Category Archives: Gardening

Named for the way the black, wiry stems look when they are matted down at the end of winter, the Maidenhair fern also has a more slightly-vulgar common name – the Five-Finger Fern. Why not just call it a Hand Fern and destroy its reputation completely? No matter – the beauty and delicate appearance of this fern makes it my all-time favorite – and such an elegant and dainty look is merely a mask, as this beast is as hardy as any other fern in the forest. I love when things are pretty and deceptively-strong. 

This fern is a clump former – gradually spreading out into sizable masses that are happy to be divided and planted about the garden. Again, it’s hardier than you think, and its divided leaflets render even the strongest of wind gusts harmless. A pretty strong thing that is so gleefully dismissive of brute force is a thing of beauty indeed. Don’t fuck with this maiden.

Everyone loves an allium. Like magic wands shooting stars of purple pixie dust, they rise quietly from the earth, soaring with unobtrusive promise, before exploding into these gorgeous balls of bloom. The stunning Allium giganteum is one of the largest in this genus, rising upwards of five feet, and topped with hundreds of tiny flowers forming a transfixing orb of purple majesty. 

I tend to admire them in the gardens of others, as once thy finish their bloom cycle the foliage does a slow die back, and it should not be removed until the bulb has rejuvenated itself for next year. An early stunner that then leaves a blank space in the garden for the rest of the summer, but what a show it provides. The garden posits such tradeoffs and the gardener must pick and choose which are worth the price. 

Looking for a gentler and softer palette of colors for our backyard, I found this cooling hue of catmint flowers a good way of calming the view. Aptly named, as the cats do seem to love it based on the occasional trampling they performed when I used to grow this, catmint makes for a fine perennial border plant. Its profuse clouds of light purple flowers held above silvery green foliage is an ideal antidote from the heat of summer to come. 

I’m seeking out gentler and softer ways of going through this summer, and clouds of catmint may be one path to getting there. 

Many a previous post have extolled the fragrant virtues of the Korean lilac, and it’s in full bloom now (at least, it was at the time of this writing before all the 90-degree days). Such hot weather spells a fast wilt-and-fade-away process for these delicious blooms. One of the penalties for the warmer weather. 

This is one of the greatest garden plants, as it works on so many levels. With proper pruning (which should be done immediately after this first fish of blooms) you can keep it a manageable size – or you can let it grow into a sizable shrub, upwards of ten feet high and round. Its foliage is beautiful, and stays green and free from most powdery mildew even in our humid summers. Its flowering season is usually later than the American lilac, offering an extended season of good scents in the garden. All in all, it gives and gives and demands just some manure every spring, and a few deep soaks if the weather is dry for a while. Highly recommend. 

Our fragrant zenith of the spring season comes as these lily-of-the-valley plants spread their perfume throughout the backyard, ,angling with the perfume of the lilacs – both American and Korean – and it’s a heavenly mash-up. It was their fragrance that actually alerted me to their early blooming season this year – everything just sort of came up at once – leaping into so much green that I didn’t notice these quiet white flowers. Like many small white flowers, their perfume is potent – one of the neat tricks of the garden, especially when you’re seeking out some extravagantly-colored and bold bloom to match the scent in the air.

The garden is rarely so straightforward.

The garden wants you to work for its rewards.

A few more shots to welcome you in to the fragrant season…

This appears to be a day of green, as we follow the green light of Gatsby with this ferny post exemplifying the splendor of the Ostrich Fern. It is the best time to appreciate the unfurling fronds of this fern variety, as they are at their freshest and most chartreuse hue. They will happily retain much of this color throughout the season, though if it’s a hot and sunny one without ample water these will begin their burn-out in late July. The trick is to keep them watered well for as long as possible, as you can stave off the turn, but you cannot stop it once it begins. As in so many other instances prevention is key. 

Along with their stunning shade of green, ostrich ferns also provide great architectural interest in the garden, with their magnificent fronds, particular in the early unfurling stages. Once opened up, they arch gracefully – surprisingly stalwart in wind and rain – though they will get tattered if brushed by branches or wayward wanderers in their space. Such beauty doesn’t come without a bit of carefulness. 

