Category Archives: Gardening

It was around 1986 or 1987 when I stuffed five one-dollar bills into an enveloped and mailed them out with a request for a catalog to White Flower Farm. At the time, it was an exorbitant sum for a child to collect, but it was worth it because I had read that the White Flower Farm catalog was the standard against which all flower catalogs were judged. Way back then there was no internet, and I had to find any information on plants, and a burgeoning gardening obsession, in books and magazines and plant catalogs. 

During those years, Amos Pettingill was the ‘writer’ behind the catalog, and their introduction to the catalog – and hat was new that year – was golden text for me. I pored over each and every word, finding daydreams and a hazy future hope in the invitation to cucumber sandwiches that Amos offered in every spring catalog. 

White Flower Farm supplied many rare plants and species to all of the gardens I’ve cultivated. There is a Baptisia only a decade younger than myself at my parents’ former home that still blooms, and the Japanese umbrella pine that I purchased from them twenty years ago is about twelve feet tall now. This nursery and I go way, way back. 

When I asked Missy how far she lived from Litchfield, we were both surprised at how close it was from Southbury, and she mentioned she had been wanting to visit there for a while, so we set up a floral weekend anchored by the short drive to the Farm. I knew it would never capture the palace I’d built it up to be in my head, and I went in with reasonable expectations. 

We caught it at just the right time – all of the spring bulbs were in full, gorgeous bloom. The Narcissus spread out in every imaginable form, while the tulips and hyacinths were resplendent in every possible color combination. Taking in the layout of the land, I was transported back to my childhood – the trees and the gently-roling hill were familiar, as though I’d been here in a dream, when it was merely all in my imagination, and the tantalizing peek of landmarks from the photographs in the catalog. 

At first it felt smaller than I’d imagined, but slowly, as we made our way through each garden and walkway, it opened up, revealing all the intricacies and myriad plant varieties that were on display and just beginning to appear in this late-starting season. The promise of another summer visit when things were further advanced put my mind at ease. For now, I simply enjoyed the magic of the moment, and the realization of reaching my own little Mecca after four decades. 

A post to offer a shift in perspective, or maybe just the possibility of such a shift if we can be open to such a thing. I’ve posited such notions prior to this post, and this is the not-quite-annual reminder that even a dandelion is a thing of beauty. From a conspiracy of hardiness, ubiquitousness, and its own slight messiness, the dandelion has never earned a place among the more cultivated garden plants, but if this were rare or less prolific, we’d be paying good money to have it in the garden. 

When the jonquils and other spring bulbs emerge from the muddy spring ground, and raindrops splash and sputter the dirt onto their pristine petals, nothing stays pristine for long. Spring is messy, as seen on this very first Narcissus bloom of the year. Speckled with bits of dirt and drops of rain, it screams spring in every way, holding onto a bit of winter’s discontent, ready to shake it entirely off with an ironic burst of wind. 

For the past four days, the weather has been wild, even for spring. These blooms turn their faces from the wind and the rain, shyly hiding their prettiness, unbothered by whatever life-giving muck splashes up onto their beauty. Flowers, strangely enough, carry no such vanity. 

The lessons of the garden are infinite. 

This little crocus, the only surviving crocus from a planting of about 200 corms several years ago (yes, only this one survived the rodents running rampant in the backyard) always seems to be taken out before its time. A couple of years ago it was a chipmunk – I came upon it munching on the torn flowerhead like some fancy dinner – and this year it was a snowstorm that leveled its pretty blooms, tamping them down for the rest of its finite life. The leaves, however, remain standing tall, well, short in this case – the point is that they’re standing, and drawing sunlight and nutrients, pouring energy and growth into next year’s buds. Life will begin again, with the proper preparation. The garden is the greatest teacher of those lessons, and every year around this time I learn things all over again. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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). 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.