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June 2017

The battle for blue hydrangeas has been the bane of my gardening existence since I first planted a pair of ‘Endless Summer’ beauties in the front yard a decade and a half ago. Back then, before I knew any better, I envisioned billowing bunches of blue blooms, echoing the sky or some pool of the bluest water. When they finally deigned to bloom (after a season or two of bloom-killing winters and too-short summers) they were a light purple, which veered into pink territory in the right (or wrong) light. A far cry from the magnificently over-saturated vibrant hues of the ones that seemed to grow with such easy abandon on Cape Cod.

Undaunted, I offered them endless coffee grounds from Andy’s unending supply, stuck their soil with rusty nails and screws and every bit of rotting metal I could find, and watered them with an acidifier all in an effort to bring the pH to a level that turned the flowers blue. It worked, but only a little, and only for a season or two. I didn’t have the resilience to keep up such a front. They’ve largely reverted to pink, with the occasional purple stalk coming through.

This lace-cap hydrangea is actually called ‘Blue Billow’ – and it too requires soil far more acidic than ours to live up to its name, hence the pink hue we have here. I’m not unhappy about this – it’s perfectly pretty – but I may start saving coffee grounds. They make for a scented mulch and compost additive.

The traditional lavender gets a make-over in this pink version of the venerable perennial. In our slightly sandy soil, lavender tends to do well, and in the midst of all the purple these pink blooms are a charming departure. I think it may be time for some lavender martinis. (That recipe can be found here, and you will thank me if you’ve never tried it before.)

Lavender is usually an easy crop – they like sun and sandy soil, and I’ve never fertilized or amended their site with anything. The most I do is cut them back to the ground to keep them compact and tidy. (You may leave them alone and they’ll sprout from whatever growth remains intact after winter – in warmer climates they can get larger and woodier – neither of which appeals to me in the front of the border, where they are located. I also find they don’t put out as vigorous growth when you let them build on top of what has already had its season. You have to know when to let things go.

The hot and sticky morning received no respite from the previous night. The heat and humidity lingered, refusing to let up even in the pre-dawn hours. In that heavy air, a light perfume sweetly scented the floating molecules. The climbing hydrangea, whose blooms don’t often get the recognition for their fragrance, was the source of the sweetness.

Known more for its form and foliage, as well as the lace-cap elegance of its blooms, not much is written about the perfume it emits. It’s nothing all that special or spectacular, but it’s the perfect summer scent – sweet and light, and irresistible to bees and butterflies.

This particular specimen is at least a decade old, and finally coming into its own. It follows the growing pattern of so many vines: the first year it sleeps, the second year it creeps, the third year it leaps.

I love a good leap year.

Sweet fragrance, wafting along on a summer breeze, this is the mockorange. With its exquisite perfume as its main draw, this is a favorite shrub – worth growing for its brief but magnificent bloom period. The foliage is unremarkable, but stays green and largely intact throughout the season. Its form is slightly sprawling and unrefined, but manageable with severe pruning every few years. (You will sacrifice some blooms, as it flowers most prolifically on older wood.)

When discussing possible landscape solutions with Suzie, she soon reached her exasperation limit and metaphorically threw her texting fingers up in defeat, saying something like “Why don’t we just plant hostas everywhere and call it a day?” At first I bristled at the intimation – then I realized it wasn’t such a bad idea. Despite its overuse in the mainstream garden, the hosta, when properly cared for and pampered, is one of the most handsome plants in existence, one whose beauty holds throughout the entire season. Most perennials have a month or two of glory, but very few can maintain their luster from spring all the way to fall. A hosta’s foliage doesn’t diminish at any point.

They send up bonus lavender stalks of lily-like fragrant blooms in the middle of summer, though these are mostly subtle afterthoughts – the main draw is their leaves.

Suzie’s cutting remark got me to thinking about my own hesitation in using them, and I realized it’s partly from her childhood home, where a large stand of hosta surrounded a sun-dial in the middle of a circular stone path. They grew cramped and unfertilized beneath the shade of an old elm, and despite their hardy return year after year, they never, to my knowledge, received any additional help. The leaves were variegated but on the small side – quantity giving preference of quality. It was the typical use of them – in difficult areas where they could easily survive but not thrive to their full potential.

I’d become accustomed to putting them in places that proved inhospitable to more delicate choices, but they always rewarded with displays that got larger and fuller and more beautiful with each passing year, particularly when I indulged them with ample manure in the spring, deadheading in the summer, and some simple foliage maintenance throughout the year (the leaves grow so big and broad, they become a catch-all for falling detritus).

This year, even after Suzie’s disparaging comment, I added four hosta plants to a tricky place beside our backyard patio. It’s partly shaded thanks to the canopy, and has, for some reason, proven reliably difficult to successfully curate. Shade loving annuals like coleus and caladium have failed to prosper, and it’s been ravaged by the pesky roots of a weeping cherry standard. We will see if the hosta can fill in and win the day. I’m confident they shall.