Category Archives: Gardening

A little bamboo magic has rubbed off on the rest of our side-yard, as this corner will attest with its perfectly-placed clematis blooms, intertwined with an unexpectedly-gorgeous climbing hydrangea which finally came into its own just in the nick of time. Both the hydrangea and the clematis adhere to this age-old adage that describes their growing pattern: the first year they sleep, the second year they creep, the third year they leap. This is probably the fifth or sixth year for the hydrangea, so its leaps are especially appreciated, as the sweet autumn clematis that previously ran its crazy twenty-foot-per-year growing pattern finally came to an end. I was debating how to handle it when the hydrangea scrambled onto the arbor and across the top of it, solving the problem in one pretty pass. Sometimes the garden works for you.

As for these purple clematis blooms, I’m sorry to say they did this without any help from me. To be honest, I’m not even sure where the base and roots of this vine are located. I’m assuming it’s close to the hydrangea base, so I focus my water there. Clematis like their feet moist and cool, and their leaves and tendrils warm and dry – finicky little things that can make overhead watering difficult. Still, they reward you with these divine blooms if they’re happy enough. 

The climbing hydrangea is more forgiving, and once established it’s a workhorse for garden beauty. Its foliage remains fresh. handsome and bright green for most of the growing season. In fall it burns a bright yellow, and after falling reveals some gorgeous bark, and eventually the wondrously gnarled framework of a world-weary sage, the years carved into its winter face. 

Right now, it is in full lace-cap bloom, sprinkling a sweet perfume that is like a lighter version of the linden tree which is also on its way into bloom right now. There is much sweetness in the air at the turn of June. Let’s go out and enjoy it before the day begins in earnest.

The peony parade continues with these white blooms form the backyard garden. They were part of a perfumed peony collection I purchased from White Flower Farm a number of years ago. The trouble with collections is that you don’t know quite what you’re getting, but when it comes to peonies my love transcends names and labels and varieties, and as long as they carry a bit of that distinctive peony fragrance, all is well. 

On a recent afternoon, after a busy day at work, I stopped by these clumps and set up a watering stations, slowly moving the watering wand over the ground beneath their feet (avoiding getting any water on their leaves, in a vain attempt to put off mildew) and inhaled their sweet fragrance. It was divine. I stayed there, watering nearby plants for the next hot day, taking my time as I took in the peony’s perfume. Those moments of appreciation are important. The blog may be a bit light on content this week as I work toward more such moments. There are archives to peruse should you wish to see more… (scroll down and type anything into the search box – it’s like gay roulette). 

One of the most exquisite plants in the garden right now – and throughout the entire season for that matter – is the Japanese painted fern (Athyrium niponicum). Do not be tricked by its delicate painted and they are also said to be deer resistant. I planted one a few years ago, and it has since become a dozen, partly from creeping on its own, but mostly (and rather impressively) sporing itself out into the damper areas of the garden. 

Ferns don’t produce seeds, they produce spores: powder-like particles that act much like seeds. I never bothered with trying this method of propagation because it always seemed to technical and involved, particularly when dividing is much simpler, and quicker. However, nature had other plans, and the consistently damp area near our pool pump provided a perfect haven for a number of Japanese painted fern spores to develop into little plants. Andy noticed them last summer, and I decided to wait and see if any survived the winter before moving them. They all did.

A couple of days ago, after I placed our new fountain bamboo, I moved a trio of clumps in front of them, further enhancing the Japanese atmosphere. I’ll add a Japanese flowering maple when I divide that plant next year. The garden propels us forward even as it beckons us to pause and take it all in. 

These Japanese elements were an intentional design plan for the side yard. It’s the entrance-way when friends and family are visiting for a pool gathering, it’s where Andy grills our summer meals, and I finally realized, after years of slightly neglecting it as a forgotten area, that I spent a significant amount of time there. I want it to be a peaceful transitional place, where the arching canes of a pair of bamboo plants gracefully welcome visitors and a stand of ferns peeks up at Andy when he’s checking on the steaks. I have plans for another corner section, if I can dig up some old shrubs that haven’t performed well and establish a Japanese stewartia. I’m taking my time with the entire plan, hoping to enjoy and be present for each moment. Let it take the whole summer. 

