Category Archives: Gardening

Dahlias were opine of the first plants I ever planted as a kid – drawn solely to the picture on the label, I expected grand dinner-plate-sized blooms and every day that summer I went out and inspected them for growth and buds, all to no avail. I didn’t read the fine print about how late they started blooming, and for a kid that was an interminable exercise in patience and waiting. Throughout that summer, I watched them slowly rise, but by the time it took to get to the blooms it was already August, and the light and wind had change, signifying fall and taking away some of the summer joy that was only present on the front end of the season.

These days dahlias carry different meanings and memories ~ some sorrowful, some hopeful and bright, and some promising of some future assignation for blooms to come closer to fall. A good flower – the kind that lasts for centuries – carries shifting resonance and meaning, offering varied readings as life shifts and changes.

It is their scent that usually alerts me to their bloom before I see them.

Convallaria majalis, better known as lily-of-the-valley (despite the fact that is in no way a lily of any sort) is currently perfuming the garden with its heavenly aroma, and does so in a way that almost shy. Its bell-like blooms dangle mostly just below the tops of the pretty foliage, bashfully hiding their faces from prying eyes. It’s a plant I understand better than most.

It also carried great nostalgic significance – my Gram loved lily-of-the-valley – she’d use the fragrance in her soap and lotion, finding comfort in its sweetness. My love for my Gram inevitably spilled over into a love for lily-of-the-valley. Yes, they are invasive in conditions they enjoy, but the foliage is handsome throughout the dogged days of summer, when some fall victim to drying out or decay – these keep going until the frosts of fall, when the foliage turns ghostly pale before almost evaporating into paper-thin tissues.

A battle between these and the sweet woodruff would make for an especially lovely woodland war, but so far our swaths of each are removed from one another. There’s enough war in the world right now.

These happy blooms, and their accompanying fragrance, remind me of Gram, of being a boy in the spring and happening upon them in my solitary adventures through the backyards of neighbors, of finding them bleeding into the woods and stealing a few pips for my own garden.

Galiuum odoratum, more commonly known as sweet woodruff (love that name), forms a handsome carpet if you give it space and semi-shady moist conditions. Some might say it’s a little too aggressive, and I can’t disagree – I just happen to love it so much I don’t mind a little expansive colonization of the beds where it lands. It works especially well in a woodland setting, where it might roam free, producing these little white blossoms at the most beautifully tender time of the year. The flowers almost feel like an added bonus, because the foliage is so handsome in its own right.

We have several patches of this, and I’m planning on transplanting several clumps to fill in some tricky bare areas – places where tenacious aggression is actively encouraged. Gardening is a battle – some might say a war – and troops must be deployed where they are needed most.

Some years aren’t spectacular when it comes to the lilac bloom, especially when late winter storms kill off the trusting buds that showed too bravely and too early. It used to break my heart when that happened, especially considering how many winter days we spent waiting and watching for these precious blooms. After a few years, I learned that even when the weather conditions were kind and gentle, some springs simply didn’t produce a banner crop of blooms, as if their shows were too grand to produce every single year. That only made us love the ones that did appear a little more, taking a few extra moments to take in their exquisite perfume in ways that we might have foregone in more floriferous years.

This is one of those light springs, due to the weather and a decent crop last year.

And that’s ok, because the perfume is true, the color is as lilac as we remember, and it sets things up nicely for next spring.

After filling our front pots with everything from arborvitae, papyrus, and elephant ears to palm trees, ivy, and ferns, this marks the first year we are indulging in the ‘timeless tradition‘ of planting rosemary at our entryway. Bestowed with protective enchantments against ill-intending spirits, as well as a more practical magic to ward off pests, rosemary has myriad advantages when planted near the home. Its pleasant aroma rises like lavender when brushed by visitors, and it’s also said to be lucky. A wonderful notion for the month of May – and the summer to follow.

The cultivation of rosemary is simple when you know how to control yourself; these plants actually do better under neglect and duress than with a well-watered and overly-pampered high-maintenance routine. A sharp, well-draining soil on the alkaline side is preferred, and you should let the top two inches of soil dry out before doing a deep watering. A full day of sunshine is desired so branches don’t grow leggy, but you can also prune heavily to retain a bushier shape.

See this summer mocktail for another rosemary idea, or this holiday drink, or this Christmas cocktail for the stronger palette.

Thalictrum rochebruneanum is the lengthy scientific name for what is more commonly known as lavender mist meadow rue, or just plain meadow rue. It’s an enchanting plant, one I’ve had for well over a decade and one that performs well despite some neglect due to its inconvenient corner location away from the more-frequented areas of the backyard. Its foliage is this beautiful mixture of shades and textures, a somewhat-underappreciated aspect of its overall magical effect. These leaves will evolve and change over the next month, turning more uniformly green with an elegant silvery sheen and almost grayish aspect, like the leaves of a bleeding heart (Dicentra).

When the flowers come later, in tiny light-lavender-hued single-baby’s-breath type blossoms, a cloud of blooms will envelop the tall upper echelon of the garden – sometimes six to seven feet high. I love a cloud of flowers, especially when they are as delicate and demanding of close inspection as the blooms of the Thalictrum. Watching the plant first emerge, cradling some rain droplets from a spring shower, is a gift of the season.

