Category Archives: Gardening

Uncle! Uncle! Uncle!!!

Please, no more rain!!!

We are waterlogged already!!!

Presenting for evidence this photo of a pine seedling growing out of a wooden fence door that is now so thoroughly soaked it has made a viable place for seedlings to take root. When I first walked by this, I thought it was from a batch of weeds that had snagged on the door as I went past. Upon closer inspection I could see that a pine seedling had germinated and begun growing in the wet wood itself. Nature will find a way.

This doesn’t bode well for the garden. An excess of anything is rarely good, and in the excess of rain we have been overrun by slugs that have decimated our once-beautiful hosta, and started the rotting process on several sections of wood around the house. 

On the other hand, the ferns and the cup plant and the fountain grass are all having banner years. Pity we can’t get out as much to enjoy them when it’s pouring rain outside. Whatever happened to a happy medium?

Not even the overload of rain could stop our little suns from blooming in the backyard, and this year all that rain means that the cup plants have reached towering proportions. These flowers were barely able to be captured by me, as they’re about two feet taller than my head, and on the overcast days we’ve had of late they’ve been all the sun we’ve seen. 

Andy has seen that the gold finches that favor the eventual seedpods have returned as well, scoping out future meals and lending another dash of cheerful yellow to the drab days. Summer continues – muted and subdued – but still shining in the petals of the cup plant. 

Along with their speckled throats, these foxglove blooms, if you examine them closely enough, also offer little patches of fuzzy hairs. The fox moniker works on many levels, and the most basic and noticeable of these is simple beauty. That makes for a compelling post without these pesky words. 

If you want to grow these, and ensure their return, it’s best to do so in a more casual garden, where seedlings have the freedom to pop up in a general area. As a biennial, the foxglove has about two years of reliable bloom, and the rest is up to the volunteers that pop up if the flowers are allowed to go to seed. There are some foxglove varieties that are reliable for a few more than two years, but they don’t seem to have the same color power. As with so many things, trade-offs are required. 

Summer phlox were once the backbones of any proper perennial garden, and in some places that still holds true. Our backyard, however, is not one of those places, and whenever I come across a specimen like this, with its pink eyes and charming white frills, I make motions to find a space for a plant or two, and then always end up giving up. The moth of July is filled mostly with watering and fertilizing and pruning and editing. Planting is mostly already done, or waiting for a safer and later date. And so something like phlox, when it comes to mind, gets shuffled and debated and teased, most usually to no avail. 

The brain is scattered in summer, and the garden suffers slightly for it, but beauty will not be stopped or dispelled by my misguided mental meandering. See this lovely phlox plant as evidence that flowers will find a way. 

For years I struggled with keeping the Endless Summer hydrangeas in the front yard as blue as possible – asking Andy to save all his coffee grounds and religiously amending the soil with them, collecting all our rusty metal items from the garage (nails, screws, washers, paper clips) and inserting them into the soil around the roots, and mixing scary-looking acid-green acidifiers into the watering can and carefully pouring the mixture just onto the hydrangeas. For the occasional bloom, here and there, it worked, but only in the slightest – the petals would fight to turn pink, moving from the blue where they started through a purple tone, and into the pink they so clearly desired. 

At the same time the front yard hydrangeas went in, I planted a blue variety – not the Endless Summer variety which bloomed on old and new wood – this one only bloomed on old wood. The trade-off for the blue I so sought was paid for by the fact that our winters usually killed off any potential flower buds. For many years – a full decade at least – this one barely deigned to bloom. When it did, there was maybe one or two small stalks that were hidden in the shade of its foliage. 

This year we must have had a milder winter, coupled with a less-aggressive pruning practice, and the results are these beautiful blue blooms on our backyard hydrangea. It is located right outside our bedroom window, and makes an especially stunning sight when the afternoon sunlight is slanting through its flowers. It’s so nice when things are worth the wait. 

Nestled on the edge of concrete, between the pool and a weeping larch, this patch of lemon thyme has reliably returned year after year, and this summer looks especially stunning in full white bloom. It is not a show-stopping plant, but it is integral for softening the concrete deck of the pool and transitioning into the softness of the garden. That it enjoys intense heat and sun – the kind that concrete so often produces at the height of the day – is a bonus treat which allows it to flourish in such a space. 

