Category Archives: Flowers

The over-hybridized hot-house extravagance of fanciful orchids or the bombast of brash bedding annuals that never pause bloom until frost strikes them down can lead to a fatigue of excess color and saturation. At those times, I head out of the cultivated yards and the greenhouses, and find any small patch of wildflowers – which are to be found just about anywhere, such as behind the buildings of an outlet mall (in this care the Lee Outlets) where sections of ground have gone unmoved and untended, resulting in this little muted area of wildflowers and weeds. 

The flower forms were simple, the colors were soft, and their structure was awkward, haphazard, and entirely lacking of order or organization. They were brilliant in their simplicity and softness. Seeing the scene was almost a relief to my vision – a break, a reset, a chance to cleanse the visual palette. Like a container of coffee beans between cologne samples. 

In these very late days of spring, when all the world is brimming and overflowing with super-saturated colors and fragrances, one appreciates a moment of quiet, of delicious dullness. If all you experience is one extreme after another, eventually these scenes lose their magic and power – and stretches of time like winter become more desolate and bereft of charm. Reconnecting with quieter places and moments is a trick to even out the rollercoaster of spring barreling into summer. 

Down time matters.

These bluebells were hidden in a rather untraveled woodland area of Ogunquit, off the well-tread path to and from the beach, and unbothered by the traffic and bustle of the town. Only those seeking a quieter, calmer, and less-populated area would have the fortune of happening upon these elegant flowers. 

They are part of the freshness that makes this time of the year so spectacular. It will never be like this again, and it merits a pause in the quickening downhill rush toward summer. 

Let this prose slow and stop too, to give you your own moment to pause and reflect.

Our peony parade was especially flamboyant this year – the best sort of thing a parade can be. 

Whenever I used a parade metaphor I think of the straight guy who worked with me at Structure many years ago. Out of the blue one day he came up to me and asked if I liked parades. 

“Not especially, why?” I asked with slightly-bored bemusement. 

“I had a gay uncle who loved parades so I always wondered if all gay people loved parades.”

He meant well.

But the only parade I truly enjoy is a peony parade. 

It’s difficult to pick a favorite flower, but it’s quite likely that the peony is it for me. From the happy childhood memories it has informed, to the stalwart and powerful presence it retains in the garden for decades, the peony is a popular perennial for a number of reasons, perhaps most notably for its floral fragrance and form. It’s hard to imagine a more perfect bloom.

“It always seemed to me that the herbaceous peony is the very epitome of June. Larger than any rose,
it has something of the cabbage rose’s voluminous quality; and when it finally drops from the vase, it
sheds its petticoats with a bump on the table, all in an intact heap, much as a rose will suddenly fall,
making us look up from our book or conversation, to notice for one moment the death of what had
still appeared to be a living beauty.” – Vita Sackville-West

And now I’m making a rare request and asking that you forget the words for a bit. Focus instead on the photos – and the form of the peony at hand. It is worth pausing to examine the petals at hand. 

Is there a more charming common name for a flower than ‘forget-me-not’? And is there not a more perfect pairing to the name than these adorable blue blossoms? I’ve never had any specific memory or person that bound themselves to these little flowers. The only person responsible for planting forget-me-nots in the woodland garden of my childhood was me. In some sense, the forget-me-not reminds me of the child I once was – the little boy who sprinkled a packet of seeds along a stone-laden path, then waited and watched as their tiny, slightly furry leaves expanded and sent buds into a penumbra above their miniature forest. 

The flowers – so dainty and seemingly delicate – were like little explosions of blue bliss with hearts of golden stars, white points of light emanating from the center. No matter how strong the winds, and there are always strong winds every few days at this time of the year, these little flowers stay true – unshakable until the very last moment before they let their petals fall. 

On our recent visit to Ogunquit, we came upon an entrancing patch of these flowers as we walked from the opening of the Marginal Way to dinner. We passed the hotel where my parents used to stay, and a thought of Dad tied itself to these flowers. Maybe the forget-me-not is for anyone who deserves not to be forgotten. 

At the hair salon the other night, a Filipino woman cut my hair. She’d done so once before, and I thought her accent was familiar. She asked about my last name this time, and I confirmed that I was Filipino too – Dad’s side. She talked about her kids visiting the Philippines, and the foods she made – pancit and adobo and lumpia – and I told her I made those, as well as ensaymada, which impressed her. She said her husband hadn’t taught her kids Tagalog, and I told her the scant few phrases I knew. She asked if I lived nearby and if I had a family. I said I lived with my husband, and my Mom and brother and niece and nephews were in Amsterdam. This sort of small-talk, so insignificant and so meaningful, if only to me, to this moment in my life, brought my Dad back in such an easy and everyday kind of way, even as I put him in the past tense. It was important for me to say that to this hairdresser, to let her know he left us last summer. 

And then to feel him still with me – in an accent, in a recipe, in a story from halfway around the world. 

One of the final peonies to bloom is this exquisite almost-pure white variety which comes with the most intoxicating perfume of all the peonies we grow. It is always worth the wait, even if some years result in photographic peony fatigue. That wasn’t the case this year, as most of the bloom happened when we were away in Maine (the only drawback of a Memorial Day weekend vacation). And for the peony, I have always made room and time for moments of appreciation and gratitude. 

