Category Archives: Gardening

These early spring bulbs rarely show themselves before March, but this small clump was in resplendent late-afternoon bloom at the tail-end of February. They lived up to their common name of ‘Snowdrops’ as patches of dirty white stuff still clung to shaded spots, and the only other signs of life were a few branches of witch hazel suspended overhead.

For some reason I’ve never invested much into planting these early bulbs, yet they are my favorite sight at this time of the year. They’re also relatively easy to grow. (I went on a crocus kick a couple of years ago, planting hundreds of corms, only to watch them unearthed and torn apart by the chipmunks and squirrels in our backyard, so I’m a bit wary of the whole scene.) A few might be worth trying to sneak through, however, so remind me again in the fall of how much I love them at the end of winter.

My experience with forcing paperwhite narcissus began, strangely enough, in Cape Cod, on a summer vacation with my Mom and her friend Diane. My brother and I were just thrilled to be at the beach for a few days, catching crabs and collecting sea shells, while my Mom had a friend with whom she could talk nursing and grown-up items. At night, we all came together in a little hotel room and went over the events of the day, while I listened to Diane tell me stories of African violets (she had a small collection that was in full bloom the few times we visited her apartment). She also told me how to force narcissus.

In her deep smoky voice (she was a smoker ~ something alien and fascinating to my brother and myself) she went through the step-by-step instructions on how to make a daffodil bulb bloom indoors in the middle of winter.

I listened intently to the method. She said they would grow in gravel or soil or just plain water (provided the bulbs weren’t fully immersed, or they would rot). Rapt with wonder at the idea of bulbs growing anywhere other than six inches under the ground, I made her repeat the instructions several times on that vacation, as if she was telling the most fascinating story ~ which, in my mind, she was. Committing the simple process to memory, I repeated it back to her to make sure I had all the steps. It was as much for my own knowledge as it was to hear her explain it all again.

It’s been a few years since I last grew a batch of paperwhites, but when I saw them a few weeks ago, I potted up several to bring some early sneak-peek of spring into the house. My method is not so haphazard as throwing a few bulbs into a gravel and water grave and letting them fend for themselves, but it remains a simple one nonetheless.

I begin by storing the bulbs in a dark, cool place for a couple of weeks. (Some people pop them in the fridge for a week.) Paperwhites will usually grow just as well without a proper cooling period, but I like to mimic their natural cycle as closely as possible. When ready to plant, I use tall glass cylinders, so as to afford viewing the roots and bulbs and stems all at once. (Feel free to wind a fancy ribbon or length of rustic burlap around the base if you don’t like the look of soil and roots.) The tallness of the container will come in handy as these invariably require staking or support of some kind.

I pour in about an inch or two of gravel into the bottom of the container (not required if your pot has drainage), nestle the bulbs in and packing them tightly against one another, then top with soil about two-thirds to the top of the bulbs. I like soil in addition to the gravel because it provides a bit more stability. (Though you’d be surprised at the tenacity of the roots alone in supporting the leaves and blooms.)

Water well, but not enough to let the water rise to anything higher than the bottom of the bulbs. The important thing is to avoid any possibility of rot. In a few days, the roots will start descending, and you may see the bulbs rising out of the soil. I try to push them back gently, but I’ve also let them do their thing. The main thing to remember is that they will most likely require some sort of staking or support. The use of tall glass cylinders helps with this, but I still end up typing the stems together so they don’t bend or break. They grow surprisingly tall (mine top out at about two feet, stretching for sun, stretching for spring).

Some find their potent fragrance offensive, or at least unbecoming. I happen to like it. It reminds me of the tail-end of winter, of greenhouse-like rooms filled with light and a chaise lounge for reading. Mostly, it reminds me that even though winter has just begun, the days are already getting longer. We are on the right path. Hope is a narcissus bulb.

Harbinger of fall, bringer of change, this is the late-blooming Japanese anemone. It is with a bittersweet sigh that I greet their buds, coming as they do at the tail-end of a season most of us would like to prolong. Though they may be a little unwelcome, the scarcity of new blooms at this stage of the game makes them valuable additions to those beds and borders in need of a little jolt before the feathery seed-heads of the grasses take center stage.

The turn of the seasons is almost upon us. I’m not ready, not quite. The coolness that has been creeping into the nights is refreshing, but this last winter was so cruel I don’t want to head in that direction. It will come, but give us a little longer, still and slow time, even if it’s just in my head. In the meantime, there is beauty to be found in the end of August, last full month of summer.

Below, an anemone blossom is visited by a pollinating bee. It’s never too late to seek out a sweet bit of nectar, to roll around in whatever bit of the sunny season remains.

This blog has glorified the Butterfly weed a number of times already, but it merits repetition, as this is one of the finest garden plants I know. Foliage remains handsome throughout the entire season, and the fiery orange blooms last for several weeks, peaking in July, but occasionally lingering beyond. This was not the year for taking such sweet time, so the photos here are from a while ago. Still, the beauty is timeless.

A relative of the common milkweed, this more refined version is perfectly-suited to the perennial border. It keeps within bounds (though it will disperse its fluffy seeds if allowed to get that far) and has a tap root that makes moving it a challenge. I tend to allow it to go to seed and spread a bit. If caught early enough, such seedlings should survive a transplant before that root gets too long.

