Category Archives: Gardening

A happy surprise revealed itself as I was pulling out of the driveway and heading to work the other morning – a white blanket of flowers caught the corner of my eye on the side of our garage, and I realized that a sweet autumn clematis had seeded itself and grown up over our fringe tree over the last season. My mind and attention had been elsewhere, and I had no idea it was making such progress. Like much of our yard, it snuck by me this season, joining the overgrown and unchecked wilderness that is ever-encroaching on the more manicured spaces I’m struggling to maintain. Time marches on and this summer has passed largely in a haze. 

This clematis is the most fragrant of the genus – which isn’t a heavy lift as the typical clematis varieties are not known for their perfume. The large swath of blooms (which are individually small) blanket their surroundings with a sweet scent, unexpected at this time of the year when dried leaves and resinous pine tend to lend the land a more earthy slant. These blooms are an echo of the seven sons flower, still in full and spectacular show (to Andy’s slight chagrin as they’ve been landing in the pool and filling up the skimmer). 

Meet Corey. That’s the nickname I’ve given to this late-blooming Coreopsis, a plant I completely forgot about  (again) until I saw this cheery bloom hovering near the pink hibiscus by the pool. It could have, and perhaps should have, been a bit more floriferous, but in my forgetful neglect of the past season, I didn’t amend the soil or fertilize or help it along in any way. Still, it bloomed for me, and I’m grateful for the little bit of beauty coming so late in the proverbial summer day. 

I’d like to believe that some plants bloom simply for the sake of blooming – to add something pretty and beautiful to this world – and that it’s not just about setting seed and ensuring survival. It’s probably just wishful and fanciful thinking on my part, and I’m sure the form and color and perfume of every flower serves some purpose – I still choose to believe that beauty may be its own purpose. 

While much of the garden has gone to seed and slumber, drying out and dying back for the season, most of the ferns are still as fresh and verdant as when they first unfurled their fronds at the start of spring. It’s one of the main draws of the fern family – their beauty is almost everlasting. 

It’s an under-appreciated benefit to have such a scene of freshness in the garden this late in the game. There are sunny and warm days yet to come – and even after this Labor Day weekend summer will still technically linger until nearer the end of September. Let’s not hurry it away, even if it has been especially hurtful. 

To make the show last even longer, many ferns can be flattened and dried – they do exceptionally well as pressed specimens, making for framed beauty to see us through the winter. 

Thanks to our recent bout with sickness and grief, I’ve been largely avoiding outside walks and outside activity, but yesterday I went out for the first time in a while and found many things still in bloom. It was a reminder that summer is not quite over, even if I’m ready for fall, even if I feel it in the air at night. Andy has noticed the shift in the slant of the sun too, signifying the month or so left to summer – the final third of what has become a rather dour and dim season. 

Starting on the patio, I inspect the hyacinth beans and nasturtiums that have grown up the poles of the canopy to create a stunning natural curtain of leaves and blooms and, now, poisonous bean pods. The cheery yellow and gold flowers of the nasturtium have been this season’s happy surprise performers. Meanwhile, a scarlet mandevilla winds its way around its support pole – the striking shade of red a vivid contrast to the pool behind it. I haven’t been swimming since July, and I’m not quite ready to resume. There’s a joy in the pool that I don’t want to taint just yet. 

Walking around the corner of the house, I pass the crinkled petals of our Rose of Sharon, and inspect the two fountain bamboo plants I’ve gotten going after their hundred-year-flowering cycle finally ended. The new crop of stalks has pushed through the ground and have reached the height they stopped at last year. Usually they would have bounded past that mark, but this has been a stalled and stunted summer. Every time it seemed we would sail into a heatwave, a deluge of rain and wind set us back a bit. After a while, I didn’t even bother to fight it.

There were rudbeckia and Montauk daisies still in bloom, glowing splendidly in the afternoon sunlight. The cup plants, marred and scarred from the worst aphid infestation I’ve ever seen, still manage to hold their blooms in the air, offering joy to bees and butterflies and goldfinches. Soon, the seed-heads will develop, and the finches will pluck them all away. 

I’m ready for the fall. 

The tropical weather we’ve had of late has made for one very happy banana tree in our backyard. It’s been a few years since I grew one of these, and their tropical vibe melds well with our loose bohemian summer theme. The foliage is the main draw here, with a single gigantic leaf being produced once a week when the weather cooperates. We don’t have a season long enough for this plant to go to fruit, but the leaves are more than enough. 

In our one pot, there may be two bananas – which makes sense for a home with two guys. One variety is plain, as seen above, and the other is beautifully variegated as seen below. Together they make a pretty scene, a dazzling duet to see us through the summer. 

Oh, did I mentioned there is ribbing too? Striking ribbing. 

Electric pink, to be precise. 

This shade seems to be all the rage on the nursery scene, as I found a trio of plants employing the not-so-subtle hue and plopped them into the front of our garden near the pool, where their shocking Day-Glo brilliance could best be appreciated. For all my talk of evolving into someone who now finds beauty in the calmer and quieter aspects of the garden, my heart still responds to bold and unabashed colors. 

First up is this gorgeous variety of bee balm (Monarda) on which I am not completely sold just yet; its form has been a little too compact and crowded for my taste (and for its own, as it seems to already be succumbing to mildew rather early in the season for such things). We shall see how it plays out the rest of the year, and whether it comes back at all next year. For some reason the last Monarda I planted did not make it through the winter.

Next up in the pink parade is this pretty petite petunia, whose petals are perfectly perimetered by green. A hard ‘G’ might ruin the sentence I had going, but visually it’s a knock-out. 

