Category Archives: Flowers

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. 

This pretty pink lily was open when we visited my parents a couple of days ago. It’s been coming up faithfully for the past several years, without expanding or multiplying, but also without diminishing. There’s something to be said for simply sustaining, and surviving, especially in this insane world. I captured it here for you to view, even if you can’t quite sniff its exquisite perfume. 

Saturdays should bloom like this lily – quietly, delicately, sweetly, and beautifully. Summer mornings are much too fleeting. We must stop to smell the flowers, pausing in the quick passing of the sunny season. I’ll keep this morning post brief so you can do something like that. Meet me back here in a  few hours for something more substantial. 

Current Pool Status: waiting for a light bulb

Current Mood: pensive/resigned

Current weather: changeable, with a strong breeze

While we wait for the pool to reopen (originally planned for May, I figured it wouldn’t happen until the end of July – and quite frankly I’ve given up on it happening this summer so as to stave off any disappointment). Chalk it up to the wreck of this year of our Lord 2020. 

To get us through these end-times, I’ve been meditating and reading and going to therapy, all of which have helped transform and reset my sense of self, and interior renovation of the soul that’s brought about a new sense of peace and contentment, while instilling a more genuine sense of self-confidence that previously had mostly been rather superficial. That’s the deep part of this post, the unseen machinations of what goes on beneath the placid surface of prettiness I like to put on display here.

That prettiness finds expression in this little bouquet of summer sweet from the front garden. It’s the ultimate summer flower, coming into bloom at this sultry time of the season when the days can be viciously hot. If given an ample dose of water they will spread almost invasively, and producing these subtle but potently-perfumed spires of bloom. Justifying their common name of summer sweet (scientifically known as Clethra), these blooms are powerfully fragrant with a sweet floral note that is reminiscent of a lily – rich and exotic and an absolute favorite of bees, who know a thing about sweet flowers.

This is the first time I’ve picked a stalk for an inside bouquet, which is strange given its natural perfume. Thus far, it’s taken well to being plucked – I would advise only cutting the green and tender parts of the stem – these can bloom close to older wood, and anything that has hardened will not be as amenable to taking in water. If the stem has hardened, you might try crushing or splitting it to allow for easier intake of water.

In a little bouquet like this, it’s also easily transported from room to room, so wherever you may be working or living can be instantly transformed into a fragrant window looking into a portal of summer sweet beauty.

There aren’t many things that I consider true game-changers, but this is one of them: the bathroom bouquet. For some reason I usually reserve them for when we have guests, but the other day I remembered how nice it was to have something pretty to look at on the toilet. When you think about it, the one place where I am guaranteed to be at least once every single day is facing the toilet and looking down. First thing in the morning and last thing at night. Without fail. 

I wish I’d remembered the transformation such a little thing made long ago. We’ve been cooped up here with an available backyard flower supply since May. Better late then never, and who knows how long we will be needing such niceties? This simple little bouquet is a single fern frond and one hydrangea bloom – proof that the littlest things can make the biggest difference, especially in a corner where the only item of interest is a toilet handle. 

Petunias don’t get the critical credit they deserve. Too many of us, myself included, overlook their powerhouse performance simply because they are such constant working horse when it comes to producing blooms. Rather than rejoice and celebrate them, we look down at them for being such spectacular performers because they do it so seemingly effortlessly and consistently. We’d rather take months and years coaxing and coercing a rare orchid into bloom, pampering and prodding and whispering sweet nothings into its finicky ear while it demands time and attention and worship, only to disappoint with no flowers whatsoever, or a few measly and sickly leaves that eventually wither and die off. Why do we aim for the more difficult species than the ones that instantly and repeatedly reward with easy blooms and a constant show? I wish I knew. My life would have been gone much easier, in both ways.

I may not be the best at any one thing, but I’m a loyal and consistent guy. My attire, while perhaps not always to your taste, is always refined. My commitment to a task – whether a job, a creative project, or a new recipe – is steadfast and true. And my panache – well, I like to think my panache is unwavering. And as such, people expect such stuff from me, and I’m usually happy to oblige. I didn’t get to be the person I am today from hating what I do. I like being consistent. I like being organized. I like being anal. I like to dress up and spray delicious cologne in the air while I stride through its perfumed cloud. Scoff and joke and guffaw all you want – I’m pretty happy these days with the convoluted and contradictory stance I’ve adopted and made my own.

If you’ve come to expect it but find that the thrill is gone, please feel free to seek your newness elsewhere. Every chameleon-like Renaissance man has certain pools he favors, as much as he likes to change; we are different from day to day and year to year, but the soul stays relatively the same. I’ve come to appreciate that over the decades of my life. Like these petunias, the doggedly pretty things of the world have a scrappiness to their stalwart consistency. They, and we, try every day to be a little better, to put on a grander show, to inspire and impress and delight even if the petals are a little torn and the perfume a little faded. Our powerhouse performance isn’t often perfect, but we’re here for it.

Striving and blooming and putting on the show – even on a Wednesday morning.

