Category Archives: Gardening

Tropical of form, gigantic of structure, and immense of leaf span, these plants are affectionately known as elephant ears. They provide the perfect backdrop for a pool or water feature, with their waxy and wavy leaves rising high into the sky and dwarfing all else around them. This is the first year I’ve successfully managed to grow them. Last year I tried starting them from a few sad corms that never quite took off, but this time I used plants that had already sprouted. I transplanted them into enormous pots to allow for ample root growth (and there is much; rumors of busted-out clay pots are easily believable). The results are spectacular, even if these photos offer but a glimpse of their glory.

At least three feet in length and width, the leaves are an accurate approximation of their whimsical namesake. Lending the patio a tropical aspect, they also have a personality that changes upon circumstances I have yet to figure out. At times the foliage stands up straight – erect and pointing to the sky – a rigid stance that gives a strong vertical flavor to the proceedings. At other points it relaxes, arching gracefully in soft curves, delicately bobbing in the breeze. I need to make further observation and tests to see if I can figure out what is going on. Both pots are relatively close to other plants, which may explain the phenomenon. Many plants will grow away from other encroaching plants, resulting in the rigid, vertical form I’ve seen this one occasionally take. It may also indicate a watering issue. Aside from the more obvious signs of wilting, some plants will change form when lacking or wanting water. Whatever the case, it’s a beautiful mystery that will play out over the rest of the season. I will keep my eyes on the ears.

Hidden in the less-than-expansive environs of our backyard, beneath a Chinese dogwood, and behind a towering stand of Miscanthus and a rising patch of a recovering cup plant (which just barely escaped ruin by an interrupted groundhog) is the lace-cap hydrangea pictured here. While these photos isolate and feature it in a way that makes it impossible to ignore, in its habitat it is subtle and quiet, and sometimes I even forget about it until something draws me closer, and I find it again with happy wonder, half-buried beneath a stand of ostrich ferns.

The flower takes the same form as the climbing hydrangea, but is imbued with a subtle shade of lavender, veering toward blue if you’re lucky to get the soil pH just right.

The airy effect of the form, both exquisite and enchanting, is the perfect secret of a backyard garden.

Commonly called “Creeping Jenny” this is Lysimachia nummularia. A groundcover or hanging plant often used as a trailing bit of vertical power in mixed pots, it’s also a perennial, which I discovered haphazardly a few years ago. Though this specimen covers the ground beneath a weeping cherry, it originated in one of our potted plantings. It trailed low enough to the ground to take a foot hold and send down roots into the neighboring soil, resulting in an unplanned but not unwelcome patch of chartreuse green. Happy accidents like that are some of the best parts of gardening.

Another unexpected surprise was when it started flowering. Accustomed to its foliage only, I did not expect the sunny yellow blooms that highlighted the bright leaves. I’m guessing that only when left to run freely in soil do the blooms materialize – further proof that when you give plants what they want (freedom and good soil in this instance) they perform far better than when confined to pots or other unnatural conditions.

When you perennially perform well, after a while it gets to be old-hat and expected, and such stalwart show-stoppers, appreciated and fawned upon in their early years don’t often get the recognition after they’ve done it for a while. This is unfortunate, as some stellar plants tend to go unheralded simply for their ease of cultivation. They also tend to get put into impossible situations, where such hardiness is abused in punishing locations.

Case in point is the hosta. Known and celebrated primarily for its foliage, it also offers these lovely lily-like blooms at this time of the year. Some are subtly fragrant, particularly on warm summer nights, adding to the enchantment at work amongst its gorgeous leaves.

When given less-than-ideal places in which to grow, they will usually do all right, but if coddled in their preferred environment, they will be spectacular after a few years. Rich soil, dappled light, and even moisture, coupled with a decent layer of mulch and a vigilant look-out for slugs will result in specimens that are as exotic and elegant as they are hardy. They will also reach their maximum size, which in most cases is much larger than the mass mall-plantings seen in many public spaces. A little pampering almost always works wonders.

Certain people loathe hydrangeas, others loathe rhododendrons. I’m in the latter camp. When we bought our home, a gigantic rhododendron stood in front of the large window of the living room. It blocked the light and the view year-round, with its evergreen foliage and enormous stature. In late spring, it bloomed in the traditional bright magenta – a color I usually love, except in the ubiquitous form of the rhododendron. The trouble was, I had no clear idea of what to do in its stead, so it stayed in its spot, growing larger and larger from year to year, despite my futile pruning attempts.

Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore, and early one spring I chopped it down. This was a difficult endeavor. The trunks were thick and gnarled, and the roots had twisted in on themselves. It was a stubborn thing that initially refused to budge. I let it go for a few days before hacking away at it with a hatchet. Finally, it released its hold, and I fell backward in a shower of dirt and sweat.

I amended the soil and planted a double-file viburnum where the rhody used to be, in a poorly-thought-out moment of viburnum obsession. I hadn’t realized the importance of the former’s evergreen nature, and when winter came the bare branches made me question my decision. In another year, the fast-growing branches of the viburnum had reached the same proportion of the rhody that I’d taken down, leaving me with the same predicament.

Once again, I got out the saw and hatchet, and chopped away at another overgrown specimen. This was the ruthless part of gardening that, once I made up my mind to do it, I executed with cruel deliberation. Even in its relatively short time, it had somehow burrowed deeper than the relatively-shallow-rooted rhododendron, its long tap root extending beyond comprehension. I had to dig an enormous well around it just in order to get deep enough. For having such a delicate flower form, the viburnum is a hardy wench, but I fought until its death, because a gardener doesn’t give up. In the end, a bare patch of ground remained.

I didn’t move hastily to fill in the spot, enjoying the expanse for a bit and carefully contemplating what to do. The answer presented itself when an umbrella pine in the background outgrew its space beside and beneath a weeping cherry. On a rainy afternoon, I dug it gently out of the only home it had ever known and put it into the empty space that always seem to fill too quickly. The slow-growing nature of the umbrella pine was perfect for the spot, and we would have years before it would even need to be pruned.

Commonly called ‘Lady’s Mantle’ this popular perennial hold drops of water more beautifully than any other. Its common name is derived from the appearance of the leaves, which look somewhat like the mantle of a lady, back when women wore such fun things. Nowadays the closest things we have are the capes and cloaks from Tom Ford and Dolce & Gabbana – not quite something the average person will wear on the street (even if I would.)

As for the plant, the foliage is not its only fine attribute – it produces clouds of chartreuse blooms in the next few weeks, and they last a relatively long time, making for excellent bouquet fillers, or a simple but powerful statement if used en masse. The shade of the blooms is the perfect embodiment of the freshness of the garden at this time of the year. For these photographs, however, I wanted to emphasize the texture of the leaves, and their structural form.

It’s taken a few years, but there is finally a sizable and noteworthy bloom proliferation on the redbud (Cercis) tree I planted in the front yard. This tree has the interesting trait of blooming directly from the bark, where it explodes in this compelling color before unfurling its leaves. I like the effect, which is reminiscent of the native dogwood (sadly on the decline). I’ve read that it will also send out blooms wherever its bark is nicked. I’m not so selfish as to score it just to bring about more flowers – especially when it puts on such a fine show without such masochistic machinations.

It makes a great addition to the garden, even if you have limited space, as it remains a manageable size (thus far at least). The branches are said to be on the weak side, but so far that has not proven to be a problem, and this specimen is in the most unprotected part of the yard. Now that I’ve said that it will probably be dealt a damaging blow, but such is the nature of the beast.

The leaves are as gorgeous as the flowers, if decidedly less showy (it would be practically impossible to rival this pink.) They are shaped vaguely like hearts, and their shade of green veers just the slightest bit toward gray as they mature. They’d be characterized as fine or handsome by those whose passion is trees – and there’s nothing finer than a tree-lover.

The larch tree looks deceptively like an evergreen, and I’m often at pains when insisting to friends that it’s deciduous, especially at the start of summer when it looks so convincingly like a spruce. It takes until the end of fall, when those leaves turn a stunning gold, to completely convince them, and that’s a long time to win an argument – but I’m a patient man.

It took me a long time to come around to the weeping style. It always felt too fussy for me – most of them require some sort of staking or graft to get them high enough for the weeping aspect to be realized. I may be many things, but quite contrary to popular belief, fussy is not one of them – particularly when it comes to the garden. It was a weeping Katsura tree that changed my mind. Its style was beautiful, and the way its branches cascaded down like a waterfall, or the gently-curled mane of some gorgeous woman, was a revelation. From that moment on I was a sucker for a weeper. A cherry tree was first to be planted, following by this weeping larch. The former just finished its bloom season, while the later will look as fresh as this until September.

Don’t be fooled by its seemingly fragile appearance – the larch is one of the hardier plants, withstanding winters as far North as Zone 3, possibly 2. That’s some serious hardiness – and I like hardy.