Category Archives: Gardening

Behold the seven sons’ flower, which is actually the name of the small tree that carries these delicate blooms. In their third or fourth year, the two specimens we have in our backyard now tower above me (like so much else) and their bark is just beginning to peel off in the enchanting manner that first drew me under their influence.

The flowers, which just started blooming last week, appear at the end of summer, but the exact date is wildly variable. Some years they’ve begun as early as July, others as late as late September. Regardless, their sweet perfume is more than welcome at this time of the year, because it’s often a slow time in the garden. As much as I love gardening, I find my drive and excitement waning around now. My focus tends to turn inside, back to clothing and cologne, and away from the out of doors. I lose my interest in the start of the dying season, which is why I’ve never been very ambitious as far as fall bulb planting goes (and why I’m so often kicking myself in the barren spring).

It’s the same sort of thing that happens on the last day of a trip. I just want to cut my emotional losses and go. Why drag out the inevitable end? Yet lately part of me has been wanting to hold on, to make the most of the last moments of a vacation or trip, or even a season. It’s like the last-minute saving grace of a pear cocktail in Las Vegas – a final 11^th hour appeal to hold onto the ticking of the clock – a plea to slow and still what cannot be stopped.

The seven sons’ flower blooms regardless of all this, always near the end of summer, just before the long slumber to winter commences. It doesn’t feel regret or remorse, doesn’t think ahead to its last gasp before a hard frost – it will bloom until it can’t, and then it will start all over again next year.

With a common-name like LadyBells one might think that I would adore this plant unconditionally. As it is, I have a few major conditions, and because of them I find it hard to love this Adenophora through and through. The flower is exquisite, with an elusive shade that almost borders on the blue. Not many flowers come that close, so those that do are highly prized. (Some contend there are no true blue flowers; I’m not that quick to be so definite, but I do know it’s a rare hue.)

My problem, therefore, is not with the flower, but with the form of the plant. Its style is too loner-like for my taste. I like my plants in mounds or mats, with groups of stems that combine to create an overall impression. The single and solitary nature of Adenophora goes against that. From a design standpoint, I know the power and importance of vertical aspects like this – my issue is a personal preference I cannot get over. The one small patch I have going in the side garden – brought in by accident with another perennial – has actually expanded into a mat of sorts, but the results, as seen here, still bother me. Again, some people adore the effect, and I do admit that when grounded by ferns or hosta it works – I just can’t bring myself to love it. Sorry, lady.

It has the somewhat unfortunate common moniker of ‘weed’ attached to it, so I prefer the scientific name of Asclepias when referencing this favored stomping ground of butterflies and bees. A relative of the milkweed, these are the more refined border versions of that prolific native plant, whose colors have been honed into bright oranges and vibrant pinks. They make an excellent addition to the sunny perennial bed, as their colors are strong, and they produce at the height of summer.

Their milkweed association becomes more apparent when the flower-heads go to seed, producing the distinctive pods that we used to open and pry apart, releasing the feathery parachutes into the wind, a seed on the end of each. Like a dandelion, they were designed to spread far and wide by the lift of the wind. As such, these tend to re-seed throughout the garden if allowed to ripen (I usually dead-head the blooms so as not to weaken the plant for the following season, but the past few years it got away from me, so there are several more of these than intended. Not a bad thing for such a great plant.)

As mentioned, the butterflies love the Asclepias, and the caterpillar form especially may find its way along the stems, chewing on the developing seed pods. For the regally-striped monarchs-to-be, I allow them the snack.

This pink version grows slightly taller than its orange counterpart, falling closer in line to its milkweed kin. Its bloom time is also slightly earlier, but a bit shorter, making it the lesser of the two in my opinion. Still, I wouldn’t throw it out of bed or border.

The title of this post takes its name from a saying that my friend Chris and I first heard from a server in San Juan. We asked her if she was into women (hey, it’s the conversation you have in Puerto Rico when you rack up a $300 bar tab between two people) and she replied very matter-of-factly that she was “strictly dickly”. Well, me too. That brief nonsensical aside over, this is the prickly pear cactus – one of the rare cacti that is hardy in the Zone 5 winters of upstate New York.

This small patch is located on a Southern-slanted hill that I rarely visit, so it’s always a surprise when I hear word from Andy that it’s in bloom. It’s largely left to fend for itself on a rather barren piece of sandy soil, its only shelter the thinning limbs of a struggling pine tree. Yet each spring it rises miraculously from a pool of withered, desiccated paddles, and each year it has steadily expanded, happy in its dry environs.

The ‘prickly’ aspect of its segmented ‘leaves’ keeps me from getting too close for weeding, but I’ll risk the proximity to capture some of the blooms, as they are exceptional. The texture of the petals is almost like velvet, and of the clearest yellow, set off by a throat of flaming orange. Like a rose, these pretty things come armed, and that’s something I can appreciate. Prickly and pretty. I can only hope to aspire.

The stalwart Echinacea, whose scientific name is known to most as a natural immune booster, makes a great summer plant in the Northeast. Commonly called the coneflower, it has a long blooming period that just began this past week, manages to stand up to the wicked heat we’ve had of late, and keeps its dark green foliage fresh until the fall. Hybridizers have gone overboard in developing fragrant varieties, in a veritable rainbow of hues. I haven’t had much luck with the newer ones – they are a bit too delicate and precious for the harshness of the locations for which I’ve desired them. (The one I did put in ended up turning black and croaking within a few weeks – never a good sign.)

