Category Archives: Flowers

Here are some pictures of cyclamen to offset the gray days. 

That’s all. 

Certain dim Tuesday mornings in November call for a pop of pink color. Faddegon’s to the rescue, with these exquisite orchid blooms – the antidote to any spell of dreariness. Weekly visits to the greenhouse will ensue shortly to keep spirits high as we transition into the winter. Everyone deals with the season differently – I tend to retreat to the beauty I find in flowers and plants – the fresh green to remind of the spring, the colorful blooms to remind of summer, and the vibrant color to remind of parties and gatherings of what feels like an entirely different era. 

Both Andy and I have already begun the countdown to spring, and while it may feel early, we feel we’ve earned a little anticipation. In a little over a month, we will start the return to more daylight, and while that climb feels far away, I’ve learned that time hastens whether we wish it to or not. 

In the meantime, there are greenhouses, and flowers, and greenery to be found if you know where to look, and sometimes you can bring a little of it home with you. 

We’ve had a multitude of posts about this cactus. It blooms according to its own wish and whim, so the monikers of Christmas Cactus, Thanksgiving Cactus, Easter Cactus and even Halloween Cactus have all rung true spending on the year. This season it just started – smack dab between Halloween and Thanksgiving, and just as November solidify into the dim gray and brown desiccated form for which it is best known. In other words, this crazy little cactus is giving us life right now when the outside world has suddenly turned dull. There’s magic and a metaphor in there somewhere but I’m too tired to dig it out. Do your own deductions. I’m just enjoying the striking color and beauty afforded us. 

Continuing the thread of saturates beauty from this colorful post, the blooms here are a striking shade of hot pink, and the main reason I’ve kept this otherwise unimpressive cactus around for all these years. It was a gift from a co-worker I believe, and it’s been largely ignored in the guest room. That’s really the best way to take care of these plants – they don’t want a lot of water or fuss, and no artificial light beyond the natural length of daylight – that’s the key to their blooming. An unused guest room is the ideal spot for them. 

I appreciate a plant that wants to be left alone. It speaks to my own Greta Garbo impulses. And so, crazy little cactus who knows precisely when to bloom for its own happiness, I salute and honor you. Thank you for the impressive show. 

Here’s another azalea in bloom from a few days ago, just as confused as so many of us seem to be these days. The only comfort is knowing that it is not alone. We are not alone. Whatever state the world finds itself in right now, hold tight to your family and friends, reach out to your ride-or-die crew, and hang onto your hats. If you need to bloom right now to stop yourself from going crazy, go on and bloom. 

During the Victorian era, orchid collecting reached such a high pitch among some of the wealthy that the term ‘orchidelirium’ was born. Not unlike tulipmania, it was as much a past-time for the rich as it was for those genuinely interested in botany and plants. Such frenzies have always fascinated me, not for the fevered hunger it incited in people, but for the realization that many orchids, for which some of the wealthiest families would pay thousands of dollars, can now be found at your local supermarket for $19.99, if not less. 

Such is the fanciful way human nature works. We are a silly and superfluous species in so many aspects, particularly when it comes to our fleeting obsessions. They burn with the passion of a thousand suns, and just as brightly they are as quickly burned out. That didn’t mitigate the wanting, and sometimes the only way to conquer a temptation is to yield to it. Or so Oscar Wilde would have us believe. Living to the moral compass of Mr. Wilde may be temporarily thrilling, but even Oscar himself may have some hard-won wisdom given the way his life worked out. 

The point of this post is orchids, and the Victorian era, and for me that brings it all back to the atmosphere and surroundings of decadence and beauty. Lacking a proper greenhouse room, our living room and its bay window are the closest we get to such extravagance, and so it is here that I have assembled a little collection of plants to hopefully see us through the winter. A well-known harp piece introduces the scene at hand. Do give it a listen and see if it calms the frenetic November wind just outside the door. 

This little beauty is named ‘Jumping Jack’ which is more silly than one would expect from the Victorians, and it makes sense since it’s a relatively new hybrid. I fell in love with its lush green foliage, and then that beautiful flower tinged with chocolate and kissed with violet cemented the deal. Some varieties are said to smell sweetly of hyacinth mixed with a bit of black pepper, which sounds absolutely divine. Woefully, I have yet to detect a scent emanating from this fellow. No matter. Something this exquisite come with charms that have no additional need for perfume. 

