Up until this year, the snowiest winter in Boston history was 1995-1996. I was living there during that dismal winter, and it was trying to say the least. I think most of the snow that year came in March, with a few bad storms even coming in April. I still remember one of the last storms that came ~ it started snowing when I was leaving campus and heading into the city, and as it started to come down heavier and heavier I almost started crying right there. It was just too much.
At the end of my wit and sanity, I sought out an outlet where I’d find some hint of spring, some desperate grab at salvation in the midst of dirty snow and winter depression. I found it at the New England Flower Show. Back then it was held in some cavernous convention center on the Red Line (which was also in relatively consistent service that year). I woke up early on a Saturday and made my way through the cold into the flower show, and from the moment I entered and saw the bright sunny blossoms of a pot of narcissus, my heart felt instantly at ease.
The scent of flowers and earth ~ the smell of life and warmth ~ immediately calmed the restless winter in my heart. Great swaths of muscari and tulips and iris colored the winding paths, while arching birch branches shaded certain nooks. Near the entrance was an enclosed circular garden room, where a kentia palm elegantly arched over a sumptuous reading chair, and ferns swayed gently in the lightest breezes produced by hurried passers-by. I took my time walking through the displays, pausing to inhale the various scents, examining the scenes both as a whole, and by each individual strand of moss or blade of grass. The sight of all the greenery had a way of healing the hurt of that long winter.
Having previously pooh-poohed the notion of flowers on Valentine’s Day (cologne will always be the wiser choice) I had forgotten how much a bouquet of bright flowers can lift the darkest spirit in these bleakest of winter days. When we recently had a few people over for dinner, I went out and bought these flowers, and they’ve made a noticeable difference in the house. For such a simple thing, the rewards have proven to be substantial. Maybe I’m just so starved for greenery and flowers anything would have made this magnificent difference. Whatever the cause, I’m enjoying the little burst of spring and boost of spirits.
It’s amazing the power that a flower can hold over the countenance and the mental state of those of us starting to feel the winter blues. I spent a while just staring at each of the blooms here, studying the veins of each petal, the curves of the stems, the texture of the leaves.
It was the color that inspired me the most. Rich, vibrant, bold and beautiful – the perfect remedy for a gray and white landscape. Sensory overload in the best possible way. A moment of visual giddiness.
This is why we need a garden room. So many ills could be instantly cured by a few hours in such surroundings. Beauty is a balm for the most restless of hearts.
Bright and humid enough to coax a Vanda into bloom.
Warm and comfortable enough to sit for a spell and read a book.
Until the day arrives when I secure that garden room, I’ll have to make-do with orchids like this Oncidium, and trips to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. Spring feels far away, and summer a lifetime ago.
“In gardens, beauty is a by-product. The main business is sex and death.” ~ Sam Llewelyn
Many years ago, I convinced my parents to buy me a Butterfly amaryllis for Christmas. At the time, it was a new introduction to the market, and was priced accordingly. Billed as a rare South American import, I cradled it lovingly in my hands before potting it up and setting it up in a prime southern-exposed window, beside a humidifier that kept the room in a near-tropical state. The plant promptly sent up two spindly leaves, the ends of which soon curled and burnt. It survived, but never thrived, despite my extra administrations. As for the exotic blooms, they never came. Eventually I gave up and it went the same way as other plants I’ve pampered and fussed over – such as a lady’s slipper orchid from White Flower Farm (the most expensive perennial I’ve ever purchased – dead after two years of watering with dechlorinated water. You try keeping that shit up in the heat of a Northeastern July).
Sometimes, the more you coddle, the less you get. And vice versa – as seen in the photos of this Oncidium orchid. I picked it up from Trader Joe’s on a whim last year, to accentuate the new kitchen, and I’d planned on throwing it out once its bright blooms faded. After that happened, however, the foliage remained bright and green, and it seemed in good health, so I put it in the front window near the other houseplants and soon forgot about it except to water it once in a while.
