Category Archives: Gardening

They never struck me as all that striking until I grew one in my backyard. The banana tree, those tropical broad-leafed potted statement plants that some people grew in gardens or large pots on the patio, had always eluded my covetous glance. They felt like a tropical cliche, and destined for disappointment. Summers in upstate New York are not usually long enough for them to bear fruit, and the complicated burying process for the hardy varieties to survive the winters without rotting always felt too involved. For all those reasons, I never bothered with the banana.

But at the start of the very late planting season, there was a little banana plant at Troy’s Landscaping that called my name. It was just starting to leaf out, and it was so small and cute, and the foliage so handsome, I picked it up and nestled it into a relatively large pot in the backyard. The long and slow start to spring and warm weather meant that the little banana plant didn’t do much for a number of weeks. I looked at it without anguish or extreme disappointment – it was alive, and ever so slowly would unfurl a new leaf, but there were other things coming into bloom and taking off much faster. These took my attention while the banana, so small in its enormous pot, seemed to be merely in survival mode. My gardening style has been to abide the survivors, but thrill at the thrivers. It’s always been that way, and until a survivor proves that it can thrive, I’m the mean mommy with the stern gaze and unforgiving countenance. Worse, I tend to ignore the plight of those just getting by. Such was the case with this banana plant. Swimming in the gigantic pot – I thought they were supposed to get oh-so-big? – it looked lost, and barely required any water. All that moist soil with so few roots was a recipe for disaster, and for a while I was sure it would simply rot away before making the slightest tropical impression. As an angel’s trumpet plant took off and soared with the arrival of warmer weather, the little banana plant seemed to tremble in the slightest breeze. I pushed it off to the side, literally. Now and then I would notice a new leaf slowly emerging, the green underside wrapped tightly in an upward-pointing spiral was tinged with gray and the early veining of maroon. It was pretty enough, but I doubted it would ever put on a show. I favor the plants that put on shows.

A flowering maple shot skyward, to and beyond our canopy, and bloomed with an exquisite blossom of fiery red and yellow markings. A replanted lace-cap hydrangea that was an offshoot of an older plant came into its own thanks to a heavy helping of manure the year before. It bloomed extravagantly and courted bees and butterflies the entire time. A little line of Japanese painted ferns had happily appeared in a bare spot kept moist by the spring rain, taking quick hold once I took over the watering when the sky stopped. All the while, the banana slowly worked its way up and out. By the time the really hot weather arrived, I took new notice of it.

Watching a specific plant closely, one doesn’t always see or appreciate what is actually happening. One misses the roots and everything going on underneath the soil. One misses the gradual growth of leaves overall when focused too closely on height. When I had given up on such a close daily inspection, the banana surreptitiously made its advance. In the same manner that such visible changes only came into view after I returned from a vacation or time spent away, I noticed the banana anew. Suddenly it came into its own, filling its pot in pleasing proportions and rising to gain the glory of the sun.

In its growing season, and the right conditions, it is said that the banana tree will unfurl one large leaf a week. I like the marking of time that way, especially in the summer. Once we clicked into that tropical heat and humidity, the leaves got on schedule, one large magnificent work of art after the other. Some arched, some tore and fluttered in the summer storms, and some simply draped in gorgeous fashion, backlit brilliantly by the hot sun or basking happily in a warm rain.

And so the summer passed, in the ticking and unfurling of the banana leaves. I can’t think of a more pleasant way to mark the time. Next year I’ll be going totally bananas, because when a survivor becomes a thriver, I become a bit obsessed.

Not content to stay at ground-level, the clematis is one of those vines that likes to climb toward the sky before putting on its flamboyant show – all the better for us to see it up close. I’ve already made my apologies to this plant for not appreciating its hardiness and ability to withstand neglect while still putting on a decent performance, and this year is no different. In a forgotten and slightly-shaded corner of the yard it blooms reliably, each year sending out one or two more blooms and adding to its beauty. We’ve got another one in the front yard, up against a lamp post in the most cliched of places, where it winds its tendrils upward, seeking the sun and the warmth while its feet stay cool beneath a succulent groundcover of sedum.

These are classic plants for the home with good reason. Stalwart and pretty, defying winter and rising every spring, they don’t enough credit for that they do. May this post, and all the others I’ve done similarly in years past, make up slightly for such dishonor.