For now, all is freshness and verdant promise – the very best qualities of any fern worth such ample space in the garden (and the ostrich ferns will demand a decent stretch of space and then completely claim it, particularly if there’s a steady source of water). 

Spring is in full effect, even if it’s been a bit on the slow side. Summer will likely simply click on without any transitory relief and we will simply have to go with the flow. You know you can do it.

The lilac that Andy’s Mom had gifted us almost a quarter of a century ago is once again in bloom, along with all of its descendants in three different areas of the yard. So prolific has its growth been that we’ve had to cut it back as it attempted to take over an entire corner of lawn in the backyard. In the process, I transplanted several suckers over the years, each of which has developed into a sizable shrub. 

This hybridized version – all fancy double blooms adding to the florificence (a word I just totally made up but that should totally exist) – is like a supercharged lilac – packing perhaps even more fragrance than the old-fashioned variety. There are all those extra flower petals to emit even more perfume. Blessings upon blessings. 

Lilacs seem to carry childhood memories with them for many people, and I am no exception. It is the scent that instantly and singularly brings me back to a very specific suite of childhood recollections, starting with the sight of them over a neighbors fence. There was a large stand of them in all sorts of shades – from the deepest purple to the traditional lilac, and a few creamy white ones as well. They would fill the yard with their perfume, which drifted over to our side, and I distinctly remember a feeling of envy as I craved to be closer to their tantalizing fragrance.

After growing a glorious double-flowered hybrid in our back and side yards over the past few years, I recently planted the traditional old-fashioned variety, which has spread into a sizable path by the driveway and is the first of the lilacs to bloom. 

No matter what I’m doing, no matter what kind of day I’ve had, I always pause to smell the lilacs when they come into bloom. I pause, and I remember, and the joy of spring always comes back. 

It was around 1986 or 1987 when I stuffed five one-dollar bills into an enveloped and mailed them out with a request for a catalog to White Flower Farm. At the time, it was an exorbitant sum for a child to collect, but it was worth it because I had read that the White Flower Farm catalog was the standard against which all flower catalogs were judged. Way back then there was no internet, and I had to find any information on plants, and a burgeoning gardening obsession, in books and magazines and plant catalogs. 

During those years, Amos Pettingill was the ‘writer’ behind the catalog, and their introduction to the catalog – and hat was new that year – was golden text for me. I pored over each and every word, finding daydreams and a hazy future hope in the invitation to cucumber sandwiches that Amos offered in every spring catalog. 

White Flower Farm supplied many rare plants and species to all of the gardens I’ve cultivated. There is a Baptisia only a decade younger than myself at my parents’ former home that still blooms, and the Japanese umbrella pine that I purchased from them twenty years ago is about twelve feet tall now. This nursery and I go way, way back. 

When I asked Missy how far she lived from Litchfield, we were both surprised at how close it was from Southbury, and she mentioned she had been wanting to visit there for a while, so we set up a floral weekend anchored by the short drive to the Farm. I knew it would never capture the palace I’d built it up to be in my head, and I went in with reasonable expectations. 

We caught it at just the right time – all of the spring bulbs were in full, gorgeous bloom. The Narcissus spread out in every imaginable form, while the tulips and hyacinths were resplendent in every possible color combination. Taking in the layout of the land, I was transported back to my childhood – the trees and the gently-roling hill were familiar, as though I’d been here in a dream, when it was merely all in my imagination, and the tantalizing peek of landmarks from the photographs in the catalog. 

At first it felt smaller than I’d imagined, but slowly, as we made our way through each garden and walkway, it opened up, revealing all the intricacies and myriad plant varieties that were on display and just beginning to appear in this late-starting season. The promise of another summer visit when things were further advanced put my mind at ease. For now, I simply enjoyed the magic of the moment, and the realization of reaching my own little Mecca after four decades. 