This is also a favorite of butterflies and bees, which find its unique flower form a perfect landing trip.

Any friend of the butterflies is a friend of mine.

The other common moniker for these sundrops is Evening Primrose, so-named because of their tendency to close up come evening (which makes it seem like Morning Primrose would be a more apt title). Plant names are sketchy at best, and common ones are even trickier. Why can’t they all be Red hot pokers? A question that I’ve contemplated for years… As for the Oenothera (the scientific name for these bright yellow beauties), they are from a patch at my parents’ home that I originally planted about two decades ago. Through division and cultivation, they’ve gradually moved around the house to their current location standing sentinel by the front door. A harbinger of high summer, they mirror the sun in happy countenance, and shut down in dismay when she slumbers at night. Though the show is spectacular, it lasts only for a couple of weeks. There may be a sporadic flowering following this initial burst, but for the most part this is their glory.

It’s more than substantial, and sets up the golden color band to follow in the Rudbeckia and Hemerocallis. The latter duo will see us through the zenith of summer color, but neither is as pure a yellow as the Evening Primrose. They lean either to gold or to cream, both enchanting in their own way, but nothing beats the clarity of these yellow sundrops. Echoes of sunlight itself.

This is the part of the annual growing season that I like best – everything is still fresh and new, and not quite grown out to its maximum splendor. Bits of earthenware pots can still be seen, glimpses of dark soil forming a perfect background to the brightest green that the season will achieve. There is promise in such chartreuse shades, and a vibrant expectancy that will only gradually erode from this point forward.

Now is the time to pinch things back a little to keep them bushy and full. The first few times I have to do this always gives me pause, but then I remember that gardening is a ruthless business, and being wimpy now will only result in problems and weakness later.

For the moment, though, a breather in the relentless pace of this sunny month. A couple of trims, a little watering, some feeding, and then a bit of admiration and reflection. Enjoy the day.

Though I pride myself on having a green thumb, I’ve had a number of notable failures in the garden – chief among them my difficulties with roses. Aside from the fool-proof knockout series (a bland thing if ever there was one), I’ve yet to have a successful rose endeavor.

When I was a kid, I begged and pleaded with my parents to order a few roses from Jackson and Perkins. Their catalogs were practically porn for my floral-fixation, and I narrowed it down to a selection of six rose plants, each with a fancy name and pedigree. A few weeks later they arrived in a big box – monstrous things that were alien-like in their bare-rooted form. The planting instructions called for them to be soaked/submerged in water for a few hours prior to planting, so I filled the bathtub with lukewarm water. Ahh yes, the brain of a child. I don’t recall the mess that was made because it was so bad I likely put it from my mind. While they soaked (and left their dirt rings on the tub) I set about preparing six enormous holes in the front and side gardens. Visions of dazzling rose bushes filled my head, with blooms that spilled forth with abundant floriferous vociferousness.

I amended the soil and dug deeply, with ample manure and generous dashes of bone meal. I left a mound at the bottom of each hole, as per the elaborate directions included with them, and somehow hauled the beasts out of the tub and back down to their new homes. Gently, I fanned out the roots over the mounds, then backfilled and firmly secured the plants with crowns at ground level. A small basin designed to catch water surrounded each plant, and I watered them in well. I could almost sense them growing, and I stood there when the last one was in, just waiting for some sign of growth to occur. Again, the mind of a child: ever-hopeful, ever-antsy, ever-anticipating.

Only the two in the sunniest spots did much. In fact, they were the only ones that survived that first year. Fantasies of armloads of rose blooms spilling out of baskets and bouquets were left as just that. The pink and yellow and white varieties I so wanted to see in person didn’t make it. Only those two stalwart red plants survived the winter. They did well enough, and the next year I did manage to coax a few blooming spells from them, but their upkeep and insect control were too taxing to be enjoyed, and their spindly form left much to be desired. I gave up, and roses left my life until I met Andy.

This year he’s trying the variety you see here. Lightly fragrant, and beautifully shaded with an almost lavender blush, it’s a beautiful specimen. I just hope it’s not too fussy.

The smiling pucker of a pansy is sometimes enough to lift the darkest day. Even bowed down by a shower of raindrops, their little faces are still there, ready to face the sun when it deigns to show itself again. While I love seeing these beauties in pots and in yards in the early part of the season, I’ve never grown or planted them myself. A few years of Johnny-jump-ups were all I could muster.

That distant cousin of the pansy, with the much-smaller blossoms and tenacious reseeding tendency, makes a charming-enough companion in the garden, would pop up in unexpected and not-always-welcome places. They always kept me on my toes, and I was usually too guilty to pick them up and move them somewhere more appropriate of aesthetically-pleasing, choosing instead to let them fill the edges of borders or poke through a cement crack. Their unpredictability was a lesson in accommodation, and I knew it was a lesson I needed to learn.

Now, I admire the pansies and the Johnny-jump-ups from a distance. Our summers are simply too long and hot for them to last much beyond June or July, and when you need something to see you through August and September, these just don’t cut it. This gardener doesn’t have time for that.