They are in their full glory right now, but the “blooms” of a dogwood tree are one of those wonderful journeys of nature that begins in the high heat of summer, when the buds are first formed and kept hidden, secret, and as safe as they can possibly be. They stay in the tips of the branches, nothing more than a swollen end to indicate that something so precious is stored there, and if they’re lucky, and the winter winds aren’t too rough, they’ll survive into the spring.

As the days elongate and the temperatures ascend, they slowly unfurl, first with these bracts, then with the actual flower (the insignificant little buds barely seen here). Those bracts are what we perceive as the “flower”, and in the dogwood’s case (not unlike another bract beauty, the poinsettia) they are where the real beauty originates.

A bonus is that they last much longer than an actual flower petal would, extending the vision of late spring prettiness they so magically encompass. The bright green of them will soon be a gorgeous light cream color, fluttering against a blue sky like so many butterflies.

The last day of May is too soon at hand, and with it goes the last full month of spring. That means summer fun is right around the corner, as well as a long-desired break from this blog (for you and me both). Things are moving swiftly in the garden right now, with flower after flower quickly blooming then moving on to the next species. This is the problem with warming up so fast after being cold for so long: plants will rush to make up for lost time, getting it over with sooner than we’d like. Nature likes to keep her appointments.

Case in point was this Kwanzan cherry tree, which had a banner year of blooms. They put on a show for almost a week before being ripped from their branches in a single morning of rain and wind. The petals poured down like a heavy snow, littering the pool and ground with an enchanting layer of pink.

Before they went, however, I captured these shots, freezing them forever at the height of their glory. It’s the only way we have of keeping them. That and these words. Both have power.

Mere memory is fallible.

My quest for an Australian tree fern really began the moment I set eyes on the glorious specimens on display at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. As with most totems, they signified the beauty of the museum in one towering symbol, and I thought that if I could just grow one in our living room some of that beauty couldn’t help but be conjured as well. (As with most things, the reality of such an attempt is often quite sadder, and a single object from a magical place rarely results in magic. Still, I hoped. Still, I tried.)

For several years, I kept the quest in the back of my mind. I alternated between moments of hopeful ascendancy (if I could just find a young-enough specimen, I could nurture it into liking our little bay window) and hopeless despondency (even if I could find one, it would surely die a certain, and likely quick, death in our dry air). And through it all, when I would occasionally see a small one in a greenhouse, happily reaching its fronds out to the humid environment, I would always chicken out.

Last week in Faddegon’s, after picking up a pair of Lion’s paw plants, I took a detour and explored their greenhouses, where several majestic Australian tree ferns sat freshly-watered in a lush corner. They were magnificent. Their stems were covered in thick hair, their leaves were bright green and dripping with the recent human-made rainfall. They were larger than any of the other specimens I’d encountered there over the years. Most of all, they were beauty incarnate – all delicate elegance and exotic grace.

Seeking a sign, or at least some guidance, I found someone who worked there and asked what the viability of one of the tree ferns surviving outside of a greenhouse environment might be. She said as long as I kept its catch-saucer full of water, it should do fine. I was incredulous. I’d never heard of such a thing. What about root rot? I asked, the most common of indoor plant killers. Not a problem, she said. They drink so much, especially in the typical dry air of our homes, that they need it. She went on to say that she had one going on ten years in her house, and she just kept the catch pot filled with an inch or so of water at all times. Emboldened by this success story, I lifted my chosen plant out of its water bed, let it drip for a bit then brought it to the register. I would take the chance on such beauty.

I brought her home and put her where we get the most light. She stands somewhat awkwardly in the make-do potting system and bowl I set up to keep her wet enough, so don’t judge too harshly just yet. I’ll pot her up prettily enough – for now I just want to see whether she will survive her new environs. The light is slightly lower, as is the humidity – but summer in the northeast will help with that soon enough. As for the water – I’ve been filling it daily, and each day she drinks it down again. That’s a good sign. If the water were just sitting there, I’d wonder at its worth. Perhaps that’s the secret for these beauties after all. If so, she’s worth the pampering.

We are all so thirsty for love.

