Category Archives: Flowers

When it’s still in the mid-sixties in almost-mid-November, there is a chance that the daisies seen here may not be the very last daisies. Given that we’ve had roses in December in previous years, anything can happen. Still, without any new buds on the way, it looks pretty certain that these Shasta daisy blooms will be the last the gardens puts forth this year. I am grateful they have been coming for this long, and seeing them beside the covered pool makes me realize we’ve made a pretty good headway into the fall. Every day we get a little closer to spring. 

On this Sunday morning, I’m appreciating a few quiet moments before the day begins in earnest. This is Etude by Joep Beving:

The weather is forecast to be rainy today, then growing colder, more aligned with the Novembers I remember. It will be a good day to make soup, or maybe just some tea, then to snuggle into something cozy – a sweater or a blanket or a couch. A good day to light a candle or two. 

And it will be a day to look out at the last two daisies and see how they are faring in this brutal world. 

At the start of summer, when this clematis traditionally blooms, its color is a dark violet, illuminated by the strong overhead arc of the sun during the day. This summer I fed it a weekly regimen of fertilizer, as some years it has gone neglected, but always manages to bloom. Such consistency and determination deserves rewarding. It was in the service of next year’s show, but apparently it paid some early dividends, as the clematis went into a rare fall re-bloom with our recent brush with warmer sunnier weather. 

Even better than this reminder of summer is the way the afternoon sun lends a warmer aspect to the blooms, emphasizing the underlying red tones of the middle of each petal. It absolutely sets the vein-work alive with hints of magenta and fuchsia in the midst of the purple. A magical moment that could only happen in the fall. 

The tale of a shortened weekend in Boston will be told here tomorrow. For now, a brief sunny respite, in the form of these lemon-hued flowers seen along the Southwest Corridor Park. They form a notable contrast with the chilly darkness of these fall days, and provided the only glimmers of happiness in my quick overnight in Boston. 

Mondays need such a cheerful boost, and a canary-yellow pair of blooms when summer has already departed must serve the purpose. 

Standing in the garage, I watch the rain pour down over the driveway and feel a sense of calm. The scent it sends up where hot driveway meets cooling rain is one of those intoxicating perfumes that rivals anything that might be conjured from the linden tree, or even the lilacs of late spring. While I am leaning into the scene, and feeling a profound sense of gratitude for the rain on this humid, sticky day, I recall the petunias in the backyard, the ones that are likely drooping in the rain. They retained such a sense of freshness just that morning, and I remember thinking how lovely it was that they were still putting forth blooms, even when we had mostly moved indoors for the scant remainder of the season. 

It was a banner year for the return of the petunia, something I shall put into play again next summer, even if my heart knows it won’t be the same. This was a magical time. Watching the rain fall down, I inhaled the beauty of it all – the idea of summer flowers closing their show for the year, and the idea of rain nourishing them until the very end. A little flare of fall flutters on each falling raindrop, tiny sparks of light that will soon ignite a whole new season. For now, it’s just rain – calming and soothing rain. 

My aversion to goldenrod doesn’t come from its wrongly-rumored allergy connotation – most of the sneezing that takes place at this time of the year is due to the ragweed, a far less showy plant that spreads its bothersome pollen in the air. The goldenrod carries its pollen closer to its flowers, due to its larger size, and doesn’t get as easily airborne as the ragweed. Unfortunately for the goldenrod, it’s the plant we see in bloom now (the ragweed is as unassuming as its common name) and so it gets all the blame. I know what that’s like. Being the showy one instantly puts a target on your back. 

Fortunately for the goldenrod, and for me, the truth wins out in the end. Always has, always will – it’s just a matter of time. 

That still doesn’t allay my aversion to this plant, which goes back to grade school, and the way the swaying gold blooms always told me that the start to another school season was around the corner. The same feelings of dread and worry crept into the cool night air then, while whispers of the darkening fall sounded insidiously on the wind. Goldenrod nodded her assent, allowing autumn to enter, and my heart was set into riot again. 

Not many people go online unfiltered anymore, but plants don’t have such vanity issues, so this is a completely unfiltered pair of photos of a simple morning glory. I say simple, but it’s stunning in its hue and shades, and the starlike central design that almost feels like it’s imagined. Nature usually only allows them the morning in which to bloom and shine, but now and then an overcast day will elongate their glory. We are in no mood to hasten summer along, so any extension of its spell is appreciated, especially at the start of a weekend. 

