exquisite come with charms that have no additional need for perfume. 

I understand the work at hand. With the newly-acquired humidifier in the living room, and a Majesty palm joining the ranks, I see that I am attempting to craft our own little oasis from whatever mayhem the world will unleash before the year ends, and likely beyond. Winter knows no calendar devised by human hands; it recognizes only the sun and our proximity and twirl around it. 

Seeking comfort and prettiness, I adorn the living room with a healthy level of moisture in the air, and a few pretty plants to keep things green until spring and summer arrive again. In a little while I shall force some paper white narcissus and maybe find an amaryllis or two to see if I can force a Christmas bloom. Flowers do make a holiday extra festive. 

Their faces usually start the growing season as they are one of the first nursery plants to explode in a riot of color. Their preference for cool, crisp nights means that they enjoy closing out the season too, so when I happened upon this purple pansy last week I paused to take its picture and honor the pretty way it had of bookending the spring and fall. I forgot to upload it as part of this purple flower celebration, so it gets its own post. Being forgotten deserves something special. 

It figures that 2020 will have a weird way of flowering into Halloween. This is in no way a complaint – extending the warm days as late as possible into the year may serve us well this winter. Or it may backfire and land us with even more chaotic weather – all a crapshoot these days. But this little pansy smiled at me on my lunch break, and I smiled back with a slight nod. If it sees us into November, it will be a resilient little reminder of spring days past, and spring days to come. It’s never too early to indulge in hope. 

Asters remind me of fall in Maine. 

There’s a small little shaded nook that’s on the path to the Marginal Way.

While technically the space is heavily trafficked, most people rush on by for the more dramatic gardens further down the path, and for the sea itself, crashing against the rocky outcroppings. There is also a little grove of trees that lowers some of its limbs to somewhat obscure the purple asters, the kind seen here in some sunlight. 

I needed this memory right now. We also needed Maine this year, but COVID circumstances have kept us home. Seeing these asters the other day brought it all back… 

In its somewhat secretive spot, the asters in Ogunquit winked only to those of us who noticed them. You had to slow down a bit, and you had to look a little closer. In the shade, the purple hues were even better at hiding than had they been conspicuously in the spotlight of the sun. Their shyness resonates with me. 

For many years, this would traditionally be the time when we’d be preparing for our fall trip to Maine, packing for temperatures that could swing dizzily from eighty-degree beach days to thirty-degree night flurries. The same held true for our Memorial Day weekend visits, so we are accustomed to bringing a little of everything. 

In the smiling faces of these asters, I see those happy days again. I recall lazily rolling out of bed and trundling along to Amore Breakfast with Andy, and I can picture the leaves beneath our feet, the receding frost as the sun ascends. I remember our siestas in the knotty pine room, when I’d return from Bread and Roses with some coffee for Andy and a cookie for later. 

Nowadays it’s Andy who makes the coffee in our kitchen as fall whips through the fountain grass outside the window, shaking the finches still clinging to the seedbeds of the cup plant. They seem as sad to see summer go by as we are, but it’s warm inside, and our focus shifts cozily to the warm hearth…

This big bouquet of lilies, currently emitting a pretty and potent perfume into the entire living room, gave me an idea as I was gazing upon its beauty the other night. I tend to use fresh flowers in bouquets for the summer, when they’re available outside, as well as in the floral section of the market, but I don’t do it as regularly during the fall and winter. This year, I may change that. We are going to need as much beauty as possible.

I also tend to only buy flowers when we are having guests, but as that’s gone by the wayside for the moment, why not do it for Andy and me? We are more than enough, and one can never put enough beauty on display.

Even the azaleas have gone completely bonkers because of 2020. On a day when downtown Albany saw manholes blowing up and burning away, I found the sight of this confused azalea more disturbing, but also more enjoyable. 

We have witnessed this phenomenon before, usually brought about by a shift in temperatures that triggers something in the plant to set a few blooms into motion. I’m just glad there was enough time to see them flower; sometimes a late-season warm spell will send out buds whose blooms never see the light of day. 

These wild asters have subsisted behind my childhood home’s backyard for over forty years. Some summers they are sparse and scant, others they are extensive and robust. This year falls under the latter, with an impressive showing of blooms and colonization, especially resplendent in the late afternoon light. Summer insists on showing off right until its very last moment. 

Their smaller blooms, almost insignificant when compared to bigger and brighter glories of early summer, make an almost echo of those earlier days. Our second bloom is always smaller and more delicate, and, because of that, often more beloved. 

