Category Archives: Gardening

Behind the dog cages and past the enormous chestnut tree lurked the hidden delights of the little forest at the edge of Suzie’s house. We rarely played that far out because there were so many other places to explore at that sprawling property, but once in a while I would find myself there, wandering alone, pulled by the sound of a distant stream and covered with a green canopy of trees. After breaking through the brush, I felt relief at the hush that descended. The cars speeding down Locust Avenue felt far away. The noise of the dogs softened too. I walked over the soft ground, padded with fallen leaves and the wetness of late spring.

It was here that I stumbled upon my first jack-in-the-pulpit (Arisaema triphyllum). A small mound of them rose up from the surrounding earth, as if someone had dug them up and dropped them there. It is a magical moment when you first see the spathe acting like some dramatic hood, obscuring the hidden phallic spadix, which rises like a grinning secret. I was spellbound.

As an endangered species however, it was not easy to locate these plants for sale, so for many years I forgot about how wondrous they were, content to keep showier flowers that displayed their wares more openly and unabashedly. Then I stumbled upon a jack-in-the-pulpit in one of those plastic mass-produced packages that nurseries and practically every other store on the planet will offer at this time of the year. They’ve never grown for me – the sorry, desiccated, barely-recognizable bare-root is often difficult to discern from the packing material, and no matter how well one prepared the planting hole, it’s always a crap shoot. Regardless, a specimen of Arisaema triphyllum was too tantalizing not to give the $4.99 a try, so I picked one up, plopped it into the shady corner nook of the garden, and promptly forgot about it. Nothing came of it that year, and when winter comes I forget even the most prominent specimens I’ve planted, so it went from my head.

Last year, it must have sent up foliage, as I vaguely recall seeing the distinctive three-leaved sets, and not bothering them for some reason. This year, the leaves came back, and with them this flower.

Jack had risen, and he was beautiful.

When we first moved into this house, I felt like the landscaping had been designed from some standard kit that all landscapers in the 80’s used: yews, junipers, a couple of Japanese maples, and some Weigela. With the exception of the maples, I was sick to death of the rest. I quickly dispensed with the overgrown and poorly kept evergreens, and installed a few viburnum (before they became so ubiquitous). As for the Japanese maple and Weigela in the backyard corner, I moved the maple to a more prominent and sunny space, and simply chopped the unruly Weigela down to knee height. As I added a trio of Chinese dogwoods, and the Japanese maple took off with the infusion of light, that corner was mostly hidden from sight, and I only saw the Weigela if I was doing early spring cleaning. If I was feeling generous and kind-hearted (which didn’t happen every year), I’d drop half a bag of manure over its otherwise impoverished soil, and prune the daylights out of it. It always sent out new stems, on which the buds formed.

This past week, something pink and bright caught my eye beyond the emerging blooms of the dogwood: the weigela. Despite general apathy, it survived year after year, throwing out sprays of new stems and foliage and blooms, happy to put on a show even if no one was watching. I admire that kind of perseverance and devil-may-care attitude.

Andy used to have a couple of these at his old house, and having just driven by that place a few days ago, I was reminded of the wonder of the weigela. It may be time to bring it back into vogue, and I recently saw a chartreuse-leaved variety on sale at the nursery. The foliage worked gloriously with the color of the bloom.

Which reminds me – if the season fluctuates in just the right way, you can coax a few blooms out of this shrub intermittently throughout the summer. That sort of surprise bonus deserves a spot in the garden. Now I just need to find one…

This is the best time to view the garden – just as the peonies and dogwood are coming into bloom, when the ostrich ferns are still at their pristine chartreuse stage, and as the mulch-laden ground forms a uniform backdrop to all the fresh growth. Soon, things will fill in and eliminate some of that spatial openness that I’ve come to appreciate more as I get older. Leaves will turn darker and more leathery. The blush will fade from the rose, literally and figuratively.

For now, though, I sit back and stretch the thigh muscles I’d forgotten I had, after spreading fifteen bags of manure and mulch. Surveying the garden, I take a rare moment to enjoy the present. After some cajoling, Andy has made a pitcher of iced tea. The sun is bright, a rarity this spring, and I’m hot from all the digging. I sip the cool liquid and take it all in. The rain begins a little later, but I’m mostly done with the tasks I set for myself. A small stand of hosta has been planted. A lace-cap hydrangea has been moved. The ostrich ferns have been thinned out.

The falling drops eventually force me inside, but not before I make more plans. A volunteer sedum has taken off in a spot outside the fence, and it’s doing so well I want to transplant it to a more fitting location. Good performance is always rewarded here. I make a mental note to find a better spot for it. The bamboo in the side yard is also doing quite well – it’s the running kind so I put it in the harshest section of our ground, where it sends up a dozen or so new stalks every year. The winters here keep it in check, but I’m still reluctant to have it in the garden or remotely near the pool. Maybe I’ll just throw some manure on it where it is and call it a day. Something still needs to be done with the climbing hydrangea, but it’s to pretty to touch right now, and just coming into bloom. Another mental pin until the beauty passes.