The traditional pink variety, seen here in radial bud, is a much better option, even if it does tend to reseed a little too prolifically. These can rise high in a happy home, all the way to three feet tall, and slowly spread to form impactful clumps. They’re also a favorite of bees and butterflies, who aid in the pollination a bit too freely. Oh well, who am I to deny anyone their intoxication?

The lace-cap hydrangea. If you think that the traditional hydrangea is overbearing and obnoxious (or even loathsome), this variety offers a subtler approach to flower presentation, delicately throwing out a few limited umbrels of “petals” that surround the true blooms. Like many people, I didn’t cotton to these in the beginning, more easily impressed with the hybridizers’ monstrosities, but as my taste has matured I find myself more enchanted with these blooms than the bolder flower heads of the flashier versions.

The plant has an airier feel to it as well – a little looser, less dense – that lifts the garden during what can be an oppressive time of overcrowding. This year I’ve come to appreciate the space between plants, something that most gardeners strive to fill as quickly as possible. That space, however, becomes integral as leaves fill in on their own and branches crowd together leaving little breathing room. In rainy seasons like the one we’ve had, circulation is of paramount importance, particularly around plants susceptible to mildew or fungal issues. Luckily, the hydrangeas don’t suffer from that, so for them it’s more a question of aesthetic value: the juxtaposition of the bold green leaves and these airy blossoms against a rich groundcover of bark mulch is a gorgeous combination.

Unlike a certain someone, I absolutely love hydrangeas, even if they don’t always love me back. Our soil is not quite acidic enough to uniformly color these beauties deep blue, so they vacillate between purple and pink, especially as they mature. Some days, though, if the light is just right, and the sky is helping tilt them in the right direction, they’ll appear the closest to blue they’ll ever get. (By the way, you can nudge them into the blue region by modifying the soil to the acidic side. Many myths exist as to how best do this – coffee grounds, rusty nails in the soil, a diluted sulphuric solution – all go towards bringing out the blue in some hydrangeas.)

This variety is the now-ubiquitous ‘Endless Summer’ hybrid that blooms on new wood. Many hydrangeas only bloom on old wood, and if you have particularly punishing winters as we do in upstate New York, you can’t count on the buds surviving. Varieties like ‘Endless Summer’ provide blooms every year, so you need not worry so much when the winter turns harsh.

It is one of the smallest flowers in the garden right now, but due to its color it’s one of the loudest. (I can relate.) Refusing to be ignored, the flaming magenta hue of this Lychnis floats atop a much quieter puff of gray-green wooly foliage. While I’m not a fan of its structure (leaves low to the ground, long stems, flowers floating aloft), the color alone (and its re-seeding prowess) has kept it in the garden for a number of years.

This is one of those flowers that illustrates the power of color, and how the bold ones advance while softer ones retreat. I can always spot the first lychnis bloom, no matter how seemingly hidden by tall grasses and unruly wisteria vines it may be.

As I mentioned, I’m not a fan of its form. There’s a lot of middle space between the foliage and the blooms that remains empty. Some consider this look appealing, I myself do not. It gives it a bit of a gangly, weedy air.

But for that kind of color, I’ll compromise.

This simple and somewhat forgettable bloom is that of the mockorange, and it possesses one of the most deliciously sweet fragrances of the early summer garden. Aptly named due to its olfactorial proximity to the orange blossom, the mockorange is a hardy shrub, rather plain to look at in foliage and branch. In fact, we had two ancient mockorange shrubs on our property when we bought the house, but they were almost unidentifiable as they had been neglected and didn’t bloom for a year or two. I chopped them back and amended the soil, and they returned to former glory. That same year I planted two nursery-procured pots in the backyard, in spots that were, and remain, slightly too shady. They bloom now because they have grown tall enough to tower above the beginning of the roof, reaching the run and showering their sweet perfume from high above. Unfortunately, that’s a bit too high, and they’ve overreached their allotted space. As such, they will need to be cut back drastically this year once they finish their blooming period.

The time period immediately after flowering is usually the best time to prune spring blooming shrubs. Flowering cherries and dogwood and lilacs form next year’s flower buds during the summer, so if you wait until the middle of the season you run the risk of cutting off next year’s blooms. Of course, with the heavy pruning job I have planned for these monsters, there will likely not be any flowers next year. But the backyard needs to be cleaned up, and I’ve let this go long enough. It’s time to get brutal, just as soon as this season’s blooms cease emitting their delectable scent.

These small-flowered plants grew wild in the backyard of my childhood home. As such, they seemed less interesting than the exotic annuals and perennials in the proper beds, and I took them for granted. Only years later, when I saw them on sale for $15 a plant, did I realize how valued they were in certain areas. (If the common dandelion did not re-seed and come back so prolifically, we’d be paying through the nose for those sunbursts of blooms and jagged leaves.) The common name of the celadon poppy seems to reference the gorgeous bright hue of the matte foliage – with its hints of silver and cooler shades of green. The stems and flower buds are coated in light-colored hairs, lending a textural highlight that offsets the smoothness of the foliage.

As mentioned, the flowers are small, but of the brightest and clearest yellow. Visiting friends often mistook them for buttercups, holding them up to their chins and asking if they liked butter. The plant had its own subtle defenses too, with a sap that ran somewhere between orange and yellow when any of the stems or buds were broken. It stained skin and clothing alike, a warning signal that belied any delicate appearances.