I understand the work at hand. With the newly-acquired humidifier in the living room, and a Majesty palm joining the ranks, I see that I am attempting to craft our own little oasis from whatever mayhem the world will unleash before the year ends, and likely beyond. Winter knows no calendar devised by human hands; it recognizes only the sun and our proximity and twirl around it. 

Seeking comfort and prettiness, I adorn the living room with a healthy level of moisture in the air, and a few pretty plants to keep things green until spring and summer arrive again. In a little while I shall force some paper white narcissus and maybe find an amaryllis or two to see if I can force a Christmas bloom. Flowers do make a holiday extra festive. 

Their faces usually start the growing season as they are one of the first nursery plants to explode in a riot of color. Their preference for cool, crisp nights means that they enjoy closing out the season too, so when I happened upon this purple pansy last week I paused to take its picture and honor the pretty way it had of bookending the spring and fall. I forgot to upload it as part of this purple flower celebration, so it gets its own post. Being forgotten deserves something special. 

It figures that 2020 will have a weird way of flowering into Halloween. This is in no way a complaint – extending the warm days as late as possible into the year may serve us well this winter. Or it may backfire and land us with even more chaotic weather – all a crapshoot these days. But this little pansy smiled at me on my lunch break, and I smiled back with a slight nod. If it sees us into November, it will be a resilient little reminder of spring days past, and spring days to come. It’s never too early to indulge in hope. 

Asters remind me of fall in Maine. 

There’s a small little shaded nook that’s on the path to the Marginal Way.

While technically the space is heavily trafficked, most people rush on by for the more dramatic gardens further down the path, and for the sea itself, crashing against the rocky outcroppings. There is also a little grove of trees that lowers some of its limbs to somewhat obscure the purple asters, the kind seen here in some sunlight. 

I needed this memory right now. We also needed Maine this year, but COVID circumstances have kept us home. Seeing these asters the other day brought it all back… 

In its somewhat secretive spot, the asters in Ogunquit winked only to those of us who noticed them. You had to slow down a bit, and you had to look a little closer. In the shade, the purple hues were even better at hiding than had they been conspicuously in the spotlight of the sun. Their shyness resonates with me. 

For many years, this would traditionally be the time when we’d be preparing for our fall trip to Maine, packing for temperatures that could swing dizzily from eighty-degree beach days to thirty-degree night flurries. The same held true for our Memorial Day weekend visits, so we are accustomed to bringing a little of everything. 

In the smiling faces of these asters, I see those happy days again. I recall lazily rolling out of bed and trundling along to Amore Breakfast with Andy, and I can picture the leaves beneath our feet, the receding frost as the sun ascends. I remember our siestas in the knotty pine room, when I’d return from Bread and Roses with some coffee for Andy and a cookie for later. 

Nowadays it’s Andy who makes the coffee in our kitchen as fall whips through the fountain grass outside the window, shaking the finches still clinging to the seedbeds of the cup plant. They seem as sad to see summer go by as we are, but it’s warm inside, and our focus shifts cozily to the warm hearth…

This big bouquet of lilies, currently emitting a pretty and potent perfume into the entire living room, gave me an idea as I was gazing upon its beauty the other night. I tend to use fresh flowers in bouquets for the summer, when they’re available outside, as well as in the floral section of the market, but I don’t do it as regularly during the fall and winter. This year, I may change that. We are going to need as much beauty as possible.

I also tend to only buy flowers when we are having guests, but as that’s gone by the wayside for the moment, why not do it for Andy and me? We are more than enough, and one can never put enough beauty on display.

Even the azaleas have gone completely bonkers because of 2020. On a day when downtown Albany saw manholes blowing up and burning away, I found the sight of this confused azalea more disturbing, but also more enjoyable. 

We have witnessed this phenomenon before, usually brought about by a shift in temperatures that triggers something in the plant to set a few blooms into motion. I’m just glad there was enough time to see them flower; sometimes a late-season warm spell will send out buds whose blooms never see the light of day. 

