Category Archives: Gardening

One of the many joys of the garden is when a pair of plants placed beside each other comes into beautiful complementary bloom at the same time. In this case, a Shasta daisy goes head to pretty head with an Agastache, and the battle is one of beauty and grace and perfect harmony.

It helps that each has a lengthy bloom season, at least compared to some plants whose blooms are spent in a day.

I do find myself favoring the purple cool panache of the Agastache, but daisies carry their own potent charm, so I guess I’m still torn. It’s a very pretty place to be.

It’s amazing how soon nature can reclaim a space, no matter how small or protected. Case in point is our small side yard. It’s outside of the pool fence, and as such it’s outside of my mind, which means it’s had a few years of uninterrupted growth, fallen leaves, and foraging birds and rodents to spread nasty seeds. When I looked out my window and saw a wall of green, I knew it was well past the time for action. We were seriously heading quickly into ‘Grey Gardens’ territory, and though I had the wardrobe and the eccentricities, I was not quite ready to throw in the house and surrounding landscape.

Doused in deet, clothed in long sleeves with pants tucked into my socks, and armed with rubber-coated gloves and pruning shears, I began hacking away at the wilderness. This was awful work. When a mixture of sweat and insect-repellent wasn’t pouring into my eyes, swarms of unaffected insects dove into my ears. Pesky bittersweet vines and Virginia creeper had overtaken much of the open space, while saplings of maple and oak had swelled into trees too big for one man to pull out with his own hands. Thorny things were hidden here too, ready to scrape and scratch and tear away at any exposed skin – and near the back of the property was a thorn-addled vine that was and remains the worst monster I’d ever encountered. There were thorns even on the tips and undersides of its leaves. Not many plants inspire fear in me – I find even the carnivorous ones rather charming – but this thorny terror was another story. I could easily see a nightmare inspired by such a devilish creature.

It took me three full days, thirty-seven large lawn bags, countless callouses, two cans of bug spray and two changes of clothing a day to wrangle the wilderness, but it is now done. I’ve got the war-wounds to prove it.

Continuing this year’s theme of missing things, or catching them at the tail-end of their show, I almost let the mockorange pass by without notice or comment. That would have been unforgivable, as it produces the sweet scent of summer – and it reminds me of some joyful moments. It is said that scent is one of the most powerful memory-triggers, and I’ve certainly found that to be true. (I’d reckon that music is up there too, as there are some songs that bring me instantly back to the past.)

In a slight defense of my absentmindedness when it comes to the mockorange blooms, this is not their strongest year as far as blooms go. They had to be pruned back hard a year or two ago, so they are still recovering. As they bloom on old wood, pruning can wipe out future crops of blossoms. That’s all right – it makes me appreciate them more on the good years. The undulation of the garden keeps everything interesting, ad offers a breather in an off-year.

Strangely, the two robust specimens I planted when we first moved in are actually the ones producing the fewest blooms, while the two run-down clumps that were here when we purchased the house are throwing out a few more blossoms. I like that. It keeps me on my toes.

The song from which today’s blog post is gleaned brings back bitter memories of a boy who killed himself and left my hometown bereft. I don’t know if people ever really recover from such an unnatural reordering of things. We were all left a little haunted by that, and the ghosts of memory parade differently before everyone. I’m not sure why that opened what was supposed to be a rather innocuous post about this snow-like drift of creeping phlox. That’s what I mean by haunted. It creeps up on you just when you’ve begun to forget.

As for these creeping phlox, they are beacons of the spring, and they burn in wild and ferocious form for just a few short weeks, but what a wonderful show it is. The flowers completely cover all their unremarkable leaves and branches like a carpet of pastels. They come in shades as quiet as this white and as loud as the most obnoxious magenta. In between all sorts of variations exist – from grape taffy to cotton candy to buttery popcorn.

I never grew them because of their short burst of flower power.

I wanted something that would last.

I wanted a boy I used to know to last too, and I wish I’d cherished him and our days together more than I cherish the phlox.

Behold the seed capsule of the poppy. Culled from this beautiful arrangement, I allowed these seed heads to dry in the hope of gaining some viable poppy seeds. Though this “florist poppy” was likely grown specifically for its globular form seen here, there has to be a bloom before that happens, so I’m rolling the dice and scattering some on the ground to see what may come up.

Never having had much luck with poppies, I’m not counting on anything. For some reason they have liked neither the clay soil of my parents’ home nor the sandy stuff of my subsequent houses. I’ve tried growing the fuzzy-leaved Oriental versions from potted plants and bare-roots, none of which ever deigned to bloom. Each would die a slow death after a season of decline and poor performance. Seeded “Flemish” poppies fared even more poorly, not even bothering to germinate.

These little maracas hold the promise of another start, but after such consistent failures it’s difficult to work up much hope.

Still, I dream of bright and bold blooms, of veiny petals streaked with enough color to raise a Renaissance painting from the dead.

We shall see what comes up, if anything.

It was on the back cover of the first White Flower Farm catalog that arrived at our house, and I was immediately smitten. There, next to a stand of Ostrich Plume astilbe, was the most beautiful foliage plant I’d ever seen. Deceptively presented, it looked much larger than it was in real life, and the leaves were mottled in a less-glossy version than what is seen here, but the beauty of European ginger was apparent at any size or finish. I was just beginning my garden education, and this was one of the first Latin names I stored in the back of my head: Asarum europaeum. It was also one of the first purchases I begged my Mom to make.