Scientifically named ‘Arisaema triphyllum’, this woodland creature is more commonly known as the Jack-in-the-pulpit. A number of years ago I purchased it from some home improvement store, in one of those plastic bags that has a beautiful picture of a fully-grown ten-year-old specimen at the height of its beauty on it, only to spill out some desiccated little nest of seemingly-dead roots, light and lifeless and surely void of any future glory. I half-heartedly dug a hole for it in the corner of a shaded garden and promptly forgot about it. I didn’t plan on seeing that $4.99 again.

A year later, a dark spire rose in its place. Having entirely forgotten about what I’d planted, I waited to see if it was some strange exotic weed. It was too thick and robust to be one of the standard weeds I’d come to know. It was also more substantial than the little spikes of lily-of-the-valley that were encroaching on that particular space. Slowly, it unfurled its three-pronged leaves, and then the hood covering the spathe, and I was enthralled to recall the Arisaema triphyllum I had planted the year before.

This particular variety is darker than the plain green version I knew as a child. It lends it a more sinister and mysterious aspect, something I enjoy at the garden in this portion of the year, when everything else is so bright and chartreuse and innocent. The garden should be a place of balance and contrast, as well as a land of mystery. There should be room for magic and the casting of spells, and even little heads named Jack.

The fountain bamboo – Fargesia nitida – blooms once every hundred years, give or take a year or ten. It is quite an enchanting event – the way the little blooms dangle from their canes, dancing with the slightest breeze – but a rather mournful one: after flowering, the plant dies. Most of the Fargesia plants that had been dispersed around the world were propagated through division, meaning the vast majority of fountain bamboo would flower in one mass event, then experience a mass die-off. That blooming explosion happened about seven or eight years ago, which affected the two specimens I’d been cultivating since we first moved into our home.

I purchased and planted them years before everyone realized the blooming cycle was at hand, and for the past few years nurseries would not guarantee survival of Fargesia species because some still hadn’t bloomed. Nurseries are just now coming into supplies of seeded plants from the new generation of Fargesia nitida, and are once again guaranteeing their survival since they aren’t due to bloom for another hundred years.

I’ve been waiting an extra couple of years because when you’re talking about a century of time, you don’t give or take a day. As magnificent as their blooming was – how often do you get to witness a once-a-century flowering event in your own backyard?! – it was heartbreaking as well. I’d grown to love our two fountain bamboos, thrilled at the way they started off so slowly, but soon sent up their name-sake fountain form when coddled with a bit of manure and water during dry spells. They had just begun to develop their characteristic arching form, and outside the bedroom window the canes curved and waved in the wind like the backdrop to some Japanese woodblock. 

The occasion of their blooming caught me off-guard.

I felt the sorrow before I could feel the excitement. 

The celebration of a luxury of rarity paled to the inevitable loss, and I felt more sadness than elation at the magical sight of their blooms. I was in a different mindset then. I took such things to heart, lamenting the loss and reveling in the regret that I hadn’t appreciated our two Fargesia plants while they were alive. Only near the end did I inhabit the moment, giving in to the wonder of what I was fortunate to witness. 

A couple of days ago, four new fountain bamboo plants arrived on our front step. They come from the new generation of Fargesia nitida, and the nursery assures me if there are any blooming issues or die -off they will replace them. We should have about another century before they bloom again. Andy mentioned that we won’t be here to see it, and there was nothing macabre or sad about it – it was the simple truth. Someone once said, “Society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in.”

With that in mind, I tucked the four new bamboo plants into their chosen locations around the yard, amply amending the soil with the manure they love so much, and watering them in well to give them the best possible start. A new generation had been put to bed for the first night in their new home. 

As much as I have tried to appreciate every moment in this year’s garden, I still managed to miss the quicker blooming periods of certain plants, such as this beautiful Solomon’s seal patch. With the extended show of the daffodils and lilacs this year, I guess I expected the same luxury for these pretty little blooms, forgetting that the temperatures had risen and the air had turned more dry. They lasted a few precious days and by the time I got on the ground to sniff and examine them close-up, they had already dropped these subtle bells, along with their delicate sweet fragrance. 

