When last I was in Boston, I made a stop at the newly-renovated Newbury, which was formerly the Taj, where Andy and I had stayed for our wedding weekend. As such, it is a happy and sacred space for us, and whenever I’m in town I’ll make a stop to see what sort of flower bouquets the lobby and hallways have on display. This most recent visit found these hot pink and magenta orchids and calla lilies squealing with glee.
Andy and I both love a magnolia tree, just not the clean-up and mess that follows a heavy blooming season, so we’ve never put one in. (We also don’t have the space, even for the smaller varieties.) And so we watch this show from a distance, grateful for when we happen upon tree in bloom, and even more grateful when we happen upon a tree after its bloom.)
After yesterday morning’s hot yellow sunflower post, here are a few photos to cool the site down. Purples are big in the garden right now, as if sensing our need for relief when the days get overheated. Sometimes a palette of cool hues works as well as air conditioning or a dip in the pool. Ideally, though, one operates in a conjunction of all of the above
These blooms look fresh even during the hottest parts of the day. Delicate in appearance only, these hardy annuals take a flame-like licking and keep on ticking.
Echoing the sunny post from this morning, these bright and cheerful flowers are emblematic of happy days spent in my childhood backyard. When we were last home for the 4th of July, I captured these shots of the gardens that my Mom has been cultivating and caring for over the last few years. In my younger years I battled for perennials over annuals, but she insisted on having the bright and floriferous show that only annuals provide. Over time, she’s come to appreciate the more subtle but just as impactful visage of a perennial border, with its focus on texture and the sometimes-fleeting nature of its blooms.
In the case of some of these – such as the featured photo of the Sedum, that show can last for several weeks, or in the case of the stunning lily below, a few days.
The garden is aflame at this time of the year, matching the sun’s intensity and heat, with eye-popping hues and stunning shades that light the darkest night.
Summer’s sun resounds in its blooms.
The sunflower has marked many a post here on this 18-year-old website, and every time it makes for a sunny occasion. Two summers ago it was in the form of the song ‘Sunflower’ for a Speedo-clad summer recap. A bouquet of them formed this lead-off image for the Troy Farmer’s Market. Sunflowers formed the impetus to this memory of Provincetown and Montana. A fuller sunflower, well on the way to going to seed, drooped its summer-sleepy head as I reunited with Skip in the age of COVID. A magical store on a side-street in the South End of Boston featured bushels of smiling sunflowers for an enchanting summer scene. A shy sunflower peeked out from this summer recap of 2016, while my ass wasn’t quite as demure.
Behold the invasive water hyacinth, grown safely only in lined containers that do not allow for spread. Not that it’s all the dangerous in these parts; our winters guarantee annual death. It’s so pretty, I couldn’t resist taking a few pics of it at the local nursery. It grows in water, so we don’t have any appropriate space for it, not that I would mess around with something this invasive. It’s a glorious embodiment of summer in these parts, all tropical color and thunder, dangerous and pretty all at the same time. And it brings to mind this summer song by R.E.M. which I’ve always loved:
At the time of this writing, summer has been a fickle thing – three days of cool and rainy weather following by three days of unbearably hot an humid weather – and no happy medium whatsoever. It’s a rollercoaster of weather that is wreaking havoc across the country, uniting Americans in emotional upheaval. Just what we need. But this is summer, and so we focus on what is pretty, and what is beautiful, and what is on the sunny side of the street.
My favorite part of these water hyacinth blooms is the spot of yellow on the top petal of each. It is slightly iris-like in the way it’s painted on there, and it’s only on one petal per bloom, setting that petal apart from the rest, the way summer sometimes separates the rest from the weary. There is so much to do, no matter how exhausted we get, and never enough time to rest. It’s happy exhaustion, though, and I will not complain. That’s what winters are for.
When there is no pool, or no air conditioning, or even the cooling relief of a cold shower, the mind is the only way to attempt to abate the heat. At such times, I think of the trickling sound of running water, the water that might be lapping around the leaves of the water hyacinth. I do not go to winter scenes of ice and cold, I recall the tropical tank of fish and plants that was in a strange little hotel in Chelsea, where my room was hot and stifling, despite a thunderous oscillating fan in the corner. In a windowed room off a landing, this glass tank in the shape of a hexagon sat in the middle of the floor, raised on a pedestal and lifted almost to eye-level. Goldfish swam there, in and around several clumps of green water plants. Water trickled down from a filter system, lending it a calm and tranquil feel. When I got too stuffy in my cramped room, I’d step out into the hallway and watch this scene of water, and it somehow managed to cool me. It’s how you beat the heat in New York: mind over matter.
When I came upon these roses at Faddegon’s, fresh from a rainy night and unfurling their petals in the morning light, I was instantly transported back to the summer of 2000, when I first met Andy. He grew roses in his garden, carefully tending and trimming them as necessary, occasionally clipping a bloom for his Mom or his living room. A man who knew his way around a garden was a good man indeed. That he took the time and care to share something beautiful with his Mom cemented the notion.
He favored the perennial rose favorite ‘Peace’ and tried his hand at ‘Mrs. Lincoln’. There was also an extremely fragrant tiger variety that was a deep pink, marbled with fuchsia – its beauty matched only by its exquisitely potent fragrance. I remember walking into his living room one evening and wondering at the delicious perfume – all produced by a single bloom in a little vase.
