Category Archives: Gardening

I forget if I planted this tree hydrangea at my parents’ home or if I simply advised my Mom to plant one many years ago, but it has since come a long way and grown into the grand specimen seen here. If you have the space (they grow bigger than most people realize) and want a proven performer, check out some of the tree hydrangeas available now – there are a ton. There are also some smaller varieties, though eventually without pruning these all get larger than their more herbaceous cousins. 

They are also great for their blooming period – it comes later in the season and lasts even beyond fall, as the flower heads dry intact and form architectural interest for the winter garden. Don’t discount that in the giddy heat of summer – you will be starved for such echoes come next February and March. 

For now, enjoy the splendid display, and all the bees and butterflies fluttering about their blooms. Summer is high and summer is here. 

As if sensing that the world needed a summer reboot, our Korean lilac decided to throw off this bloom – something it originally did back in May and June. The pool wasn’t open then as it would have usually been, so we missed out on floating by their sweetly-perfumed mass. On the day this was taken, the first day our pool was open this year, I swam over to the bloom, hoisted myself up onto the deck, and brought this flower to my nose. May came flooding back, the hope of the summer season on the cusp and verge, not halfway finished like it is now, but rather than lament what has been, I sink back into the warm water and embrace what is. 

Rebooting a summer with a single lilac bloom seems like whimsical, ephemeral enchantment, the stuff of fairies and fables, and maybe that’s precisely the twist and turn of a key that will start the righting of our wayward world. A little pixie dust never hurt anything. A little magic and make-believe, if it works to wrest a wrong from taking hold, can start things anew. 

This summer needed that. 

This year needs that. 

It’s been several years since Andy and I tried our hands at growing vegetables, but this summer seemed a good one to explore a trio of new tomato varieties, and the hot sun has proven amenable to helping them ripen sooner than usual. The ‘Early Girl’ has already provided the larger specimens you see here, while a cherry tomato bush has already started its prolific fruit parade.

In these early days, I’ve been guilty of popping off the first few ripe cherry tomatoes and putting them immediately into my mouth, their tart sweetness exploding the moment I break their scarlet skin. There’s something incredibly gratifying about growing your own food and simply plucking it from the backyard. It speaks to some primordial instinct to self-sustain. That’s one of the great underlying lessons of the garden.

Andy used to grow tomatoes in his old garden in Guilderland, and for the first few years we did the same at our home here. Like roses, though, they can be tricky, especially in years when the weather is not quite agreeable or a blight seizes upon the plants wilting them seemingly overnight. So far we’ve done all right this summer.

Aside from simply ingesting them unadorned and unprepared, I like to indulge in the most basic dishes that feature tomatoes – a tomato and mayo sandwich on plain white bread, for instance, or with a drizzle of balsamic vinegar and olive oil. Fancier fare will come later with BLTs and mozzarella slices with fresh basil, but for now it’s enough to enjoy the tangy magnificence on its own.

One of the backbones of many a classic perennial bed or border is phlox. Coming into a relatively long season of bloom at the height of summer, these statuesque plants can rise anywhere from one to three feet tall, making a significant statement in the garden. Their blooms are voluminous and imbued with a subtle sweet perfume. (Some of the literature says these are highly fragrant but I’ve not encountered that in my admittedly limited experience with these glorious plants.) 

My main complaint, and the reason I haven’t grown any in many years, is their propensity to develop mildew in our hot and humid summers. The same fate befalls our peonies, but I love them too much to be dissuaded. Phlox, however, are a different story. And maybe that’s unfair. There are varieties that have proven resistant to the dreaded mildew, and it may be time to try some new ones out. Aside from the cup plant, not much in the way of exciting blooms is happening right now. The butterfly bush is a bit behind, the hydrangeas are just cresting their surprisingly good show, and the rose-of-sharon has just started putting forth its buds. Perhaps it’s phloxy time. 