Luckily, they are a hardy bunch, and have expanded extensively in the yard, so they will be back next year. I’m making motions to move some around a bit. There will probably be more than we have room for, and the surplus I can slip into the hidden side yard that needs a bit of work. It’s shady there, thanks to a pair of enormous oak trees, and Solomon’s seal is able to handle a fair amount of shade. It will be nice to have more than pachysandra there, and with just a bit of soil amending, this plant should be just as simple to maintain. 

We are still in the glorious phase of late spring, which makes regular turns around the garden a happy excursion for our house-bound situation. It’s the perfect break from sitting at the computer and working from home. Those breaks are important, as I’ve discovered. At this time of the year, when everything is practically growing before our very eyes, it’s also important not to miss a single day outside. Even in the rain, I try to get out and examine how each plant is coming along. 

The weeping larch in the featured photo started on an iffy note, but after some heavy pruning and readjustment, it’s exploded into a carpet of the lovely wintergreen color seen here. It’s being crowded by a pushy stretch of Thuja, but for now it’s holding its own. 

A hosta with leaves that could have been painted by a skilled artist makes a keen argument for the power of texture, form, and the various shades of green that abound at this time of the year. A few years ago I planted this specimen – one of several in a row bordering our back patio – and after some serious pampering they have grown into a fine little hedge. 

The daffodils held on longer than any season in recent memory, thanks to a cool, wet spring, lasting well into the end of May. It almost got to the point where I was taking them for granted, which never happens with their typically-short flowering period. 

We have several large stands of Solomon’s seal, one of the stalwart performers in the mostly semi-shaded green sections we have near the house. It spreads nicely, sometimes too nicely, and may need some editing, but that makes for more clumps. From one plant we now have three large patches, and several friends have started their own stands from ours. I still need to cut some back, so I may be adding them to the wilder section at the side of our house that we never quite get to clean up. 

Though they’ve become a bit of a menace in the lawn, these violets make it difficult to be completely mad at them, especially when they are one of the first to appear after a long winter. 

This tree peony is the first peony to flower every year. Sadly, its head swells so large and the bloom gets so top-heavy it cannot stand upright on its own, which means it gets a rather hidden location, and hangs its head when it puts on its show. For that reason I often pick it before the critters can cut it out or it hangs into the muddy ground. 

Finally, our Kwanzan cherry made a stand-out showing this year, lasting longer than usual and wowing with these full double blooms, resplendent against a blue sky. This is why spring gets all the glory. 

Sweet woodruff is in bloom this week in the garden, and out of the garden to be honest, as this plucky performer tends to overstep its bounds with alarming regularity. I haven’t minded, as its never been unwelcome. When the charming show of its snow-white flowers ends, it maintains this fresh green foliage and structure, ideal for a groundcover in a shady slightly moist space. I’m going to take a few plugs of it and put it on our side bank where we have a few problematic areas. Groundcovers work wonders for these situations.

I’ve read that these plants have been used for May wine and sachets. Maybe I’ll try the sachet idea. We are all going back to basics. Little joys and simple living. This is how spring eases into summer. This is May. It is quite possibly my favorite month – even the name allows for possibility and hope – May…

I love the starry form of its leaflets, the way they bring the firmament to the floor, carpeting the ground with stars and for this brief time of the year a fluttering cloud of white blossoms. 

When the Lenten rose first emerges, sometimes before the winter is even done, it is often ragged and half-rotten, its leaves torn, any early blooms tattered and battered by snow and ice and wind. The first showing is deceptive. No one, well, no one I know, and most certainly not the man in the mirror, looks good first thing in the morning. We require some time to pep up, to re-hydrate our skin and wrinkles, to smooth out the sleep lines and fatigue. In much the same way, the Lenten rose needs a few weeks of recuperative conditions to fully become the beauty you see before you in this post. 

And like every year, it’s more than worth the wait. 