These wild asters have subsisted behind my childhood home’s backyard for over forty years. Some summers they are sparse and scant, others they are extensive and robust. This year falls under the latter, with an impressive showing of blooms and colonization, especially resplendent in the late afternoon light. Summer insists on showing off right until its very last moment. 

Their smaller blooms, almost insignificant when compared to bigger and brighter glories of early summer, make an almost echo of those earlier days. Our second bloom is always smaller and more delicate, and, because of that, often more beloved. 

These are hardy little plants, managing their survival beneath some rather deep shade and the selfish roots and barren soil of several ancient pine trees. A portrait of hardiness and beauty, even as the world is unforgiving and unaccommodating. 

A midday treat featuring the brilliance of the cup plant. Finches, hummingbirds, bees and butterflies have all flocked to these magnificent blooms. A thousand little cheerful orbs call out to be worshipped, and the world is powerless to resist such charms. These beauties have been going strong for a full month, fostering the beautiful bustle of all the aforementioned visitors. 

Summer is still riding high, delivering the punch and pizzazz for which it is rightly renowned. The world may have dimmed a bit, but summer doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, it’s glowing a little brighter these days. Nature will have her pretty way; in the end she always wins. 

Remark the fiery starburst of the simple coreopsis! Its flower power may be small of stature, but its coloring is red-hot of glory. In a single bloom, an entire summer bursts into beautiful flame. Whereas an entire five-foot stand of bluish hydrangeas fades into the early evening background, this little blossom burns like a fire, stealing all the focus of the day and night.

I admire its ability to be heard despite its smallness. So many of us are screaming out to be noticed these days, and this little performer refuses to be silenced. It reminds me of this city tomato or this backyard petunia. Survivors come in all shapes and sizes, and just because something is pretty doesn’t negate its power or performance. 

Certain plants, when they bloom, bring about a sense of melancholy, no matter how pretty or innocent they may otherwise be. That’s the feeling I get whenever the Japanese anemone opens in mid-to-late August. It’s a tell-tale signifier of the fall to come, an incontrovertible fact of the quick passage of summer, hastened day by day from this point forward. Like the goldenrod that must be beginning its graceful nodding beside highways and country roads, it’s a symbol of the waning summer, and always a rather sad one at that.

On this particular Saturday morning, however, I’m turning that around and focusing on the joy, working to savor these blossoms, and thinking for the first time of how they are reminiscent of the blooms of the dogwood tree – a lovely little reminder of when the season was just beginning. Savoring is an important component of happiness, and after being awakened by the shrill screaming of neighborhood chainsaws (the drawback of being one of the only working people on the street who only gets two days a week to sleep late) I made the effort to turn the day around with this moment of savoring.

Though it begins with these slightly mottled petals of pink, the flowers of the Japanese anemone will eventually pale to an almost white color, a ghostly echo of the creamy sepals of the dogwood blooms. There’s a beautiful symmetry to that, and nature can always be counted upon to put such magic into effect.

As for the dwindling days of summer, let’s choose to focus on the sun and warmth at hand, to savor and make the most of the seasonal happiness. There will be more than enough time to dwell upon and deal with fall after it arrives. 

The Rose-of-Sharon probably has some nifty history as to how it gets its common name. This is not the day that I’m going to look that up and share, however, because I’m tired. Simply surviving right now can be exhausting, and I’m just not up for a lesson. Google that shit and let me know what’s about. Instead, I’m taking a morning walk before diving into work, clearing the haze of the morning mind, and checking on this Rose-of-Sharon plant to see how many buds have opened. 

Beneath a seven-sons flower, literally and figuratively overshadowed by its over-reaching branches, the Rose-of-Sharon was one of the later additions to our garden, one of those spur-of-the-moment, late-season purchases made out of sheer exhaustion, not unlike the state in which I find myself today. Like hosta or hydrangeas, they are so commonly-used that some of us lose sight of their beauty and performance, as if it’s a crime to be so durable and consistent.

Their leaves stay as pretty as they are seen here for the entire season, and the blooms begin in late July and early August, just when the garden lets out its first breath of summer fatigue. There is no discernible fragrance, but its upper-brother will supply that in a few weeks. (The buds of the seven sons flower are already forming.)

On this sunny morning, the new pink blooms are much appreciated – reinvigorating the senses and jump-starting the summer all over again. We need that this year.