Happy Friday! 

Amid the heat and pandemic-pandemonium that has gripped every little city in the world, a lunch-time stroll can be the one thing between sanity and all the other options. I’ve been making sure to take a lunch break to reset and right myself when the workday threatens to engulf and overwhelm, and on one of my recent walks I was happy to see this container of lantana absolutely fanning the flames of floral fire. 

I am enthralled by how each blossom cluster holds so many different colors. You don’t often see that in a plant – it almost looks like an accident, like some artist took too much liberty with the laws of nature and created some other-worldly creation – only this one is real and natural and simply splendid. 

The color combination is stunning, and perhaps too bold for some people. 

It is just right for me. 

This may very well be the Year of the Petunia. They are somehow still managing to bloom in our backyard, despite repeated attacks by rabbits intent on defoliating them. And then on a lunch-time walk in downtown Albany the other day, I saw this exquisite variety that had me question whether the world had turned from technicolor into black and white at that particular moment. It was enchanting. 

While these were white with purple throats, it was a purple so dark that at first glance it gave the image of a black and white combo. Many gardeners seek out dark flowers, and the closer to black the more coveted. As a child, I too thrilled at the darker hues, particularly in irises. This hint of darkness in the throat of a petunia brought me back to that magic. 

The title of this post is the sole reason for its being.

I mean, beeing.

A dark, dreary and rainy Monday started the week in drab fashion, and when I opened the laptop to begin the workweek the screen was brighter than my surroundings – a situation that hadn’t happened since the earliest days of spring. We must make other sources of light, I thought, and promptly found these pics on my phone. 

This little orb of imitation sunshine is brought to you by Rudbeckia – a small stand of which has made its way into our front garden. It’s echoed in the backyard by great stands of the cup plant, which also provided some false sunshine as the rain fell and Monday slowly trudged through her gray trajectory. 

I shouldn’t complain too much – we need the rain badly, and I was getting tired of watering the ferns every morning. So much of July is given over to watering and weeding, it’s difficult to get a handle on anything else. 

July reminds me of this line from ‘Sunset Boulevard’: “Maybe red, bright flaming red – let’s make it gay!” The heat is on, and not just on the street – in the gardens as well, when the warm hues take center stage as the cooler shades of spring have long since faded. These shades are bright and bold, and they have to be to combat the striking sun. 

Summer lends itself to fiery celebrations, especially this weekend, but in these years of our lives I prefer the fireworks to be quietly exploding in the garden alone. Our world is loud and chaotic enough, and summer, while it may be hot, hazy, and lazy, should also be subdued and silent when it can be. The garden can make all the noise, as seen in these bold blooms.

July shouts its arrival in brash and beautiful fashion, moving us deeply into summer. 

While all of the petunias I planted in our garden bed have been devoured by this crazy-cute culprit, there are a pair of hanging baskets that have been in bloom for over a month now, lit up with some sweet potato vine leaves, and safely hung high above the ground. It’s the only safe space, with all the rabbits and groundhogs and other mysterious raiders who come in the night. 

The third day of summer is at hand, and the first Friday of summer at the same time, so despite the unexpected work day at the office (plans were canceled at the last minute) I’m still going to ride through the hours in a state of hopeful happiness as the heat rises for the weekend. 

To welcome that heat and humidity, here is a trio of blooms currently dotting the backyard, bringing a happy face to our poolside lounging. 

Summer living is supposed to be easy – relaxed and loose – mirroring the carefree days of childhood, the joy of holidays, the sunny sweet spot of a mid-afternoon siesta. That spirit is something I will attempt to conjure again, and I will try to carry it through the day. Happy Friday… Happy Summer.

These are some of the happiest little flowers, opening just as the summer season begins. Called ‘sundrops’ by some, for obvious reasons, and ‘evening primrose’ by others, for the way they open mostly at dawn or dusk, and Oenothera by a plant-loving nerd like myself, they are, no matter what you call them, bright and cheery harbingers of the sunny season. 

They can also colonize a patch of the garden quite quickly, perhaps too quickly if you have strict boundaries. Personally, I like a tough little cookie, especially when it brightens a summer morning.