Even in the rain, it’s good to be in the garden.

One of my favorite trees is currently coming into (bract) bloom – the Chinese dogwood. Unlike its American cousin, this species sets its flowers on display after the foliage has leafed out. Here are charms to both, though I happen to prefer the later blooming period of these as the weather is usually (ahem) nicer by this point in the year. Clearly that’s not the case this year.

Rain or shine, the blooms are coming on, and after a reasonably mild winter they are happily intact. (Especially frigid seasons will diminish the blooms, which are set by the fall.) I’ve noticed that in the splendid rhododendron plants in the neighborhood too – a mild winter makes for a spectacular floral show.

Behold, this is one of my favorite plants in the garden, and it’s at its peak right now. The Solomon’s Seal, scientifically-monikered Polygonatum, is currently blooming – its bell-like-blossoms dangle two-by-two on the underside of its arching stems. Seen here after a spring rain, the effect is doubly dazzling. From a single plant I brought from my parents’ house, a few large colonies have established themselves in our backyard. One stand in particular has expanded so much that several friends now have groupings at their own homes. This is the sort of plant that lends itself to sharing, and everyone loves the results.

I find that to keep them happiest, the best thing to do is provide a healthy top-dressing of manure at the very start of the growing season, before or just as the buds are breaking the soil. Of course you can do it at any time of the growing year, I just find it easier to do so when you can get around them – once they start reaching for the sky they won’t stop until forming the gorgeously impenetrable forest you see here.

This is the season of the ostrich fern. I didn’t get a chance to capture their fiddleheads this year, and I regret that. It’s one of their most magical moments, and I’m upset that I’ve been away from the house too often to pay attention to the garden. It’s probably why I’ve been a little out-of-sorts lately. Gardening is better than therapy for some of us, and I need to make it a priority again.

This is the brightest and most beautiful these ferns will get. Our summers are too hot to sustain such freshness until the end. One can prolong the beauty with regular and consistent watering, but even that fails by August, when things go brown and begin their die-back no matter how moist the soil is kept.

With our temperatures scheduled to creep into the 90’s already, these probably don’t stand a chance, but we will do our best. A little watering work each day can work wonders for this crowd.

Depending on the winter, the Lenten rose can be a gorgeous show-off or a bedraggled mess. The past few years have seen the former, and a decade and a half of living with us has allowed this specimen to mature into a bloody good performer. These long-lived plants take a while to get going – quite a while in fact – and for about five years the only thing this one did was push up a few leaves. I had faith. It paid off.

Most years this variety nods its flower-heads toward the ground, and the interior rarely faces upward, denying viewers a look at its gorgeously unique design. This time around, however, we got a much better look at the lenten rose blooms, as they raised their heads and nodded to the sky. Even after fifteen years, flowers reserve the right to surprise and change course, and in the most beautiful of manners.

Going out in a blaze of glory, summer weather returns this week to upstate New York. I just returned myself from Washington, DC (posts to come) so I’m in catch-up mode once again, but The Delusional Grandeur Tour is on fire, and just when I thought the wind had gone out of my touring sail, a re-energized itinerary has me going places once again.

As for today, let’s ease back into the work week gradually and peacefully, with this beautiful Japanese anemone, doing its part to close out the season in fine style. Our cup plants are still throwing a few of their yellow daisy-like blooms out, on toppled stems, but the finches don’t seem to mind. A September garden Renaissance is a brilliant thing to behold.

By the end of July, even the best gardens can begin to look a little haggard, especially when there hasn’t been a steady supply of rain. Leaves curl and dry up, flowers fade and fall to the ground, and the once-fresh and vibrant grasses begin to go to seed. Our stand of ostrich ferns starts looking a little brown around the edges at that time, and only a persistent and dogged watering regime can hold off their inevitable die-back, especially when located in relatively full sun. A perennial sweet pea passed out a while back, so I cut it back ruthlessly. The first flush of hydrangea blooms was pruned away as they began to turn brown.

Yet around this time something wonderful happens. After the lull, and the hint of impending fall, the garden gets a second wind. A spell of thunderstorms soaks the ground, and the nights offer a respite from the oppressive heat.

Annuals that had re-seeded themselves later in the season begin their bloom.

August flowers such as anemone, flowering maple and Rose-of-Sharon come into their own, while a butterfly weed plant puts forth a second show of flowers. Sometimes you’ll even get a second blooming of the Korean lilac, with all its intoxicating perfume.

This flowering renaissance is a renewal of summer, and a reminder that most of September is summer too. Keep blooming.

Hollyhocks are a favorite garden plant of mine, but I haven’t grown them for years because of their susceptibility to rust and beetles. After seeing this relatively healthy stand of them, however, I may give them a go next year. While they are technically biennials (leafing out the first year and flowering the second before giving up, they reseed with such reliability that most people consider them perennials for all intents and purposes.

There are double pom-pom varieties that can be quite stunning, but they’re a bit too over-blown for me. You don’t need much more impact than their sturdy height and color. In gardening, less is so often more. When spires like this reach to the sky, there’s no need to gild the lily. Or the hollyhock.