This past summer, when remembering to water it again, I saw it had produced a flower spike that was just about to start blooming. I almost missed it. Then, just last week, the same thing – another flower stalk already in bloom. I quickly added a bit of Miracle Gro to its monthly watering, and felt a little bad at my apathy toward such a strong performer. (Plants get me all anthropomorphic – even more-so than animals.) I’m not sure what I’m doing right, as the humidity in the house is typically low at this time of the year. I think it’s a combination of unintentionally sparse watering habits, and a slightly potbound situation (a number of plants will only bloom once their roots start crowding in on themselves.) Whatever the reason, it’s pretty – and beauty is a harbinger of the upcoming season. At least indoors…
In 1994, I had a memorable (or not-so-memorable) bout with mono that may have been the sickest I’ve been thus far in my life. The doped-up surreal journey of that experience, imbued by Rudyard Kipling’s ‘Kim’ which I was reading at the time, left me in much the same out-of-sorts condition from which I awoke on our third day in Ogunquit. Selfishly, I rejoiced that I could hear rain. It would be bearable if it rained and I was stuck inside. I wouldn’t miss it as much. I would’t mind so dearly.
It was with admittedly-childish dismay that the rain soon cleared, and the sun came out to torture me through the half-closed blinds. I was too upset to take much food, and nothing was agreeing with me anyway. The next couple of days passed thusly, my fall vacation in Maine sliding through my fingers, tantalizing glimpses of bright blue sky passing by the window as another day departed. Hints of flaming foliage fluttered in quiet, a gay pantomime of laughter that mocked my immobile state.
Eventually, I forced myself up, determined to make it out to our last dinner in town. I walked shakily past the entrance to the Marginal Way before arriving at dinner, but the lack of food for the previous few days, and the combined effects of such unprescribed pain-killers did not make for a dinner through which I could sit, and before my salad even arrived I had to head back to the bed and breakfast to climb into bed. The vacation was truly over.
Night closed upon me, and I let sleep come. There was nothing else to do. The next day we had to depart.
Here are a few more flower pics I managed to snap before my back went out. Looking at them, I wonder if it was worth it. The chance grab at capturing such beauty. Would it have been better to look from afar, to take them in and appreciate the moment without trying to still it, to steal it, to take a bit of it back? Or was this the reward of such beauty, the ransom for a ruined vacation? I haven’t decided yet…
My previous visits to the US Botanic Gardens were always restricted to the interior – the large glass greenhouse that offered an other-worldly chance to get out of the city, especially on chilly February days. On this trip, however, and on a breezy but nice October day, we walked outside into the gardens that stretched beyond the main building.
An unexpected delight, they carried on the secret-garden aspect of the inside, offering further respite from the political machinations of this country. Meandering paths obscured by walls of high grasses and delicately manicured native shrubs and bushes invited the weary walker onward, while late-season surprises waited to reveal their stunning blooms.
A small pond hosted dragonflies and water lilies, along with the blue spires of this moisture-loving plant. The importance of a water element in a garden should never be underestimated.
While many of the grasses had gone brilliantly to seed, waving their grains in the air like they just didn’t care, there were other plants still in full bloom, like this butterfly favorite.
The real powerhouses at this time of the year were the asters, in bright purples and pinks. Â This is their time to shine.
It’s also the time to reap the harvest of the beauty berry, electric in hue and bold enough to rival any blossom. The perfect finale to our time in the garden.
After the history lesson of the Capitol, and the studied silence of the Library of Congress, we walked just a bit further and made our last tourist stop at the US Botanic Gardens. Another favorite haunt of mine, this marked Andy’s first visit, and as his body was about to give out we took our time and paused on the benches provided along the way.
The best part about the Botanical Gardens is that they manage to be a respite at any time of the year. When it’s brutally cold in January or February, the warm moist air is a paradisiacal escape. When it’s unbearably hot and oppressively humid in July or August, the air is shaded and cool. On this day, they were comfortable and beautiful – providing a living, green contrast to the cool grays and mottled marble of the Capitol Building. And not just green…
Whenever I visit Washington, this space (and the zoo) always provides a bit of peace in a town known for blistering and blustery political bitching. This day proved no exception. We headed back outside, to a part of the grounds where I had never been before…
I have mixed feelings about plants that bloom this late in the season. Part of me is glad to see new colors and forms in the garden at this time, but another part has already given up. It’s why I only ever included a couple specimens of Sedum ‘Autumn Joy’. By the time the show starts it’s already time for the season to be over. Focus has already shifted indoors. The rest of the surrounding area is brown with the die-down of scorched ferns and wilted hydrangeas.