The first time I ever ordered bulk mulch delivered to our home was a number of years ago. After speaking with the person in charge of the delivery, we decided that two cubic yards would more than suffice. We don’t have a huge yard, but much of it is landscaped with gardens and various patches of shrubs and trees. That first year, when the truck arrived and dumped it in our driveway, I was happy to think of all the trips to Lowes I’d otherwise have had to make, bringing four or five bags of mulch home at a time, sometimes having to make a few trips in a single day. As glad as that made me, I was also somewhat daunted by the enormity of two cubic yards of mulch. I was also surprised by how quickly it went, and how much more I actually needed.

A number of years passed since that happened. I’ve been amending the gardens gradually since then, buying a bag or two here and there as necessary, but this year the ground was bare enough to merit another delivery. Unfortunately, the memory is fallible, especially mine of late, and the one thing that I recalled more than anything else was not the enormous amount that two cubic yards was, but rather how we didn’t have nearly enough. So I ordered six this time.

If you’ve ever ordered mulch or know how much that is, you are probably laughing at me right now. I would be too. It’s absolutely laughable, as was my horrified look as the truck dumped out an amount of mulch that would fill the entire inside of our house about three times over. Now, I rarely get overwhelmed. Even when I should be, I usually don’t feel it. But as I walked outside and was greeted with a wall of mulch that went up to my head, I felt it. Overwhelmed.

The first thing I did was to consult the weather calendar, because if it was going to rain anytime in the near future, I’d be screwed, and I needed to know if I was going to have to find some make-do tarp to cover it from water. Luckily, the skies showed clear for at least three days. I could do it in three days, I thought. Turned out I could do it in two afternoons, but I’m paying a bit of a price. 

My body is aching.

My muscles are sore.

My hands are worn.

And I haven’t felt this good in forever.

Bonus: I got it all down before the snow fell again. 

It was cooler than I realized, yet still spring arrived. The backyard was downtrodden with the weight of winter. The brown and dead leaves, matted down and trampled by wind, snow and squirrels, lay flat beneath my feet. The ground was still frozen in most parts.

Our Lenten rose, with us since the year we first moved in – 2002 – poked its mauve head out from a layer of tattered leaves, with veining the shade of rhubarb stems. The color of summer, strange and welcome at such an early date. I surveyed the area for places where a fountain bamboo might go. This is the year we go about replenishing the specimens we lost a while back in a magnificent if deadly wave of flowering.

In a sheltered microclimate beside the garage, a group of narcissus was already in bud. Earlier than any other year, they were a happy sight to behold, unexpectedly pleasant, as I always forget which bulbs I planted in the fall and where. For a while, I was usually too pooped and exhausted to do any sort of fall bulb planting. By that point I was already hunkering down and putting the garden to sleep, too far ahead in my winter mindset to be bothered. The past few years, however, I’ve had a late-season second-wind, and each spring I’m glad I did. I should probably mark where they are, but there’s something more enjoyable about having it be a surprise. So few things are spoiler-free these days – we must take the joy where we can find it.

Mostly the tasks to be done in this early stage of inclement weather consist of surveying and planning. When the sun warmed things a bit I managed to prune the front yard hydrangeas, and I’ve managed to remove the old soil and dead roots from the backyard pots. Baby steps for the infancy of the season, and with snow due it’s best not to get too far into anything.

They were a bunch of runts. The forgotten and discarded. I’d almost given up completely on them, not intentionally ~ neglect by omission, and is there anything worse? Even destruction in the name of anger has merited some bit of emotion. Being forgotten is a more terrible fate. It implies you never mattered in the first place.

Luckily, in this instance it wasn’t too late. They called to me in the garage, with bits of green and the smallest swords of cream emerging from the top of their papery brown bulbs. Maybe it was the emerging leaves of an early fig tree that reminded me of forgotten things. Whatever the case, I found the bag of paperwhite narcissus bulbs just in time, then planted them in some gravel, watered them well, and then they instantly grew, quicker and faster than their predecessors did back in the fall. They weren’t quite as high, but they smelled just as distinctly, their perfume a potent reminder of the past, their blooms gathered in bunches of sterling stars. It wasn’t too late after all ~ a lovely reminder for those of us lacking in patience and too ready for rash motions.

So many lessons in life come from the garden, even if the garden is a glass bowl of gravel and a forgotten bunch of papery bulbs.