It appears that this purple salvia is a salve for many, healing hurt and providing comfort and succor for the birds and bees that traverse our front and back yards. Here we see a bee visiting its hospitable bloom, and the purple flower spires have also attracted hummingbirds, which was really the whole point of planting them this year. I’ve only caught one hovering near the front yard container, and Andy had one come very close to him in the back yard, a brief brush as if it was saying hello. They flit away so quickly it feels like a magical experience you’re not really sure you even had. 

There is a fuchsia plant, whose name escapes me at the moment, that has long tubular flowers which the hummingbirds adore. I couldn’t find it in the nurseries this year so I settled for the salvia, which has become an impressive show-off in its own way. Proof that being flexible is usually the best thing to be, especially when it comes to gardening. 

It was the stuff of fairy tales.

A slipper of a lady hidden away in a forest.

A quest that took me over forty years to finally execute.

And a spell cast to make sure I would never repeat where precisely I had been.

My bucket list is kept as short as possible, and it always has been, intentionally so. I add to it as I find things within grasp of execution and likely possibility. Maybe that’s not the proper way to do a bucket list, but the idea of some long list of dreams I’ll never accomplish isn’t my idea of a good time. Instead, I keep the list small and doable, allowing myself to feel a sense of accomplishment I’d never have were I to list everything out all at once.

One thing that has been on that list for years, however, is to see a lady’s slipper orchid out in its natural habitat. I’ve kept in on the list because it’s not such a far-fetched dream. In fact, I had come close a few times. As recently as last year a friend at work had found one and alerted me to its presence, but due to weather and scheduling, I couldn’t get there on time. They live in the local woodlands, so it has remained on my radar, but vaguely so, never quite in complete focus.

A couple of weeks ago someone posted that they had just found a stand of lady’s slipper orchids in the Albany Pine Preserve, and after getting some loose directions I made my way there on a sunny lunch hour. It was warmer than I realized. My body had not yet adjusted to the heat of the season, nor was it accustomed to being out in the open beyond my front and back yards. Both were exhilarating, if a little uncomfortable at first. As I walked toward the path that led into the pine woodland, I took the first step of this little quest. I don’t always appreciate or make note of the start of such journeys – large or small – but on this day I did, because if I was successful in finding the orchids, this would be the demarcation of before and after.

A field of blue lupines was in full bloom on either side of the path, an auspicious start on this particular quest for beauty. I paused there, before I had even begun, because when prettiness presents itself – especially temporary prettiness, as in a field of flowers – one must stop and pay respect. Most of the lupines I see fly by the car at 70 miles per hour somewhere along the Massachusetts Turnpike. Seeing their intricate pea-like blooms up close was a treat – a bonus in what I hoped would be a day of breathtaking sights.

Back on the path, I waved off a few pesky little flies, and drank in more sun than I’d had in months. The lupines faded behind me, but a couple lined the first curve, beneath a small stand of trees, and I stopped there in the shade. As you get older, you stop more on walks, no matter how short. I wish I’d done that when I wasn’t as old. I don’t mean that to sound as sad and regretful as it might – I just wish I’d slowed down a bit. It’s something that could hold just as true today. Even on this pretty path, I found myself charging forward, on the lookout for something still ahead…

Having hiked maybe two or three times in my life (and by hike I mean walk into the woods for about twenty minutes, tops) I didn’t have much confidence in my sense of direction, and though it sounded easy enough to find them, I wound my way around various paths, doubling back to take a different turn when I couldn’t find the orchids. I was starting to give up and head back, when I remembered walking in the woods as a kid.

It was at this time of the year when we would begin studying for final exams – a time when we would have to go back into our binders to the first lessons of class and remind ourselves of everything we had learned during the whole school year. It was a daunting task that took several days, and invariably I would burn out at some point. When that happened, and when the sun still beckoned at 7 PM, I’d step away from the books and binders and steal into the backyard, nimbly navigating my way down the steep bank behind our house, stepping gingerly among ferns and mushrooms and crossing a street into a thicker forest, where I knew there were patches of jack-in-the-pulpit plants, and a rare maidenhair fern. There were daylilies on the edge of the woods, closer to the ditches that held more water, but they wouldn’t bloom for a few more weeks. Out in the woods the worries of schoolwork flitted away. My breath came easier, my heart-rate slowed. In the dappled sunlight, I found a place of peace.

In the pine preserve, I rediscovered that feeling. As soon as I relaxed, and my eyes adjusted to the subtleties of the forest floor, I let go of the nagging notion of direction and let the siren’s call of the lady slipper orchid alert me to her presence.

There, in a sea of pine needles and pine cones, slightly obscured by dead branches and new oak trees throwing out green leaves, I saw my first lady slipper. It was both smaller and larger than expected. I stepped carefully off the path and deeper into the wooded area, where suddenly a wave of them appeared around my feet, scattered here and there in haphazard fashion. An entire colony spread before me, as if they had just decided to appear by magic. I was entranced.

Very few things meet great expectations.

Very few bucket-list items end up being all that one hopes they will be. 

This very first brush with the lady’s slipper orchid – this unexpected embrace by the sublime – met my expectations, thrilling beyond what I’d only ever imagined in my head. 