The lemon-scented oils in its precious leaves are added incentive to plant some wherever you have a sunny place that gets some foot traffic; brushing by this one releases its lemony effervescence, in the same way that lavender or mint refreshes the garden when brushed or bent. 

Oddly enough, I never think to cook with it much, though it would be lovely with chicken or fish, and is striking as a cocktail or mocktail garnish. Mostly though, it makes the perfect plant for edging the pool deck, or any hot and sandy space. It softens and flows over whatever it’s planted near, and that kind of service, joined with all its additional wonders and attributes, makes for a magical and too-often-unheralded garden plant. 

Our lavender is doing exceptionally well this year, particularly this pink variety which has come back nicely to blur the edge of our pool deck with the start of the garden. It’s an enchanting plant, which appears differently every time I see it. Sometimes it looks like a black and white version of what I’m so otherwise accustomed to seeing, drained of the typical tints of purple that symbolize this plant. Other times, I see the faint pink that almost gets lost among the more vibrant shows being put on at this time of the year. 

Either way, its effect is soft and subtle – two things that are much appreciated in the garden right now, when the sun works to fell even the hardiest of heat-withstanding soldiers, and the colors battle back as if reflecting the brightness might repel some of the heat. Lavender adds a coolness to this, especially when it goes pink, and the gray foliage works to further subdue the scene. 

It reminds me of the importance of such cooler color schemes, especially at those moments when the heat rages, as we’ve already had this week. As much as I love a striking shade of chartreuse, or a fiery orange asclepias, there is a calming magic that occurs when the palette goes a bit quieter. 

For almost all the plants in our garden, I follow a strict regimen of dead-heading as soon as they finish their bloom cycle. (Obvious exceptions include vegetables such as tomatoes.) In the case of Rosa rugosa, I will also make an exception a bit later in the summer. One of the more striking attributes of this species of rose is its brilliant rose hips come fall – in shades of green, yellow, orange and red – changing and evolving like peppers. 

The only way to ensure a crop is to let the blooms go to seed (after a visiting pollinator like this bee finishes its work) which drains some of the energy of the plant. In the case of such a strong species, however, it doesn’t do much damage – and the fruit at the end is worth it. Fall comes with precious little other stuff to appreciate; we will need all the help we can get to make those days a bit cheerier.

It’s too early, and we haven’t yet had enough hot days, for the garden or the soul to need a refresher. Some years – like the previous summer for instance – it had already been hot and sunny for days on end, zapping the garden of moisture and the coolness of a reprieve.  Of course, now that our pool is open we’ve had a cold rainy stretch every few days. Good for the garden, not so much for those who enjoy sun and heat. 

Usually we are deep into the high days of summer now – the sunlight lingering longer than it will at any other time of the year – and we are often yearning for some cool refreshment. At that time, this wild sweet pea, kept in tight check and restraint, and its clean blooms are a glorious respite from the heat of the day. 

This plant takes the hottest days and maintains itself until it finishes flowering. At that point I cut it back to the ground, at which point it resurrects itself, sending up a fresh mound of foliage and often a second flush of flowers for later in the summer. 

We would all do well with that kind of freshening up now and then. Knock it all down and start all over again. A chance to make something better. 

Occasionally called the ideal mailbox post plant, this common clematis is often trained onto posts for mailboxes and lamps alike. We’ve opted for the latter, and I actually can’t remember if I planted this one, or if it came with the house. On certain years I’ve neglected to trim it up, allowing it to flop about at the base of this ugly lamp, reminding of its presence only when it strikes up its royal purple show. 

This year I fed it a bit, tied it up a bit, and am now enjoying the fruits of such minimal labors. It takes so little to make a difference sometimes, and so often we just don’t bother. Still, some flowers will bloom no matter how badly you treat them, or how often you forget them. It’s just in their nature. There’s a nobility in that which I can only hope to one day approach.  

Most true plant enthusiasts, if we are being brutally honest with ourselves, have turned to a life of crime at one time or another. Whether it’s the quick clipping of a plant cutting from a greenhouse stuffed surreptitiously into a pocket, or the midnight cut of a lilac branch from a public park, most people who are passionate about plants and flowers have succumbed to the mostly harmless temptation of taking something that wouldn’t really be missed, or might otherwise shrivel away. I always think of my criminal actions when I see the bright blooms of the evening primrose. 