Currently on the hunt for an Australian tree fern, I’m also enjoying the unfurling of these ostrich ferns, reaching out from their fiddlehead origins to release their feathery carriage in full effect. Backed by the brilliance of the spring sun, these are just ending the reign of their fiddlehead phase and entering the start of their imperial ostrich stance. If given enough light, water and nutrients, they will reach four to five feet in statuesque height. In full-sun, the water requirements are high if you want them to last beyond July, so I’ve updated our soaker hose set-up to provide ample moisture. Fingers are crossed.

As for that elusive Australian tree fern, I’m starting to see several sites that supposedly supply them, but they are in the $30-60 range for a small specimen. I don’t mind beginning with a small size, and it’s actually better for moving purposes as younger plants are typically more adaptable to older ones who may have become too cozy in their climate-controlled hot-houses. That price tag is up there, though, particularly given that I’m not sure our living room will provide hospitable habitat. I’d rather take the risk with a lower price point, but as these things usually go I will likely bite the bullet and plunk the green stuff down now for the promise and hope of greener stuff to come.

The first growth of the weeping larch is a welcome sight for winter-sore eyes, and even though we are well into spring, the freshness of this shade of green, almost a celadon injected with a subtle undercurrent of aqua and turquoise, remains this vibrant until it goes up in fiery amber flame at the arrival of fall. While they look like an evergreen – the coloring and form is a convincing imitation of a blue spruce and its new evergreen growth – the leaves are soft and feathery to touch, and completely deciduous. A nifty little out-of-parlor trick.

Our larch is precariously close to being edged out by a selfish hedge of Thuja ‘Green Giant’, which is pushing it to weep even more. I’ve had it for so long that I’m wary of moving it, and I’ve cut the Thuja back as far as it will happily stand, so I’m hoping things stay relatively still for the season. I can’t bear the thought of moving it just yet.

The seasonal clean-up has finally begun, and I’ve been slowly and steadily making up for such a late start with some back-aching work. Typically I fill about 40 lawn bags by the time the yard looks presentable, and this year looks no different. The main difference is how well, or not well, my body handles this annual exercise. Every spring it gets a little harder, the body bends a little less, the pain lasts a bit longer, and I get closer to the point where hiring someone will be a necessity, careful tending to tender perennials be damned. At some point I just won’t be able to do it alone, and the thought makes me simultaneously sad and relieved.

For now, it’s a meditative tradition, a moment of quiet where it’s just me and nature communing in silent fashion. The mad rush of thoughts and the dangers of thinking too far ahead bubble to the surface first as I awkwardly get back into the gardening groove, but soon I find a rhythm, and the Zen-like peace that comes from simple manual labor and the tick-tocking of a spring day. It reminds me of yoga – the way the beginning is always a jumble of crazy thoughts and worries as the daunting idea of cleaning up an entire yard of winter wreckage assembles and then slowly comes together as the days pass. I remember one of my first yoga instructors explaining that it was ok to have whatever thoughts were passing through my head – and it was best to acknowledge them, then let them pass by or simply pause. That’s always easier said than done, but with a task such as bagging up dead oak leaves and winter debris, there’s something to the mechanical process that allows the mind to shift focus and push the pesky over-analysis aside. Slowly, the yard gets cleaned and prepped for another growing season, and eventually the patches of what has been done outgrow the spaces that have yet to be cleaned. At that point the amending and mulching begins – a whole other task, a whole other tradition, and one more grounded in gardening than simple yard upkeep. But that’s still a way off. For now, we struggle through the basic winter cleaning that’s been put off for longer than usual. It’s catch-up time.

Every time I walk into the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum the want and the desire come flooding back: I covet the tree ferns. There are four, one in each corner of the grand central courtyard, and each one towers upward, stretching to the ceiling windows and unfurling their magnificent fronds over the space, offering delicate shade and gorgeous designs of green against the soft-hued stone. They immediately induce peace, halting the rush of everyday life and hushing the noise of the outside world. They echo a time gone by, when we paused to indulge in simply existing, when it was enough to sit on a bench and just be. Of course, they go back to long before then too, when a different terrain was in place and when ancient species roamed the land.