This balloon flower always surprises me, hidden away in a side garden that is lush and filled with foliage, and its own unobtrusive foliage rises without calling attention to itself. By the time it comes into bud, the surrounding plants have already pulled focus and attention from its show. A Rose-of-Sharon reaches far over the balloon flower’s head, while a honeysuckle vine winds its way up the wooden fence. A patch of Solomon’s seal, brought in by a bird many years ago, has finished flowering so I don’t notice the ascension of the balloon buds. 

It’s steadily and steadfastly performed this way for several years without any help or coddling from me, and as such it deserves a little award. That meant doing a little research before I amend the surrounding soil and see if it’s in a spot conducive to its happy habitat. I don’t remember planting this, so I have a feeling it’s another gift from the garden that was here, or the result of a seed dropped by some bird in a stroke of luck. I’ve read that these plants don’t like to be disturbed, which is good to know before digging in and moving it somewhere else. Truth be told, it’s perfectly fine where it is, so I’ll just do a little top-dressing of manure and keep it well-watered for the rest of the summer. Loyalty is always appreciated in these parts; it’s time to pay this little pretty guy back. 

More commonly called Ladybells (ring them!) this is a species of Adenophera, which some people consider a weed. They’re such happy little plants, however, I’ve only ever encouraged them, even if I did have some trouble with their form. Life being the fickle creature that it is, I’m down to this one single flower spike this year, perfectly emblematic of the bullshit that is so 2020. Still, one flower spike is better than no flower spikes, and I’ll see if I have the patience to let this one go to seed and perhaps spread itself about a bit more. I’m all for self-promotion in these parts. I can’t even begin to tell you how many places I’ve seeded myself… Hey, if we can’t get subliminally dirty in a gardening post, we don’t deserve to call ourselves gardeners. 

I’m am totally enamored with its shade of purple, especially against the lime-green backdrop of a ‘Guacamole’ hosta in the morning light. It’s a stunning, unplanned combination that brings out the best in both. 

I wish I could say that this garden combination was the carefully-constructed plan I had in mind all along when planting this space, but this is one of the many happy accidents that occurs during the life of any garden. The hydrangea – which is blooming for only the second or third time in its decade and a half of life – forms the backbone and was there first. The Japanese painted fern in the lower right was planted several years later. Finally, the hosta in bloom in the lower left seeded itself there a couple of years ago and is blooming for the first time. Together, they are forming a lovely little nook of coolness on such a hot day.

Cool hues, cool tones, and cool flower shades conspire to create a softer and, duh, cooler effect, something especially gratifying in the garden right now. Many of us, and I include myself first and foremost here, seek out those flowers with the brightest and most garish hues, looking for things to pop and explode in the high heat of summer, forgetting the power and elegance in something more somber and subtle. 

At a time in the garden when the cup plant is about to start screaming its canary yellow heads off and the butterfly weed burns bright flaming orange, scenes like this douse the figurative heat, giving our senses a respite of relief, even if it’s only in our eyes and minds. 

One of my favorite garden plants – the butterfly weed (Asclepias) – has been in bloom for the past week. This orange version is the typical garden variety, though we also have a mauve one that seeded itself a while back and has returned again this year. As part of the milkweed family, they earn their common nickname from the love that butterflies bestow upon them, both in caterpillar form and final flighted version. The doting of these winged beauties is the crowning jewel of this plant’s performance. 

Peaking when summer is typically at its height and glory, the butterfly weed is a strong dose of color when everyone is giddy with the sights and sounds of the season. The orange ‘petals’ of the flower are actually bracts (think of the red ‘petals’ of the poinsettia or the creamy white ‘petals’ of the dogwood tree). I personally don’t care what they call them when they’re this pretty. Anything that brightens this summer season is a gift. 

This wild sweet pea seeded itself in our garden many years ago and has persisted ever since. It’s a perennial variety – the same weedy thing you see taking over roadsides that haven’t been taken over by crown vetch. I like it in controlled, finite form. It blooms and then quickly loses steam, at which point I cut it harshly back , almost to the ground, and it will usually send up a new crop of foliage and flowers for a second, smaller flowering. This is our routine. This is our covenant. An agreement we have honored ever since I allowed it to take up some space in the prime area of our sunny garden section.

