Category Archives: Gardening

It’s just the very beginning of the Chinese dogwood’s blooming journey, and while I usually wait until these have turned a whiter shade of pale, we need the glimpse of cheer now. This is one of my favorite trees, providing all the beauty of the American dogwood, but only once all the leaves have emerged. It also extends the season for another few weeks, making it ideal for the entry of summer. 

The actual flowers are still in tight bud – what we are seeing as the ‘petals’ are technically bracts. The real flowers are small and insignificant, but they’re the ones who will produce the raspberry-like fruit later in the season. (Sadly, they’re raspberry-like only in appearance, not taste or texture.) For now, the show has just begun… 

When we first move into our home, there was an enormous rhododendron that took up most of the front garden. It was over-sized and had grown unchecked for what must have a been a decade or two. It dwarfed the little plot in which it was then crammed, and blocked much of the light to the largest window of the house. It’s flowering was alternately magnificent and unimpressive, depending on the year, and as it was ruining the scale and proportions of our little home, eventually it had to go. 

Replacing it with a wedding cake viburnum, I failed to realize the importance of the evergreen aspect of the rhododendron, and so the winters felt bare and sparse, even if the light was welcome. After a few years, that too outgrew its space, and I transplanted a small Japanese umbrella pine to the location – a good choice for its slow-growing nature and evergreen beauty. 

Every once in a while, I’ll miss that original rhody, such as when I saw these beauties at my parents’ home. In full bloom, they are spectacular, and have filled in their front yard garden plot, brilliantly painting their hot pink glory against the white brick. We always seem to come back to the classics, and it may be time to put one of these into our side-yard, where they seem to enjoy the shade and the soil, and can stretch out beyond the confines of a formal garden. (I’ve softened the stance of this original post, much like the way I’ve softened other rigidities that were once seemingly cast in stone.)

While Andy may better know his way around automobiles and kitchen stuff, I’m the master in the garden. Sometimes, the master has much to learn, and that was the case when I happened upon Andy’s weigela at his old house. It bloomed prolifically at this time of the year, beginning a cavalcade of pink that lasted a solid week or two, especially if nights stayed cool and there was enough moisture in the air. I asked him what it was and he said he thought it was a Weigela. It was the first and only time he knew the name of a plant before I did. 

When we moved into our current home, and the first spring began to reveal which plants were in the backyard, I watched as a rather plain-leaved bush sprouted. It’s form was somewhat fountain-like, similar to a forsythia. Nearby, a Japanese maple unfurled its fine maroon leaves. Carpets of pachysandra extended well beyond where we would eat them. The shrub I couldn’t identity slowly revealed more of itself as the warm weather arrived. Buds appeared, and I recalled the Weigela. A few days later they bloomed pink as seen here – a standard variety that made its way around the upstate New York landscaping. It felt like a link to the past, blooming in our future backyard. 

A fox would not be entirely unwelcome in our yard at any time, especially considering the abundance of rodents the last few years have brought into our neighborhood. Foxgloves have long been a magical plant, one that I’ve mostly ignored growing for their unreliable growing pattern. Mostly biennial, they depend on spreading their second-year seed, leading to unpredictable clumps of future foxgloves, assuming they safely germinate. Too much chance in a world where chance is never a safe friend. 

That said, I’ve been embracing such unpredictability, so maybe this is a good time to sow a few of these and give them their first year of leaves for a floriferous show next year. Slowly, we begin to plan ahead. Slowly, we feel the way to a future. In the speckled loveliness of a fox’s glove… 

These violets are a menace to the perfectly manicured lawn, but they form a magical part of my childhood memories, as they grew freely in the little forest behind our home. Back then they were simply woodland joys that rarely encroached upon the lawn, content to inhabit the secret recesses of that shaded area behind the pool’s pump house. 

Today, they are taking over our lawn, and as such must be eradicated, which is easier said than done. I’ll let Andy do that difficult job, and snap these photos to show off their pretty side before we bid them adieu. 

Some plants begin looking very much as they will look for the duration of an entire season. Others, change immensely. This is one of the latter – and this is the beginning of the Maidenhair fern. Also known as the five-finger fern, it’s digits haven’t quite begun to uncurl and extend themselves, holding still like little knuckles. if they seem tense, it may be due to the cool weather we’ve had. Cold nights don’t make for pleasant conditions for maidens or men or all sorts of the beautiful in-between and outside. 

Despite its delicate appearance, this is one of the hardier ferns. Its elegant leaves are so light and airy, they allow the coldest winds to pass right through them. It’s an ingenious hat trick for a plant, and the lesson is a very good one. 

The unfurling of the Ostrich ferns is one of the magical moments of May. This ever-expanding patch of them has intruded into the new lawn I seeded last year, so they will be whittled down, but it’s fun to watch them unfurl first. I’ll transplant them into the side yard where they can run rampant through the pachysandra beneath a giant oak tree. It’s a shaded and secret space, perfect for the delicate appearance and underlying hardiness of these ferns. 

They will also do quite well in relatively strong sun, which is where this grouping stands, provided you deliver a regular source of water. The more the better, and they will rise in the bright sunlight to over four feet if given enough consistent moisture. Be wary though – if you can’t supply water on the regular they will rust and turn brown and brittle by the end of July. That still happens in the warmest of summers. 

For now, their freshness is indicative of this early stretch of May – all chartreuse and architectural glory in the form of these wondrous fronds. 