This is one of the fern stages I love best – when the fiddleheads are just starting to unfurl and their feathery show is about to begin. On a sunny Saturday (at long last!) I waded into the Ostrich fern stand and inspected their progress. It was a good day for garden work, and I’d just amended the soil with 240 pounds of cow manure and compost – like Prince said, this is the glamorous life.

The big pots of bamboo (the only safe place for a running bamboo) that I overwintered in the garage were also brought out – they’re on their own for whatever frosts may be left to the season. I’ll clean the deck on the next sunny day and then the backyard will be just about ready for pool season. We need it early this year.

Notoriously difficult to photograph, this little stand of Scilla siberica has faithfully delivered some of the earliest blooms of the season, despite threat of snow (and often several inches of follow-through). One of the steadfast spring ephemerals, it rises, blooms, and falls in relatively quick succession, completing its entire show by the time summer begins in earnest, then disappearing from view and mind until early next spring. There is something exquisitely tender and sweet to such an effort, made perhaps more poignant by its fleeting timeframe. Maybe such beauty simply wasn’t meant to last – maybe that would take away too much of what makes it so beautiful. My mind isn’t wired to accept such things, and for most of my life I’ve sought out only that which might last.

Pure folly. Pure foolishness. Pure fucking idiocy.

And so I endeavor to change my perspective, to shift my way of thinking, at this later stage of life. When beauty is too often the sole balm in a world gone so completely mad we must cherish and embrace it whenever it arises, no matter how quick and fast it may be gone. How could I have entertained the idea of not having such moments at all simply because they wouldn’t last? There is grace in the briefest exchanges of kindness and pleasantry, grace in the merest brushes with beauty and love.

“And maybe we’ll meet again somewhere
Somewhere things don’t have to have an ending…”

It’s seed-buying season at the garden centers, preamble to the most wonderful time of the year, and I picked up a few packets for people to grow for me. As green as I like to think my thumb is, seeds have never taken to my expectations or preparations. Mom and Suzie will be responsible for bringing this collection of beauties to life, and I save a single packet of dill to try in our garden one more time (which marks about my fifth attempt, with never a single harvest for all five times).

Maybe the trick is just to not care – I tend to pamper and produce the perfect plot of carefully-cultivated soil – and some seeds, morning glories for instance, do better when ignored and practically abused.

Another lesson of the garden, learned the hard way. Just stop caring, and the rewards may come.

This enchanting patch of our garden is currently producing a surprise third act of sorts, as it displays the exquisite shading of a Japanese painted fern, still resplendent despite several hard frosts, all against a backdrop of scarlet Japanese maple leaves.

The latter seemingly dropped all of its leaves in Saturday night’s vicious thunderstorm – a victim of the rain, the wind, and perhaps the sheer exhaustion of keeping itself presentable at this late stage of the gardening year; I know I am certainly spent on every front.

The color combination is striking, and a perfect companion scene to the upcoming holiday season – a season in which I intend to participate as little as possible – going through the motions to get myself to January without major friction or blow-ups. To that end, I’m going to act like all the wise waterfowl – letting just about everything roll off of me like water off a fucking duck’s back. If others want to act out, stir up drama, create unnecessary tension and consternation – have at it. I’ll direct you to work it out amongst yourselves because I’m not letting anything bother me this year. Watch this space and you’ll see.

Just when the potted plantings come into their own, sumptuously overflowing from their confines, obscuring their containers with foliage and flowers, it seems it’s time for the season to wind down. Summer is always elusive that way – it hints, it whispers, it arrives, and too swiftly it is gone. It’s why we cherish it so.

These blooms were captured in Boston or Albany – I genuinely forget which now – part of some potted display that was still bursting forth with color and fresh foliage. Helpful hint – unlike the garden, where I stopped fertilizing in mid-August, planted containers should be watered and fertilized up until the hard frost takes them out for the season. Let them go out with a bang and a flourish.

Like summer.

Rudbeckia keeps putting on its summer-long show – one of the few garden plants that will run for most of the summer, and continue throwing out flowers until the first hard frost ends it for good. There was a time when I’d grow tired of this show, pining for the short blooming periods of poppies or iris, but in my older age I appreciate the consistency and reliability of such strong color for such a long time.

These particular blooms are from a wild patch of space behind my therapist’s office. I arrived early yesterday morning and caught these images, fresh with dew still dangling from dawn.

Summer’s end approaches, and summer finds ways to hang onto herself.

Knowing that it’s time for the garden to begin its slumber does not make it easier to bear, no matter how many years we’ve done this.

Our butterfly bush is in its first flush of blooms – later than usual, like so much of the garden this summer – and it’s been enticing the bees and butterflies, handily earning its namesake. It’s even helped to attract the first monarch we’ve seen this year – a happy return of a beautiful creature whose sightings have gone depressingly down in the last few summer seasons.

In the front yard I noticed that a new butterfly bush has seeded itself along the driveway – a most unfortunate location that I will rectify should it survive this winter’s salt barrage. Most of the garden plans at this point are taking place in my head, as I’ve more or less given up on anything major for the rest of this summer – my heart is not in it, and without that my body is certainly not about to lead.