It’s tried to push its boundaries, seeding itself further out, only to be met with strong resistance, if I’m observant enough to catch it in time. Occasionally one gets by and it’s a battle when it comes back stronger the next spring. In the end, the human wins. For now. We can handily beat nature in certain battles; She will always win the war. 

As for this wild sweet pea, her wilderness impresses me. She won’t ever be anything less than wild, nor anything more. She persists and pushes herself. If I allowed it, she’d bloom and set immediate seed, sapping her strength for the season but probably ensuring an ever-expanding perpetuity. I force her to put on a second show, saving the garden from an invasive monster, and allowing a second round of prettiness. 

These things must be done delicately. 

It’s the 4th of July, but ever since Gram passed away on this day eleven years ago, some of its luster has been rubbed dull. Coupled with the sorry state of our country these days, it doesn’t feel like there’s much to celebrate. Don’t cast doubt on my patriotism; it’s still here, still part of my heart and make-up, instilled by an immigrant father who inherently loved the opportunities this country gave him to raise a family. But America has its problems, and maybe we are just awakening to admitting it and not being seen as heretics for the realization, at long last. It’s time.

And so we won’t be doing some empty patriotic posturing (though I may slip into a red, white and blue speedo a little later). Everyone does the 4th in their own way. Instead of going full-on red or full-on blue as America seems to be forcing in full-on binary fashion, we are finding a pleasant melding of things in this lavender-tinged post. Take out the human rules and restrictions, refocus on the natural world, and all falls neatly into place. Let’s shift from the political to the personal, from the world stage to the microcosmic gardens of our little backyard. That’s where the lavender blooms this week.

My summer dreams of lining our pool border with lavender and herbs went out the window while waiting for the new liner to be installed. (Update: the wait continues. But the steps are roughly done!) We may be putting a light in, so the garden will be dug up and destroyed, which is why I didn’t bother with putting any lavender in yet. We have a couple of plants that have survived over the years, and they are in bloom now. All one needs for a proper garnish is a single flower stalk. Thank goodness, because that’s about all that we have.

Near the lavender is a small patch of mint. It’s small for now but if unchecked will march defiantly beyond its allotted space. For now, I can crush a bit of the lavender, and a bit of the mint, and the fragrance is refreshing, exquisite, and enchanting. It is a lovely melding of two aromas, each distinct, and each contributing to the perfumed wonder of something beautiful. 

Shade-loving plants can often take more sun than we give them credit for taking, especially if given ample water. We have a large stand of ostrich ferns and lady ferns that stand in full-sun for most of the day, and as long as I keep them well-watered they will stay fresh and green until the end of July. That’s usually when I give up on the daily watering they require, and they instantly turn brown. Once that happens there is no turning back, and no amount of water will correct them, so it’s most important not to let them get to that point. 

As for other plants like the hydrangea and hosta seen here, which also find their preferred placement on the shady side, they too can survive the sun with enough water. I don’t push them like I push the ferns, since they are partly shaded during the hot points of the day, but I do keep them well-watered because that’s when they reward you with fresh and healthy foliage like this. 

They also put on a less-showy floral show, as is the more subtle way of shade-lovers. It’s as if they want to glow more delicately with pastel shades rather than sizzling with blazing and saturated hues. They add a quieter woodland element to the garden. 

The flowers of the hosta are secondary to its foliage, but if you get close enough you’ll find a delicate lily-like scent to some of them. 

With so many things running late as the season opened, the garden seems to have rebounded, as nature always does, and now it feels like the hosta is blooming earlier than usual. (It’s quite possible I’ve simply lost track of time given the year that is 2020.) The lace-cap hydrangea also feels a bit early, which makes me lean toward doubting my sense of time this summer. It’s flying by quicker than usual, and maybe that’s because part of me is still waiting for all the traditions that kick off the summer to happen. 