Secluded from the rest of the world, a world at odds with itself and a world sick with so much, I felt an enormous release, even if I knew it was fleeting. I stopped there, inhaling the scent of the pines, the earthiness that emanated with help from the heat of the day, and took in the bewitching scene of these lovely ladies. They danced their dance in the middle of the afternoon, and allowed me to watch for a little while. 

Reluctantly, I walked quietly out of their circle of beauty, returning to the path from which I had come, and it was like a veil suddenly descended behind me. I looked back and didn’t see them anymore, nor could I tell you where I might find them if I wanted to return. I was not unhappy to be under such a spell. There is an added element of beauty when some things are kept secret, when only you have been afforded a glimpse behind the veil. 

Maybe it took this long to be accepting of their mystery, to not want to take them with me when I left, to marvel at their exquisitely enchanting blooms and hear their whispered charms and walk away with only a sense of greater calm, of greater appreciation for what beauty the world still holds. 

Keeping things light on the blog front this week is this peony post. Not much more to say, other than wish you were here to sniff them.

It’s easy to go overboard with the wealth of garden flowers on display now. Everyone is doing it, to judge by FaceBook and Instagram. In light of that, I tend to go the opposite way with my bouquets, keeping them simple and almost minimalist at this time of the year. This is a perfect example of that, as a single peony and dogwood branch comprise the whole of this arrangement, if it can even be designated as such.

When there is so much to see and do outside, I think it’s better to maintain a quieter atmosphere within the home. Summer is about to arrive, and with it all the noise and fanfare of the sunny season. We will need a space for silence and contemplation.

For me, flower bouquets are more important and necessary in the middle of winter, or when things turn gray and barren in late fall. The indoors remains a respite of peace and calm when the weather is sometimes too nice and hot outside, and with the cacophony of impending summer on full, I find little bouquets of simplicity a way of keeping things calm inside.

The single globe of allium that remains in the garden finished its much-too-brief blooming cycle last week, but I’m a bit backed-up on blog posts, so you’re getting to enjoy its architectural magnificence now. Spacing out such beauty is a boon right now, as I find myself stepping away from the computer and online world more and more every day, and it’s been much better for the soul. That’s not a bad direction in which to head. In service of that, take this brief blog post as a gift and go find some silence and peace. In fact, take the day. I’ll be back on Saturday morning. 

(If you really want something to read, visit this post, in which every single word is a different link.) 

Along with the lilac, lily-of-the-valley is one of those old-fashioned plants with whom most people of a certain age carry some sort of happy childhood memory. I’m not different from most people in that regard, and these rugged little perfume powerhouses remind me of my grandmother, who loved their scent so much she had all her bath products tinged with it. (It made gift-giving a snap since she always appreciated anything with their sweet perfume.)

They’ve been in their glory for the past two weeks, coinciding with the lilacs to provide a two-tiered fragrance combination that is the epitome of spring. In our backyard we have a patch of ‘Miss Kim’ lilacs from Andy’s Mum, and nearby a patch of naturalized lily-of-the-valley that came from I don’t remember where. The latter, in the typical invasive nature of the species, has colonized several areas of the yard since we moved in almost twenty years ago, and as much as I love the flowers, I’ve had to be rather ruthless with their encroaching rhizomes. It’s been a battle for a while now, though I usually let them have their flower show before cutting them back without mercy. Gardening isn’t for the weak of heart.

The foliage remains handsome and clean through the entire summer, and in fall it will occasionally turn a light yellow before disintegrating into papery wisps come the end of winter. In truly wretched conditions, it may prove more manageable and easy to control – a dry shade will eventually take its toll, but it’s nothing some moisture and a good topping of manure won’t turn around in a few short weeks. If you’re looking to coddle a few pips or get a large going from a small one, manure is also key, as is evenly moist but well-drained soil.

There is a pink variety that I have yet to see in person, and it sounds delightful, especially if used in a bouquet. Speaking of which, it takes a great deal of back-aching work to garner enough stems for a proper bouquet, but it’s worth it when the perfume fills a room.

When many of us are wisely taking precautions by limiting our travel and visits to family, we look for ways to connect through memory and sensory experiences that bring back loved ones who are distant or even gone forever. Such was the case of this bouquet of lilacs, which I picked for Andy in the hopes of reminding him of happy memories with his Mum, who gifted us with the original plant from which we now reap these armfuls of flowers.

A single vase is enough to fill a room with their sweet perfume – and these have other happy memories associated with them. They used to greet us every Memorial Day weekend in Ogunquit when we’d first step into our room at the Ogunquit Beach Inn. A stand of the traditional, old-fashioned New England variety lined the driveway, and if we stood on our roof-deck we could almost reach over and touch the lavender-hued blooms. The fragrance carried on the breeze – the quintessential perfume of spring, of hope, of welcome and warmth.

This year, the bouquet reminds us of those happy times, and the loss of them as well. Not in a sad sense, really, more a calming and reassuring presence of people and places we’ve known, and times touched by love and merriment.