These are hardy little plants, managing their survival beneath some rather deep shade and the selfish roots and barren soil of several ancient pine trees. A portrait of hardiness and beauty, even as the world is unforgiving and unaccommodating. 

A midday treat featuring the brilliance of the cup plant. Finches, hummingbirds, bees and butterflies have all flocked to these magnificent blooms. A thousand little cheerful orbs call out to be worshipped, and the world is powerless to resist such charms. These beauties have been going strong for a full month, fostering the beautiful bustle of all the aforementioned visitors. 

Summer is still riding high, delivering the punch and pizzazz for which it is rightly renowned. The world may have dimmed a bit, but summer doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, it’s glowing a little brighter these days. Nature will have her pretty way; in the end she always wins. 

Remark the fiery starburst of the simple coreopsis! Its flower power may be small of stature, but its coloring is red-hot of glory. In a single bloom, an entire summer bursts into beautiful flame. Whereas an entire five-foot stand of bluish hydrangeas fades into the early evening background, this little blossom burns like a fire, stealing all the focus of the day and night.

I admire its ability to be heard despite its smallness. So many of us are screaming out to be noticed these days, and this little performer refuses to be silenced. It reminds me of this city tomato or this backyard petunia. Survivors come in all shapes and sizes, and just because something is pretty doesn’t negate its power or performance. 

Certain plants, when they bloom, bring about a sense of melancholy, no matter how pretty or innocent they may otherwise be. That’s the feeling I get whenever the Japanese anemone opens in mid-to-late August. It’s a tell-tale signifier of the fall to come, an incontrovertible fact of the quick passage of summer, hastened day by day from this point forward. Like the goldenrod that must be beginning its graceful nodding beside highways and country roads, it’s a symbol of the waning summer, and always a rather sad one at that.

On this particular Saturday morning, however, I’m turning that around and focusing on the joy, working to savor these blossoms, and thinking for the first time of how they are reminiscent of the blooms of the dogwood tree – a lovely little reminder of when the season was just beginning. Savoring is an important component of happiness, and after being awakened by the shrill screaming of neighborhood chainsaws (the drawback of being one of the only working people on the street who only gets two days a week to sleep late) I made the effort to turn the day around with this moment of savoring.

Though it begins with these slightly mottled petals of pink, the flowers of the Japanese anemone will eventually pale to an almost white color, a ghostly echo of the creamy sepals of the dogwood blooms. There’s a beautiful symmetry to that, and nature can always be counted upon to put such magic into effect.

As for the dwindling days of summer, let’s choose to focus on the sun and warmth at hand, to savor and make the most of the seasonal happiness. There will be more than enough time to dwell upon and deal with fall after it arrives. 

The Rose-of-Sharon probably has some nifty history as to how it gets its common name. This is not the day that I’m going to look that up and share, however, because I’m tired. Simply surviving right now can be exhausting, and I’m just not up for a lesson. Google that shit and let me know what’s about. Instead, I’m taking a morning walk before diving into work, clearing the haze of the morning mind, and checking on this Rose-of-Sharon plant to see how many buds have opened. 

Beneath a seven-sons flower, literally and figuratively overshadowed by its over-reaching branches, the Rose-of-Sharon was one of the later additions to our garden, one of those spur-of-the-moment, late-season purchases made out of sheer exhaustion, not unlike the state in which I find myself today. Like hosta or hydrangeas, they are so commonly-used that some of us lose sight of their beauty and performance, as if it’s a crime to be so durable and consistent.

Their leaves stay as pretty as they are seen here for the entire season, and the blooms begin in late July and early August, just when the garden lets out its first breath of summer fatigue. There is no discernible fragrance, but its upper-brother will supply that in a few weeks. (The buds of the seven sons flower are already forming.)

On this sunny morning, the new pink blooms are much appreciated – reinvigorating the senses and jump-starting the summer all over again. We need that this year. 

This pretty pink lily was open when we visited my parents a couple of days ago. It’s been coming up faithfully for the past several years, without expanding or multiplying, but also without diminishing. There’s something to be said for simply sustaining, and surviving, especially in this insane world. I captured it here for you to view, even if you can’t quite sniff its exquisite perfume. 

Saturdays should bloom like this lily – quietly, delicately, sweetly, and beautifully. Summer mornings are much too fleeting. We must stop to smell the flowers, pausing in the quick passing of the sunny season. I’ll keep this morning post brief so you can do something like that. Meet me back here in a  few hours for something more substantial. 

