My Mom’s friend Diane grew African violets. She had a shelf of them in the small kitchen of her Guilderland apartment. I was only there once, but the colorful violets left an impression that has remained for forty years. Diane was also the person who taught me how to force paper white narcissus bulbs – a lesson I pestered her to repeat at least three times on a trip we took to Cape Cod. She passed away many years ago, but her stories of flowers have stayed in my memory bank, and I’m passing them on here because I was recently struck by the beauty of these African violet blooms.
For all their occasionally-reputed ease of indoor cultivation, and willingness to bloom on a regular basis, I’ve never grown them, but Faddegon’s just got a new shipment of them and they may be too pretty to resist. Like certain other passions, the obsession for certain plants and flowers is a cyclical thing, ebbing and flowing as the universe designs. Finding my way back to the African violet may be one of the things that gets me through this winter – like nail polish or chess.
Is it strange that the freshest green of the season is to be found in the flower rather than leaves of this amaryllis? If so, it’s a strangeness that is as gorgeous and beautiful as it is mind-pondering. It’s taken me many years to find the exquisite beauty of cream and light green flowers – for so Lon I considered them a waste of floral splendor. What’s the point of putting all your time and effort into a bloom that is the same color as a leaf? I’ve spent the last few years making up for that error, indulging in bouquets that are monochromatically cream and green, as gentle and easy on the eyes as they are simple to assemble. Sometimes a single bloom, when it’s as spectacular as this amaryllis, is all that you need.
Our home is due for another bouquet, to stave off the winter, to make the days bearable.
Whenever I see someone purchasing an orchid in full bloom from the market I wonder at what will become of it. I know most people will use them as an extended bouquet of flowers, and once they’ve finished their show they will be discarded, or perhaps stuffed into some corner for a long and slow demise. I don’t have the heart to do that, so I usually don’t bother with bringing oneinto our home.
About a year ago, however, we had guests visiting for a weekend, and I needed something for the bathroom. There weren’t any great cut-flower selections, but there was a smaller-statured orchid in glorious full bloom. At a reasonable price for its small size, I chose that and let it entertain the guests for their stay. After the blooms faded, I moved it to the front window of the living room, where it would get the most light. (Most people make the mistake of not giving their orchids enough light after their blooming cycle is done – that’s if they care enough to even try to take proper care of them.) It remained there, and as the winter continued, I added a little fertilizer and additional humidity so it might be happy.
One of its bare stalks began swelling, and soon a little sport appeared, sending out a wavy nest of roots. I let it stay there until it grew a bit bigger. The months passed, and after it seemed to be acclimated to its window perch, I repotted it into a new pot and some bark, continuing with the fertilizing and increased humidity.
A few weeks ago, I noticed three little bumps appearing on the main stem of the plant, and I assumed they were roots embracing their humid surroundings. I watched as they swelled a bit, daring to hope that they might be more than roots, and as they grew longer and developed into something more, I realized they were indeed flower buds.
I’m not getting too invested just yet, as I’ve seen buds drop off with a wayward draft or changed watering schedule and I just don’t think my heart could handle seeing that happen, so I’ll contain my excitement to a reasonable level, while still embracing a little bit of hope.
As for what variety or orchid this is, I cannot say. It was not marked with a name and so it remains a mystery until some plant expert can give a positive ID. Until then, it is a spark of green life and gratitude in the middle of a bleak winter.
In order to save Frosty, his friend and creator Karen boards a train to deliver him to the North Pole, where he won’t be in danger of melting. As they near their destination, and the world turns all wintry and white with snow, they find themselves outside, where Karen is chilled and in need of warmth. As happens in magical situations, there just so happens to be a greenhouse in the middle of this snowy night, and they duck into it to spend the night and warm Karen up.
Frosty: ‘Cause when the thermometer gets all reddish, the temperature goes up. And when the temperature goes up, I start to melt! And when I start to melt, I get all wishy-washy.
When Karen wakes from her nap, all she finds is Frosty’s magical top hat and a big puddle where Frosty used to be. My heart always broke at that scene, no matter how many times I’d seen it. I wondered if it was as traumatic for anyone else.
As much as the scene tramautzed me, it also intrigued and enchanted. A greenhouse in the midst of a snowy night felt magical, like one of those gorgeously contrasted sensations when one cuddles into a nest of blankets in the midst of a chilly room – the feeing of being warm and cozy while in close proximity to a cold and wintry world.
I also love a greenhouse in the middle of a frightful winter – it is good for the soul. I make weekly pilgrimages to the local nursery during the winter just to save my sanity. Breathing in warm and humid air and smelling the earthly delights is a balm for my mental well-being – at any time of the year, but particularly so in the winter.
Santa Claus: Don’t cry, Karen, Frosty’s not gone for good. You see, he was made out of Christmas snow and Christmas snow can never disappear completely. It sometimes goes away for almost a year at a time and takes the form of spring and summer rain. But you can bet your boots that when a good, jolly December wind kisses it, it will turn into Christmas snow all over again. Karen: Yes, but… He was my friend. Santa Claus: Just watch.
As for Frosty, the happy ending always rang a little hollow, but every year I would watch it all over again, hoping for some other outcome, hoping he would escape into the world of winter when he had a chance, save himself before he needed to be saved, and live happily ever after. We all want the Christmas miracle.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