A post to offer a shift in perspective, or maybe just the possibility of such a shift if we can be open to such a thing. I’ve posited such notions prior to this post, and this is the not-quite-annual reminder that even a dandelion is a thing of beauty. From a conspiracy of hardiness, ubiquitousness, and its own slight messiness, the dandelion has never earned a place among the more cultivated garden plants, but if this were rare or less prolific, we’d be paying good money to have it in the garden. 

When the jonquils and other spring bulbs emerge from the muddy spring ground, and raindrops splash and sputter the dirt onto their pristine petals, nothing stays pristine for long. Spring is messy, as seen on this very first Narcissus bloom of the year. Speckled with bits of dirt and drops of rain, it screams spring in every way, holding onto a bit of winter’s discontent, ready to shake it entirely off with an ironic burst of wind. 

For the past four days, the weather has been wild, even for spring. These blooms turn their faces from the wind and the rain, shyly hiding their prettiness, unbothered by whatever life-giving muck splashes up onto their beauty. Flowers, strangely enough, carry no such vanity. 

The lessons of the garden are infinite. 

This little crocus, the only surviving crocus from a planting of about 200 corms several years ago (yes, only this one survived the rodents running rampant in the backyard) always seems to be taken out before its time. A couple of years ago it was a chipmunk – I came upon it munching on the torn flowerhead like some fancy dinner – and this year it was a snowstorm that leveled its pretty blooms, tamping them down for the rest of its finite life. The leaves, however, remain standing tall, well, short in this case – the point is that they’re standing, and drawing sunlight and nutrients, pouring energy and growth into next year’s buds. Life will begin again, with the proper preparation. The garden is the greatest teacher of those lessons, and every year around this time I learn things all over again. 

Every year around this time the plant and seed catalogs start arriving like lifesavers, thrown out from the garden-planning gods to those of us struggling through winter, no matter how benign or nasty. Mom recently received the Burpee’s catalog, but since she gets most of her seeds locally, she let me take it and peruse the colorful photos and pages. I’m not big on seeds – our short growing season in Zone 4/5/6a allows for limited options, particularly regarding vegetables and fruit – so if I’m doing any of that I simply go out and purchase starter plants which have already been hardened off. Saves time and effort (and an elaborate seed-starting set-up), and worth the extra bit of money. It also allows for a more precise number of plants – with seeds I tend to either get feast or famine, with hundreds of seedlings or none at all. 

These catalogs, coming as they do when many of us are garden-hungry (well, starving), are mostly just inspirational guides for me. Occasionally, for more rare plants, I will order a seed packet and try it out, but I’ve had much success. I only bother with direct sowing anyway, and maybe that’s my problem. My Mom can work wonders with seeds, as could my Dad when he was alive. Perhaps this year I will learn some patience and try again. 

The USDA just updated the plant hardiness zone map, and after being a Zone 4 boy since my twelve-year-old self wrote a fan letter to Lee Bailey, our area has shifted into… Zone 6a?! Don’t tell me global warming isn’t real – this is insane. While I’m thrilled to be able to possibly grow some new species, I’m dismayed and disturbed by this undeniable trend. 

Of course with my luck, I’ll deck the yard out in Zone 6a survivors only to have a deep freeze defy the new zones. Call me Elsa and let it fucking go. 

Much like this surprise bloom from a backyard hydrangea, the lion’s paw flower you see here, in glorious and furry orange, grew to it full four-foot height behind the thick curtains of some fountain grass, a butterfly bush, and the typically-unstoppable Rosa rugosa. Only now, when things have started to die back, and the fountain grass has wilted a bit and parted its curtains, did the lion’s paw reveal itself, appearing as customarily late as they like to be. 

Oh little lion, thank you for brightening my day a bit, and my apologies for forgetting you too. Even without an ounce of care this season, you grew and bloomed and welcomed me back into your graces. You are the perfect fall flower – tall and stalwart, with hues to match the fiery season, and some fuzziness to approximate the coziness we will soon be craving.