‘Tis the season of the grape hyacinth, that enchanting spring bulb that bridges the blooms of daffodils and tulips, accompanying both in charming fashion. Its bluish-violet coloration complements the fiery reds and pinks of the tulips as well as it does the yellows and creams of the daffodils. It also works well as a patch of sky at ground level when the real thing refuses to turn blue, lost in a slate of grays and cloudy whites.

These are easy-to-keep bulbs, provided you allow the foliage to die back naturally and nourish the bulb for next year’s flowering show. They will happily multiply and expand their clumps, and they make whimsical little bouquets if you can find a smaller vase to show off their architectural features.

My one-time gardening guru Lee Bailey, in his exquisite book ‘Country Flowers‘ went on in rapture about the loveliness of a few new pink-cupped Narcissus. At the time I was entirely under his spell (this was in the pre-teen years of the mid to late 80’s) and so I begged my Mom to order a few for fall planting. After putting them in at the entrance to a little forest path lined with slate stone, I eagerly anticipated their show all through the winter. The following spring they poked through the ground, and bloomed in just the enchanting way Bailey had described – not quite a true pink, but a pink brushed with shades of peach and apricot. This color changed and evolved – some went into the more traditional pink, but always lined at the edge with a bit of something warmer – and some stayed a lovely shade of peach. Either way, it was a welcome variation from the yellow to which we’ve al grown quite accustomed. 

These days whenever I see pink-cupped Narcissus in a garden store I’ll pick up a bag and plant them in memory of Lee, hence this pretty creature who defied the recent snow and cold to boldly throw a bit of beauty into our neglected side yard. I love the barely-discernible accent of green in the throat – pink always goes so nicely with green. 

Most of the time, the Lenten rose that has grown in our backyard for the past two decades keeps its flowered heads bowed down, drooping low to the ground and dangling like little mauve bells. This year, a couple of them deigned to raise their heads and defiantly look half-way up into the sky, and when that happens I try to get their photo, without throwing out my back. The crux of age and desire… these are dangerous waters. 

I’ve mentioned the Lenten rose a number of times here, and this may be the year I add another one to our garden. When it’s the only thing in bloom this early, it gains importance, and its beautiful foliage remains gorgeous all season long. (If ever it gets ratty, I simply snip it off and often a new set of leaves will emerge to take its place, especially if it’s early in the season.) 

At my parents’ home, there I a light cream version that lifts its blossoms a little more, carrying their heads a bit higher. I may look into that variety. These are enchanting plants on many levels. 

For now I’m going to take advantage of their bold streak this spring, and enjoy their mottled beauty. 

As one of the smallest and most seemingly insignificant blooms in the garden, this tiny Scilla siberica packs enough of a punch for me to instantly catch its early bloom in the brown expanse of the backyard. Second only to the Lenten rose, these hardy beauties defy the early dangers of the spring season to dangle their lovely blossoms and coquettishly twirl in the slightest breeze. 

As hardy as they are small, they tend to multiply and increase into little colonies, no matter how much ill-treatment (or in my case neglect) they receive. I remember one Easter I stopped by Suzie’s house, and near the edge of the forest an entire carpet of these was in full glorious bloom – it looked like a little blue wave rolling onto the lawn. 

In other words, to make the strongest impression they should be used en masse. 

My eyes had been watching the Lenten rose outside our bedroom window for a few weeks now – ever since the snow melted actually. It’s trampled mound of evergreen foliage had remained a vibrant green throughout the winter, and was the only spot of color for quite some time. New growth would emerge in a reddish-tinged maroon color that matched the flower color, before slowly turning green. I was watching the oak leaves that covered the plant for signed of movement, hinting at life beneath, but it took a day of rain to push them completely to the side. 

This is how our garden wakes each spring – fed from the rain and ignited by the warmer days – yet every year it thrills as if happening for the very first time. The doldrums of winter can harden the warmest hearts. 

As much as many hate the rain, and it’s admittedly not my favorite weather event, it’s still a vital part of the life-cycle of the garden – a regular requirement for things to grow. At this time of the year, it jump-starts the appearance of these flower buds, promising nourishment and sustenance – promising the end of a barren winter. 

This red variety of Witch Hazel has always proved more elusive than its yellow sibling, and both are extremely welcome at this desperate time of the year. Maybe it’s just as common, and I simply don’t notice it as much for its darker color, the way more subtle things blend into the background, while something as loud as yellow simply screams for attention, especially beneath a sun and against a blue sky. 

One of the very first harbingers of spring, Witch Hazel usually blooms before winter is properly done, and I love it for such daring audacity. Not even the crocus or snowdrops are out yet, but a little snow won’t stop a Witch from showing off. 

Don’t get me wrong – despite the tease of spring-like temperature we had this week, winter is far from over. Her worst bite usually comes at the very end – and sometimes beyond – as she lashes out with snowstorms and ice and wind and freezing temps that are better-suited to January. Winter is harsh that way, and some years she simply won’t go away without some interring talk-back. 

In the end, though, she will lose. Spring will return – however brief or boisterous or beautiful – and then summer will be on her heels. It will be as if winter never was. For now, as the snow melts around the plants that were felled in the fall, we see some of winter’s destruction, and some of summer’s invincibility. These carcasses of tomatoes that lingered into the fall have somehow survived more or less intact, and likely hold viable seeds beneath their withered skin. These particular varieties proved temperamental, so we will probably fill their former pots with the cherry tomatoes that performed such powerhouse feats of fruition. Successful gardening depends on adapting and listening to the stories that the plants share. Every year there are new lessons to learn, and new tales to hear told.