As with many white flowers often ridiculously dismissed for their simple color, the fragrance is an additional note in their symphony of beauty. When seen with a few raindrops from an afternoon shower, the effect is even more enchanting. While we begin our documented trail of peony blooms with these lovely white blooms, they actually began with the more common hot pink variety, which is to come in all its glory. Stay tuned…

Our clematis has already leaped its way up and over its accompanying lamp post. It’s the old-fashioned and rather common ‘Jackmanii’ variety, no less beautiful for its ubiquity, but when compare with the variety seen here, a bit lacking in pizzazz. (It makes up for that with the sheer volume of its blooms, so every clem has its lovable points.) This one is electric in the make-up of its individual blooms, but I left it at the nursery because we simply don’t have space for another clematis right now. (Our climbing hydrangea has finally taken over the arbor where once a sweet autumn clematis reigned supreme.) 

These blooms though… they do call to the part of me that thrills at a good dazzler. 

This is probably the most exquisitely-perfumed week in the garden, as the lilac trees and lily-of-the-valley plants are in full, fragrant bloom, crossing the sweetly-scented height of their potency – each carrying on the slightest of breezes, and each glorious in their singular way. For Mother’s Day, we sent a bouquet of each with Mom to bring home (more on that fun weekend to come). In the meantime, both of these flowers conjure happy memories of springs long gone but never forgotten. 

Are the cherry blossoms more enchanting during the day or at night?

My current answer is at night. 

The effect of their pale pink petals glowing against a darkening sky is exquisite, and while there are charms that can only be gleaned upon closer inspection in the unforgiving light of day, there is something more magical about them in the mystery of night. 

Amid the hazy unfocused visage of a weeping cherry tree dangling its pretty pink blooms like ballerinas floating in the sky, I offer this visual hint of our upcoming summer theme. Think pink, think ribbons and bows, and think of an aestheticism that doesn’t go very deep. We need a break from all that is serious and somber, and though I’m aiming for a quiet summer, I’m open to a calm and tranquil bit of joy. This theme accomplishes that, and comes courtesy of my niece Emi, with some active encouragement and planning by Missy’s son Cameron. More – much more – on that in the coming weeks. 

I’ve always believed that the children are our future – the twist is that they are teaching me well and leading the way to show me all the beauty of the world that still exists. 

We want so badly to name and label everything around us, like the color of these azaleas. As an annoying Virgo, I understand the desire to organize the world into the known and the explainable. As someone who also understands how annoying that trait can be, I strive to embrace the frayed edges, the not-so-neat areas of haze and imprecision. And so I present these azaleas, without name or specific color designation, as seen on a lunch-time walk. That’s all, and that’s enough.

Saddled with an unfortunate clunker of a name, these Ranunculus deserve a better title, or maybe we just need to embrace the beauty of all names. These flowers have slowly been wilting away since our Purple Reign weekend – at the time of this writing there is only one left intact. Circle of life. Quick pretty hit and run. Back to life, back to reality… End of blog post.

The tulip is not a flower or bulb for the control freak at heart. Aside from a few truly perennial varieties, the bulbs are unreliable for the long-term, often sporting off and becoming something wholly different than their original incarnation, defying those gardeners who plan and plot their colors and bloom times with precision. Happily, I have never been one those gardeners. The garden is one of the only places I allow for a certain element of chaos and unpredictability. It’s a requirement if you want to truly enjoy the lessons that a garden has to impart. 

Akin to their garden performance, the tulip flower is a bit unpredictable as well, particularly in an arrangement, where their stems will bend and twist according to what feels very much like wish and whim (they don’t necessarily follow the source of light). That makes for interesting effects, especially if you are willing to go with the flow and embrace some changeability. 

Personally, I love the unknowable actions of a tulip. They’ve been causing amusing trouble for centuries, and their prettiness is part of why they get away with it. 

It’s not right, but it’s ok. 

Tom Ford, in a rare failure, once tried to capture the elusive enchantment of the almost-tangy delicate perfume of the jonquil in one of the fragrances from his garden collection, ‘Jonquille de Nuit’. I didn’t very much like any of that ill-fated line, not even ‘Cafe Rose’ which is the sole survivor of the original effort, but I admired the attempt at conjuring the essence of Narcissus. (Ford would rebound gloriously in the floral realm with his Rose Garden collection, right on the cusp of when roses were everywhere.) 

This week, the real-life jonquils have come into bloom, defying the wind and rain we’ve had of late and bravely putting on their little show. As much as I’ve been gardening over the last forty years, Narcissus have not fared as well under my hands as other more difficult-to-grow specimens have. Is there irony or poetic justice in that? Or maybe just a cruel trick of the universe, a dig at my vanity – always more perceived than real – a prettiness just out of reach. Tom Ford failed at capturing the magic of their perfume; I fail at their cultivation, easy though it is rumored to be. 

Leaning down, near the ground and beside the brilliant orange trumpet, I breathe in its faint perfume – and it is perhaps the freshest thing the garden will bring us this season. It would be impossible to capture or replicate such a fragrance. Maybe Ford knew that, and there’s something heartbreaking in his making the attempt. In the same way I will plant more Narcissus bulbs in the fall. We all endeavor to make more beauty.