We had a nasty neighbor – well, she seemed nasty to a sensitive child because she had absolutely no tolerance for the foolishness of wicked boys (I’d probably get on quite well with her today) – who cultivated a couple of refined and simple gardens – all of which were right off the sidewalk in front of her house – no gate, no hedges, no impediment of any kind for an ill-intending garden thief who only wanted a small bit of her evening primrose that needed to be divided and cut back anyway. 

The evening primrose (Oenothera) is a reliable signifier of summer – its blooms appear right around the solstice, opening in the bright light of day and closing at dusk. They appear in great quantity, but they don’t last that long, so it’s a trade-off. They will occasionally throw out some sporadic blooms throughout the summer, but this is their main time to show off. The plant spreads quite quickly in a sunny spot it likes, and so I didn’t think our neighbor would miss them, or even know, if I took a small bit from the back of one of her extensive patches. 

Late at night, I snuck into her garden, quickly dug out the smallest of pieces of primrose, and hurried home, depositing it into our backyard garden (not the front because that would be too telling when it bloomed the following year). I’m not proud of this, and don’t recommend stealing of any kind, even if you think it won’t matter or make a difference. Clearly it still weighs on my heart and conscience all these many years later, and the neighbor had long ago moved so there’s no way to achieve any sort of reparation for what I did. Maybe I’m a better person for operating in a more honorable way since then, who knows. I didn’t tumble into a life of crime, and every time these sunny blooms open up and remind us of summer, I’m reminded to be a little better, a little more aware of my actions, a little less, well, criminal. 

As for these Oenothera blooms, they are descendants of that initial brush with thievery, as these plants took off in our garden and have spread reliably and almost invasively ever since. I don’t think our neighbor even noticed. And that still doesn’t make it right. 

The mock orange, aptly named of its convincing approximation of the sweetness of an orange blossom’s perfume, is one of those unassuming and almost weed-like shrubs that only shines at this time of the year, but it shines so sweetly and so memorably that we will put up with its otherwise drab appearance. There are often such trade-offs in the garden. Some of the most spectacular visions and colors – such as coreopsis or evening primrose – are entirely devoid of any notable fragrance. Meanwhile, such plants as the mock orange and Korean viburnum offer potent perfume without any other visual excitement. 

Being that I have a few fond memories of the mock orange perfume from childhood, it is worth it to have a couple plants on hand, even if this magic is doomed to last but a week at the most. Two of them came with the house, and the other one is a nursery specimen. All could stand to have a little extra care, something I’m guilty of neglecting as they are such stalwart souls. 

Rosa rugosa is the beach rose that so brilliantly survives the harshest of conditions (hello salty sea spray) to reward with these simple but fragrant blooms. They are on the thornier side of the rose family, without a single space on the stem that isn’t populated by prickles, but that kind of toughness is needed when you’re in a daily battle with the harsh elements that their preferred seaside locations demand. 

Happily, this specimen only has to contend with the sun and heat and winds and rains of an upstate New York summer, and the occasional splash of pool water if someone is making extra efforts to cannonball. While a little rough around the edges for a formal garden, I’ve maintained its size and shape with some heavy pruning in the spring, and it’s stayed within its prescribed boundaries rather well for the past five years. It seems to enjoy a heavy pruning, and I love a plant that’s not afraid to lose its limbs in the hopes of growing greater ones. 

I also love its fragrance, which brings me back to Ogunquit and Cape Cod in the best possible ways. 

After decades of trying to bend the will and shade of these hydrangeas I have finally accepted their refusal to be anything other than light pink, and more than that I am embracing such a choice because that’s what they were born to be. Amending the soil with acidifiers and coffee grounds and rusted nails would momentarily yield a more bluish tone, but invariably they returned to purple and then pink, and appreciating a plant for its natural state in its home soil is another valuable lesson that the garden has imparted.

Forcing things, aside from bulbs in the midst of winter, rarely turns out well, and nature will always work around it. A river bends but rarely breaks. These hydrangeas yearn to be pink, and being pink is part of their basic make-up, their interior soul that always finds expression at one point or another. 

It’s so much simpler to enjoy a blooming hydrangea when you embrace whatever shade it deigns to appear as. And who could ever find fault with pink and cream and green?