When you’re blue and you don’t know what to do…

The battle for blue hydrangeas is one I waged for many years. It’s true that certain hydrangeas change their flower color depending on whether the soil veers toward the alkaline or acidic, and they fluctuate between pink and blue, with all sorts of shades in-between. It’s a lesson in science as much as beauty, and that is the crux that appeals to my scientific aesthete.

We haven’t had blue flowers from our hydrangeas in a very long time. Hell, we haven’t had ANY flowers from most of our hydrangeas in many years, but back when we did I amended the soil with all sorts of random metal objects in an effort to get them to go true-blue. Screws, nails, washers, paper clips – anything that could rust got littered about the base of our plants. I tried coffee grounds and soil acidifiers too, but no matter how much I tried, we ended up with pink so I gave up. Those super-saturated shades of deep blue seemed to only be found in the beautiful yards of Cape Cod or coastal communities. Sometimes, you just can’t force nature. Pink was perfectly acceptable – if not glorious in its own right, and I’ve never had a problem with pink so why start now?

This year, however, one of our backyard plants – which are the ones that haven’t bloomed in over a decade – suddenly sent out some flowerheads, and as you can see here, they are starting off with the faintest hint of blue, so I have hope we may get some bluish shades after all this time. Maybe those screws finally rusted enough to have made an impact. Whatever the case, I’m thrilled with the result.

True blue, baby, I love you…

Clem has been with us for about as long as we’ve lived in this house – since 2002 – when I planted her beside the lamp post like every good soldier of suburbia did at some point. The common purple clematis vine was once used to run up every mailbox post or other similar structure, and could be counted on to provide this gorgeous show of color every June. As such, I didn’t give it much care or concern, and, to my disgrace, I am loathe to admit I didn’t do a damn thing for her for several years. 

My attention and time and manure was given to her step-sister, the sweet autumn clematis, which stole the show in August and September, when flowers were really appreciated, not lost in the big June shuffle. The sweet autumn clematis also ran up twenty feet into the air, leaving its clumsy purple cousin in the dust. Yet this year the sweet one gave up its decade-plus-run and decided not to return after winter whereas the common purple variety beside the lam post came back as it did every year. And so, guided by its perseverance, inspired by its longevity and spirit, I took care to tie it as it ran up the lamp post, something I hadn’t done for years. (If you miss tying it up from the beginning, it will sprawl and contort itself into a vine of such odd angles and turns it proves impossible to tie up in any vertical manner.) 

I helped it climb about six feet then it started sending out a proliferation of flower buds, which soon exploded into the violet stars you see here. When lit by the summer sun, they are a stunning sight to behold. I will begin a fertilizing regime to keep it going and better prepare it for next year’s show. It may take eighteen years, but eventually I can learn. The reward was this magnificent display, taking our old and ugly lamp post and transforming it into a thing of whimsical loveliness. 

Not in fragrance or stature, size or volume, this Rose campion, a variety of Lychnis, packs its powerful punch simply from its color alone. It’s striking blend of fuchsia, magenta and rose contrasts stunningly with its subtle and elegant gray-and-silver-green leaves, which have an intriguing furry texture lending further allure. As mentioned, the flowers alone are small, held aloft on slender stems that rise from a short mound of leaves, and then go to seed in the slender form of a poppy seed-head (like little salt shakers). These disperse the seeds, which are generally pretty prolific, ensuring the continued legacy of their biennial form. 

I planted one of these many years ago, entranced solely by the color of the blooms, not expecting them to last beyond two or three seasons, but they have persisted, and quite powerfully. Seeded biennials produce a crop of leaves the first year, then flower the second, producing a big batch of seeds to carry on. As a lover of perennials, I found such unpredictability annoying, but like foxgloves and hollyhocks, they have proven perennially satisfying. Their smaller stature also means that while they may not grow precisely where they are wanted, I can live with their malleable direction. Flexibility is required when dealing with certain plants, and the color they produce is worth it.