Back then, the White Flower Farm catalog was the standard against which most gardening catalogs were judged, starting with its five-dollar price-tag (an exorbitant amount for something that was usually sent out for free). That sum was recouped on the first order, which included a small 3-inch pot of European ginger. I had grand visions of this plant multiplying and filling in the nooks of my newly-created woodland garden, but when I placed in in that rugged, rough, untilled and unamended soil, it barely survived its first winter.

I hadn’t yet realized the importance of proper soil preparation, and placement. Just because I wanted something to grow in a specific spot did not mean that it would. Beneath the heavy shade of pine and oak that resulted in an almost impenetrable canopy, much would refuse to grow, until I “moved” (ok, stole) a few ostrich ferns from a neighbor’s forgotten stand. (In my defense, the new neighbors didn’t even realize there was a fern garden that far back, so no one was really the wiser. Besides, this species of fern does so well it was only a matter of a few years before the original stand was back to where it started from.)

These took off in ways that my sorry Asarum could never manage. It gave up after the second year. Another lesson of listening to what the garden tells you: thirty years later, some of those ferns still remain, while the Asarum remains something I admire from afar (and in other gardens, from where these photos were snapped).

The semi-tragic story of the American dogwood always upsets me. A few years ago, dogwood anthracnose was spreading madly among this native species, and any tree that had so much as a nick on it was soon invaded and destroyed. I’ve seen a number of trees succumb to this, and I didn’t look into whether it’s still decimating the population. For my part, I avoided planting them, preferring the hardier Chinese dogwood. Yet there’s something magical about the American version that makes me wish there was better news for its battle.

There are still some specimens that remain untouched by the disease, including the ones you see here in Boston. Hallmarks of the Southwest Corridor Park, they showed off the enchanting effect that sets them apart from other dogwoods: the blooms (technically bracts) appear before the foliage leafs out, lending a butterfly-like effect that is the stuff of poetry and painting.

Their Chinese counterpart blooms later, after the leaves are out, which is a different kind of magic, and for years I preferred the later bloom time and lush backdrop to better show off the white or pink petal. As the American version becomes more rare, however, I have come to appreciate its own majesty.

A wisteria can be wonderful and wicked, blooming beautifully while wrecking structures with its unwieldly branches and gnarly trunk. There are only two ways to keep such wildness in check: a ruthless pair of pruning shears and a lack of hesitancy in cutting everything back. It’s the only way I’ve kept our single wisteria under control. One has to be willing to destroy.

The final entry of this day of Washington blooms is not actually a bloom, but the opening leaves of the ginkgo tree. With their ruffled edges and early spring hue, they are just as vibrant and beautiful as a flower. This is another tree I have admired from a distance, fascinated by its form and ancient history. (The ginkgo is one of the oldest trees known to humanity.)

The leaves are works of art in their own right, and tellingly inspire artistic works from jewelry to scarf prints and everything in-between. Like some frilly ankle-length skirt billowing in a summer breeze, the leaves shimmer with the slightest wind, exposing their silvery backs to enchanting effect. That’s only part of the show: in fall, they turn the brightest yellow, which brings us back to our previous post. Life is but a circle, and we go round and round and round…

Another major lesson of gardening (of which I was reminded this week) is to listen. Not to the birds and the bugs and the other noisy stuff, but to the grander story the garden is telling you. It’s not usually a short story – it plays out over years, when the cycles and the growing patterns can be established and observed. This is one of the more difficult lessons – patience is tough, but the lesson itself is easy. The lesson of learning to listen is tricky, because it also involves understanding what is being told. It’s also a thing that unfolds over time, something in which most people today aren’t willing to invest.

For many years, I fought listening to the garden. I fought against the soil type and the climate ad the rainfall, and I thought I could defy nature and create micro-climates and other such ideals that would enable tricky plants to grow well. That’s only possible to a certain extent, and in the end it’s a losing battle. In recent years I’ve come to embrace what the garden was saying.

A stand of Solomon’s seal flourished and multiplied, so I spread it around the backyard – a gorgeous motif that lasted spring until fall. The early spires gracefully unfurling, and giving way to sweetly-scented flower rows, then the handsome variegated foliage that stood stout and pretty through the high heat of summer, and finally the bright yellow transformation of fall – these were hardy yet gorgeous plants that I’d taken for granted. They did well in the shady nooks of my backyard, but I wanted to grow sea holly and tea roses so I did, and I failed.

Those failures need to be heard. With a generous gift certificate, I invested in a Lady’s slipper orchid – $180 from White Flower Farm – and it was heartbreaking when, no matter what I did, it failed to thrive. I watered it with dechlorinated water, which is no easy feat with our hot and dry summers, yet it did dismally, ultimately dying, so I gave up on that species and settled for a more traditional and robust hosta. An average plant that does well is always prettier than an exotic plant doing poorly.

That’s hard to take when you want to cultivate the rare and exotic, but there’s no point in forcing something that’s never going to happen. We’ll save that for another lesson.