I’m told there are some places where these hardy denizens have colonized and become ubiquitous to the point of invasiveness. That’s certainly not the case in upstate New York or New England, where one fall’s day could easily fell the tallest fern. And so we place them inside, coddled and pampered in the greenhouse environs they prefer. That may make my personal cultivation of them an impossibility, seeing as how I do not live in a humid greenhouse, nor have access to a sun room where such conditions might be approximated. Still, if I happen to find a small specimen at Faddegon’s I may give it a whirl. Who knows, our living room might provide just enough light to make a pleasing home. It certainly works for us.

The tree depicted here is not one of the offenders. It is the Chinese dogwood, and this specimen has grown into a show-piece of our front yard. It has a beautiful background, as Andy has brought the lawn back from an embarrassing and barren stretch of pine-tree-riddled dust, transforming it to a richly-verdant carpet of fluffy grass. Onto that soft bed falls the leaves of the dogwood, and whatever strawberry-like fruit (in appearance only) remains from the birds and the chipmunks.

But this post is not about the beautiful dogwood parade before you. This is a lament for the oaks, who have held onto their leaves until now, when it’s too cold for Andy to properly dispose of them. They will have to wait, which is not the end of the world – it simply means more raking in the spring to keep the lawn looking healthy.

Come February, I will be dreaming of the ability and weather conditions to rake, so I’m not entirely upset about the notion of doing it. In fact, a memory that also looks ahead is my favorite kind of memory to make. 

As for the oaks, they remain sight unseen in these parts. It’s enough to know that they’re there – high in the sky, beyond our roof, beyond the top of this dogwood, beyond the years it took to build the neighborhood. That magnificence deserves respect, and their stubbornness is to be admired. 

They rise and arch like a summer fountain, scaled with green until the very end of the season, when they turn salmon and rust like amber waves of grain. The seeds of the Northern sea oat have become a bit pesky in the garden, spreading their beauty a bit further than I’d like, but it’s still a handsome plant. 

Emblematic of the harvest, they wave and flutter in the slightest breeze – all elegance and simplicity and a lesson of life in one glorious visage. There comes a time when we must reap what we have sown, when our preparation and actions come to fruition and judgement. Who among us can stand up and own the fruits of our labor? In the garden it’s the goal – whether fruit or flower or simple miraculous survival. In the rest of our lives, it gets a little trickier. 

I think I prefer the straightforward, no-nonsense game of the garden.

You’re gonna hear me roar, because I have nothing but accolades and excitement to report on my first season growing the lion’s paw plant you see in these photographs. Scientifically christened ‘Leonotis leonurus’ – oh what a beautiful bit of Latin alliteration! – the more common name for this beauty is the lion’s paw, based on the fuzzy petals of its monarda-like flower form. (It’s also called the lion’s tail plant in some circles, but I find the paw reference more fitting and accurate.)

I saw it in the corner of a Faddegon’s greenhouse earlier in the year and read about its size and orange color. For some reason, with the notable exception of a self-seeding butterfly weed (Asclepias) I have a hard time getting orange into the gardens. (I’m not a fan of marigolds.) The small photo on the plant marker promised that would change. It also promised a big, bodacious, space-filling annual that would astound in a single growing season.

I planted it in full sun, as was its listed preference, and waited. And waited. And waited. Slowly, it grew taller. Then wider. Then taller again. Finally, in the last couple of weeks, it flowered, and it was well-worth the wait. I took these photos in the late afternoon sun, and hopefully you will get the lion’s paw resemblance.

What I didn’t manage to capture, and therefore can’t completely convey, is the size and stature of this plant. It stands at a good five feet tall, and sprawls out just as wide. It’s a doozy of a plant and deceptively appears rather inconspicuous until the floral fireworks begin. That’s also where, at least for this season, things got the slightest bit problematic.

This specimen didn’t get going until late September. Luckily for us, we’ve had an extended run of summer weather so we were able to enjoy it, but for most years such gorgeousness would have been lost to the cold and frost. I’m not sure if its super-late-season blooms are normal, or if the spotty summer had something to do with it. From what I’ve read it enjoys a hot and dry atmosphere, similar to its native Africa, so perhaps our relatively rainy early summer set it back.

Hopefully I’ll be able to find a few of these again next year. I was going to see if I could capture some seeds, but I fear the frost will arrive before they have a chance to ripen. We shall see. Until then, you’re gonna hear this roar.