Yet there are joys and thrills of opening this late in the game. For starters, there isn’t much competition. Even the annuals, which will flower until the last possible moment, are looking ragged and worn. As noted, the ferns and other foliage have all been burnt and scorched by the high season. The plants that do begin their blooming cycle now are few and far between, which makes them all the more valued. One of the most striking late-bloomers is this Caryopteris – more commonly called Bluebeard. Not only is it rare in its late-hour show, it also offers one of the closest hues to blue that is produced in the natural world.
As I said, I’ve already pretty much written off the garden by this point in the year, but blooms like this remind me that as long as the sun lingers there is life – and some of it quite colorful and gorgeous. That’s a rather pleasant reminder, and a wonderful way to see the season through to the end.
Spinning on a stamen and prancing upon pollen, these pendulous fuchsia flowers dance like ballerinas suspended mid-pirouette. With a background of bright chartreuse (courtesy of a sweet potato vine that retains this fresh color throughout the growing season), the colors especially pop. It’s a classic combination, not for the faint of heart or the seeker of quieter shades.
When you take a flower in your hand and really look at it, it’s your world for the moment. I want to give that world to someone else. Most people in the city rush around so, they have no time to look at a flower. I want them to see it whether they want to or not. ~ Georgia O’Keeffe
I will be the gladdest thing under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers and not pick one. ~Â Edna St. Vincent Millay
Easing into a Sunday morning doesn’t always require something this bright and bold, but who am I to deny the punch-packing power of the garden when it wants to show off? Here we have two very different plants – the garden-variety Asclepias (relative of the milkweed, and just as irresistible to monarchs and their caterpillar form) and the vining Clematis (the common-but-no-less-lovely-for-it variety that one sees on many a mailbox pole). Taken together, they form the kind of combustible combination that thrills the senses. Such a strong statement is not for everyone. I know many who prefer a kinder, gentler palette of pastels, the cooling calm of lavenders and soft pinks, or the silvers and whites of downy foliage and airy blooms. For me, like much else it all depends on the mood. Today, I’m feeling feisty. Bang bang, zoom zoom feisty. Orange and purple feisty.
Even when the heat of day has rendered the concrete walkway around the pool unwalkable in bare feet, the lavender remains upright and true. Though the main flush of flowers has long since passed, these hardy plants will throw out a few random blooms from now until the fall. Long a signifier of peace and calm, lavender has been a favorite of mine since I was a kid. The fragrance alone is worth putting in a few plants, but the neat and tidy form, along with the soft gray-green foliage and enchanting blooms further recommend this as a necessary garden addition.
Its rustic elegance can be utilized in both formal and cottage-style gardens, and its silvery-gray hues lend a cooling aspect to the hottest days of summer. Individually, the bloom stalks are delicate and small – taken together they form a cloud of purple, a lavender haze that bees adore and worship. I don’t blame them.
He had invited me earlier in the year, when the winter raged, and thoughts of the garden were all that kept me sane. In his lovely way, he asked me to visit him “when the roses bloomed” and then he included his address and contact information. His name was Lee Bailey, and he was the man who wrote my gardening bible, ‘Country Flowers’ – the first book I ever read on the subject. I’d written him a fan letter when I was only eleven or twelve, and he’d written back then, pleasantly surprised by my age and interest. I thought nothing of it until a decade or so later, when I wrote him another fan letter, and he responded with the invitation to see him in the city.
I didn’t make it down until the end of June or early July, passed the point of the first flush of roses, at the height of heat and the nastiness that accompanies summer in New York. At the Chelsea Pines Hotel, in some starlet-themed room of garish and gaudy excess, I stood before the raging air conditioner, cooling down before my meeting with Mr. Bailey. ‘Poses’ by Rufus Wainwright was playing in my mind, its references to Fifth Avenue and flip-flops an apt correlation to my time there.
Out on the street, the heat was instantly intense. It was only a few blocks to his penthouse, but I knew they would be grueling. Taking it slowly, I stayed in the shade, waiting in vain for a breeze that never arrived. Normally I’d have slipped into shorts and, yes, flip-flops, but for this meeting – for the first face-to-face with an idol – I donned khakis out of respect, and a short-sleeved button-up shirt, with few buttons undone in deference to the heat. Something told me, in the friendly and casual way he had of writing, that Mr. Bailey wouldn’t stand on ceremony when it came to clothing or attitude.