His prowess with roses was impressive, as it was one of the plants that always eluded my green thumb. He knew when to apply the fertilizer, when to protect the crowns for winter, and how to bring them all back to life each spring. Equally adept at preventing problems, he kept the aphids and beetles away, and managed to elude powdery mildew and rust, things that even the most skilled gardener can’t always keep at bay.
I was content simply to enjoy the fruits of his labor, as every few summer nights a new rose would appear in a vase by the couch, gently perfuming the air, reminding us of the beauty of the world when you put in a little work.
The fringed ends of the hybrid Shasta daisy petals shown here give these flowers the frills and flair required for standing out in this section of summer blooms. They remind me of my friend JoAnn, who hasn’t been here in about two years, but is scheduled to make a grand return in a few weeks. There is much to catch upon, and much has changed since we last enjoyed her company here. Summer is a time to reconnect, and a happy one at that. She loves daisies, and the small patch of them we have in our garden are just starting to bloom. I’m hoping they can slow down and save some smiles for when she arrives. We shall see…
Sometimes the smallest flowers pack the biggest punch.
Here that is evidenced by the super-saturated (and unfiltered) magnificence of these Lychnis blooms. Small and spaced out among airy branches, they are offset by a rosette of wooly gray foliage – a subtle and quiet beginning that doesn’t quite properly prepare the world for the explosion of color atop each stem. I love such a journey – and such a payoff.
I’m not exaggerating the potency of its color: from the further distance in the yard, these absolutely shout and scream and demand notice, even when they’re not undulating in and out of the sunlight like some siren-accompanied emergency beacon. Anything that so refuses to comply with its small stature is a feisty fight worthy of respect and admiration. This is an inspiration.
The flowering maple is not very much like the typical maple tree, starting with its vine-like form and climaxing with this vibrant floral exhibition. The last time I tried one of these, I potted it up and put it on our back patio, but it didn’t do much at first. Not one bloom could be coaxed out of it, but soon it started a long journey upwards, growing about seven feet by the end of the season, without ties or guides: it simply leaned against a pole and did its thing.
Before the first frost arrived, I handed it off to my brother, and his fiancee took a photo of it a few later when it finally deigned to bloom in their sunny living room.
This year I found a specimen already in bloom, and with a number of buds in the works. It’s less red and more orange than the original one I had, and this tinge of salmon is a lovely addition to our backyard. I can’t wait to see how high this one will go and whether it continues such a lovely parade.
Lee Bailey once remarked that June is all about the roses, and that certainly seems to be the case this year, as around every corner there seems to be another bush aflame with flowers. We only have a Rosa rugosa in the garden right now, and it has not yet sent up any buds – hopefully they will be arriving later in the summer – the closest we may get to the beach for some time.
Other than that, we will have to find our rose fixes in public spaces, and they are happily and largely available if you look in the right places.
For me, the best part of a rose is the perfume. Not all roses have a scent, but the very best do, and it pervades and intoxicates like no other fragrance I’ve ever experienced. I love the hints of it in ‘Portrait of a Lady‘ or ‘Oud Fleur‘ or ‘Rose & Cuir‘. It’s still best straight from the blossom, on sunny summer days, and too soon gone with a breeze.
A simple bouquet of three white peony blooms makes for a magnificent scene in the attic loft. All this bright white and lack of distracting colors lends a harmonious peace and tranquility to the space, and it is precisely what we need during this late-spring episode of Mercury in retrograde motion. On a Friday night, when the world is about to get hot-hot-hot, and the work week takes its momentary leave, I sit in the light and pause to take it all in, with mindfulness and a little moment of meditation.
I don’t recall the name of this particular white peony; the ‘Festiva Maxima’ variety, which I had as my wedding bouquet, contains flecks of bright fuchsia, and comes into bloom any day now. This plant is more delicate, with a sweeter perfume and smaller blooms. Each carries its own charm, and every peony has its own unique magic.
Perfectly anointed as the ‘Sunset’ calla, this beautiful calla lily called out for me to take its picture as I passed it in the garden center the other day. A fitting name for such a pretty flower. ‘Summer’ would have worked well too, but this is slightly more specific to its exquisite shading. As Gloria Estefan would say, ‘the words get in the way’…
When you need a jolt of inspiration, sometimes a strongly-hued flower will do. These colorful daisies – not sure of variety or scientific name – did that for me when the skies rolled gray and the light dimmed with the lateness of the day. They say more, and say it more eloquently, than these cumbersome words ever could.
Withstanding such cool temperatures this late in the season (we have long since passed the frost-free date, but it feels like every night could threaten to dip below freezing) has but one benefit: flowers that would typically bloom and expire quickly in the heat have lasted far longer than usual. Daffodils in particular have been in bloom for weeks, showing no signs of expiration or deterioration. Add the lilacs to this extended parade of perfume and prettiness, and the cooler weather suddenly doesn’t feel so bad.
Andy asked if we could get one more bouquet out of this season’s crop, so I went out early in the morning and clipped these from one of the descendants of the original Lilac bush that his Mom gifted to us two decades ago. From that single bush in our backyard, we now have several patches of them, and their suckers are ever-encroaching on the lawn. This variety, a double for more perfume and pizzazz, seems to do particularly well in this area. I may transplant a few more to the side yard, part of a sunny bank where not much else grows well. We have to use our pretty warriors to our advantage.