Current Pool Status: waiting for a light bulb

Current Mood: pensive/resigned

Current weather: changeable, with a strong breeze

While we wait for the pool to reopen (originally planned for May, I figured it wouldn’t happen until the end of July – and quite frankly I’ve given up on it happening this summer so as to stave off any disappointment). Chalk it up to the wreck of this year of our Lord 2020. 

To get us through these end-times, I’ve been meditating and reading and going to therapy, all of which have helped transform and reset my sense of self, and interior renovation of the soul that’s brought about a new sense of peace and contentment, while instilling a more genuine sense of self-confidence that previously had mostly been rather superficial. That’s the deep part of this post, the unseen machinations of what goes on beneath the placid surface of prettiness I like to put on display here.

That prettiness finds expression in this little bouquet of summer sweet from the front garden. It’s the ultimate summer flower, coming into bloom at this sultry time of the season when the days can be viciously hot. If given an ample dose of water they will spread almost invasively, and producing these subtle but potently-perfumed spires of bloom. Justifying their common name of summer sweet (scientifically known as Clethra), these blooms are powerfully fragrant with a sweet floral note that is reminiscent of a lily – rich and exotic and an absolute favorite of bees, who know a thing about sweet flowers.

This is the first time I’ve picked a stalk for an inside bouquet, which is strange given its natural perfume. Thus far, it’s taken well to being plucked – I would advise only cutting the green and tender parts of the stem – these can bloom close to older wood, and anything that has hardened will not be as amenable to taking in water. If the stem has hardened, you might try crushing or splitting it to allow for easier intake of water.

In a little bouquet like this, it’s also easily transported from room to room, so wherever you may be working or living can be instantly transformed into a fragrant window looking into a portal of summer sweet beauty.

There aren’t many things that I consider true game-changers, but this is one of them: the bathroom bouquet. For some reason I usually reserve them for when we have guests, but the other day I remembered how nice it was to have something pretty to look at on the toilet. When you think about it, the one place where I am guaranteed to be at least once every single day is facing the toilet and looking down. First thing in the morning and last thing at night. Without fail. 

I wish I’d remembered the transformation such a little thing made long ago. We’ve been cooped up here with an available backyard flower supply since May. Better late then never, and who knows how long we will be needing such niceties? This simple little bouquet is a single fern frond and one hydrangea bloom – proof that the littlest things can make the biggest difference, especially in a corner where the only item of interest is a toilet handle. 

Petunias don’t get the critical credit they deserve. Too many of us, myself included, overlook their powerhouse performance simply because they are such constant working horse when it comes to producing blooms. Rather than rejoice and celebrate them, we look down at them for being such spectacular performers because they do it so seemingly effortlessly and consistently. We’d rather take months and years coaxing and coercing a rare orchid into bloom, pampering and prodding and whispering sweet nothings into its finicky ear while it demands time and attention and worship, only to disappoint with no flowers whatsoever, or a few measly and sickly leaves that eventually wither and die off. Why do we aim for the more difficult species than the ones that instantly and repeatedly reward with easy blooms and a constant show? I wish I knew. My life would have been gone much easier, in both ways.

I may not be the best at any one thing, but I’m a loyal and consistent guy. My attire, while perhaps not always to your taste, is always refined. My commitment to a task – whether a job, a creative project, or a new recipe – is steadfast and true. And my panache – well, I like to think my panache is unwavering. And as such, people expect such stuff from me, and I’m usually happy to oblige. I didn’t get to be the person I am today from hating what I do. I like being consistent. I like being organized. I like being anal. I like to dress up and spray delicious cologne in the air while I stride through its perfumed cloud. Scoff and joke and guffaw all you want – I’m pretty happy these days with the convoluted and contradictory stance I’ve adopted and made my own.

If you’ve come to expect it but find that the thrill is gone, please feel free to seek your newness elsewhere. Every chameleon-like Renaissance man has certain pools he favors, as much as he likes to change; we are different from day to day and year to year, but the soul stays relatively the same. I’ve come to appreciate that over the decades of my life. Like these petunias, the doggedly pretty things of the world have a scrappiness to their stalwart consistency. They, and we, try every day to be a little better, to put on a grander show, to inspire and impress and delight even if the petals are a little torn and the perfume a little faded. Our powerhouse performance isn’t often perfect, but we’re here for it.

Striving and blooming and putting on the show – even on a Wednesday morning.