On this sunny summer day, on a sticky and somewhat stinky sidewalk of New York, I made my way to my hero. Writers and artists and gardeners were always more impressive than Batman or Superman (but perhaps not Wonder Woman.) Suddenly I was very nervous about meeting him. In some ways, it was a moment that was a decade and a half in the making. He was someone who’d been with me since I was a child. Even if he had no idea, he was there guiding my choices, aiding in my decisions. Mostly it was in garden matters, of course, but there were other lessons cloaked in the guide of caretaking and tending to plants and flowers.
All these poses such beautiful poses
Makes any boy feel like picking up roses
In the lobby of his building, I paused, trying to cool down before going up in the elevator. I had never been in anyone’s NYC penthouse, and as the doors opened and deposited me in the hallway of his place, I felt wholly removed from New York, and almost everything I’d ever known. I’d seen similar things before, and had spent time in several mansions and the occasional Senator’s home, but it always impressed me to see how the other half lives. There was an ease to it, a grace you don’t always feel when you’re struggling, even if I knew that such wealth and comfort had its own sets of problems and worries. So much was simply relative.
His assistant brought me into the main living room, flanked on two ends by French doors that were open to the wrap-around balcony. That would be where the roses bloomed, I surmised. She offered me a glass of water and I accepted. Shortly after, Lee Bailey entered his living room. Walking with a cane, he exhibited the passing years since ‘Country Flowers’ had been published, but the spark was still there, and the wit and charm that seeped through his prose were still in evidence now that he stood before me in person. We sat across from each other, on parallel couches, and shared a lovely chat.
I don’t recall the specifics. Mostly, I just marveled at the pinnacle of a journey that began in the winter nights of my childhood, when I pored over the photographs of his flowers, imagining the expanse of his gardens, and drifting to sleep with the hardcover by my side. I explained, in slightly faltering form, how much he had influenced me, but it’s never easy to get across how much it had meant.
We talked of things other than gardening, too: men and boyfriends and his friend Elaine Stritch. He knew several other celebrities whom I would later see at one of his parties – Joel Schumacher, Liz Smith, Hal Prince – but they were merely his contemporaries, people who populated his past like Suzie or Chris populated mine. Though it seemed like my silly life had paled in comparison to his, he treated me as an equal, and such gracious respect would be one of his great lessons.
All these poses such beautiful poses
Makes any boy feel as pretty as princes
The green autumnal parks conducting
All the city streets a wondrous chorus singing
All these poses oh how can you blame me
Life is a game and true love is a trophy
And you said
Watch my head about it…
Our waters done, and sweating on a pair of coasters, we rose and I helped him toward the balcony. He apologized that the roses were done blooming for the moment – and recounted their beauty from a few weeks ago. Here was where the breeze lived – cool and refreshing and so very far from the sidewalk down below. We walked once around the entire length of the balcony, and then I sensed it was time to go.
He promised an invitation to his holiday party – a promise he kept, and a party I would attend right before Christmas – the first of a couple, and I was honored to be included. On that day, we parted quietly, easily, as if we’d known each other all our lives, and for one of us that was kind of true.
Back on the street, the heat had not abated, and I undid another button of my shirt. Mr. Wainwright came back to my head, and a gently meandering piano line plotted my return to the Chelsea Pines Hotel. I’d met my idol. The day was filled with promise and sparkle, with a melancholic undertow that scored all things bright and beautiful.
Reclined amongst these packs of reasons
For to smokes the days away into the evenings
All these poses of classical torture
Ruined my mind like a snake in the orchard
I did go from wanting to be someone now
I’m drunk and wearing flip – flops on Fifth Avenue
In the green autumnal parks conducting
All the city streets a wondrous chorus
Singing all these poses now no longer boyish
Made me a man, but who cares what that is?
Up until now, I’ve never given much thought to filler, particularly of the floral kind, though I realize its importance. Particularly in larger pots of mixed plantings, where contrast and scale can be skillfully manipulated to create illusions of grandeur, the use of tiny trailing plants like these is of the utmost importance. Bigger blooms and brighter blossoms may get all the initial notice, but it’s the one that draws you nearer that is remembered.
Like quieter voices or more nuanced shades, these little flowers command a closer look, demanding that one approach for further examination. It’s a trick that often works.
Though more demure in their request, they still ask to be noticed.
Even in the floral realm, a whisper can yield more than a shout.