Finally, a twist on the purple and blue salvia that proves so deliciously irresistible to hummingbirds (if and when they show up – haven’t seen any this summer yet). This one will hopefully call out to those exquisite creatures, beckoning them with its bold color combo and offering sweet succor for their dainty little tongues and beaks. 

Like clockwork, the bright and sunny blooms of the evening primrose (Oenothera fruticosa) appeared almost to the day that summer begins. Also known as sundrops, these plants have a grandly exuberant flowering right now, and will occasionally repeat the show in smaller scale as the summer progresses. (Such floriferous behavior often wears itself out in this first showing, so enjoy it now as a second show is not always guaranteed.) 

They bring to mind this song about “the place with the yellow flowers” which kicked off our summer season here a couple of years ago. When toying with a theme to get my head around this summer, I found my memory jogged all the way back to 1990, but that feels like an undertaking to which I may not have the time, stamina, or ambition to properly commit. It was probably one of my most favorite summers ever, and in some way I’ve tried to return to it too many times to have it mean much at this point. 

In the meantime, there is all this sunniness, coming from the ground up, as storms and showers line the foreseeable future in the sky. Summer has begun in restless and uncertain terms, so I’m taking the sunniness wherever I may find it. 

It’s no surprise that I’m not keen on doing what everyone else does. Call it a natural defiance, call it a contrariness, call it basic immaturity, I simply don’t like following the masses. That goes to my taste in plants as well. When we were kids, my brother and I got to pick out one plant for each summer planting season. He would also go for something basic but colorful – a marigold or snapdragon – while I would seek out the unknown ones which hadn’t bloomed yet – a portulaca one year and a dahlia another. While those are all pretty common now, my taste for the rare and not commonly-found items stayed with me, and for many years I tried things that weren’t well-known or widely available. That began to subside the older I got and the more reasonable I grew. These days, it’s not uncommon for me to celebrate the most mundane and common plants, appreciating them for all the reasons they became to popular in the first place. 

Case in point is this strikingly-vibrant mandevilla – a flowering tropical plant that is basically everywhere these days, and one which I have constantly avoided because of its ubiquity. 

I don’t know why I fought such beauty simply because it was so popular. Going against the grain comes with its own efforts and weariness, and when you’re resisting a thing of prettiness it all feels pretty pointless. Hence this pot of mandevilla, currently burning brightly against a cool blue backdrop. Fired up to handle the heat, it’s a powerhouse bloomer, and one which I am kicking myself for not employing until this year. Better late than never… burn, baby, burn.

This morning’s tour of the gardens was so comprehensive that it overflows into this post, with a couple of out-takes featuring Lychnis and the Japanese Aralia ‘Sun King’. Fuchsia and chartreuse will always be one of my favorite pairings. This electric combo exemplifies the summer season, with its bold and bright refusal to bow-down to something subdued. Some of us may wish for something calm, but summer is tricky in how she grants, and doesn’t grant, wishes. 

The second night of summer is one of those trickier spots to navigate. Still so new, but not quite as new as yesterday, the second night suffers a bit of the sophomore slump syndrome. Even my muse has admonished, ‘Don’t go for second best, baby!‘ and I always listen to her. Better yet is this song created expressly for this particular date. It screams summer in the most primal form, and still manages to retain an underlying calm, like all that still water at the bottom of a pool. 

A blazing and brazen hue of the most striking magenta comes courtesy of the Lychnis blooms here. While individually small, they still manage to cry out to be seen from across the yard – so intense and rich is their color. I admire and appreciate such tenacious refusal to be ignored, and it is the squeaky wheel that gets the grease. These days, however, I find myself equally enchanted by the foliage and stems literally beneath the show. 

The lychnis has fuzzy leaves of silvery gray – a stark contrast in form, style and color from the blooms – and these leaves form a blanket of cooling hues to douse the flames of what they carry. 

While I will always love bold and unbridled color, I find myself with a growing appreciation and enjoyment of the calmer, more neutral tones, such as the sage-like beauty of this lychnis patch. It has a calming element that appeals to those of us on the hunt for tranquility. The same thing has happened to my assessment and appreciation of the hosta. I’d always considered them dull and lifeless, not taking the time or shifting my perspective to see their beauty. 

That bodes well for the lychnis, as the leaves are around for far longer than the flowers. Sometimes beauty is duration – simply surviving, and continuing to move forward, is what makes something beautiful. 

Nature will always be the best painter. With a limitless canvass of possibility and an endless array of colors and shades, every little piece of natural wonder carries its own specific aspect of beauty. Occasionally the beauty is deep, dark and sunken – hidden caves of stalactites and stalagmites, sparkling with crystals and running with water, never to be seen by human eyes. Occasionally it is more subtle, hiding in plain sight, such as the patch of clover the almost-meticulous homeowner finds in their lawn that might at first feel like a blight on the pristine sameness of the grass but can, upon closer inspection, be a wayward bit of delight simply by being different. In the happiest of circumstances, beauty is glaringly apparent, as it often is in the garden. 

One of my favorite plants is the Japanese painted fern (Athyrium niponicum). It’s been chronicled here a number of times, and is always worth a revisit, especially at this time of the year, when the bright chartreuse greens of spring begin ripening into something deeper, and the stifling hold of summer is almost upon us. These fronds bring a cooling and calming effect into what is usually an explosive season of color. 

It addition to being one of the most beautiful ferns widely available, it adds an ease of care and culture to its merits, and such vigor has resulted in several groups of such beauty which have established themselves around our yard. Pretty paintings now abound in a number of shaded nooks, waiting to be discovered by the careful and observant wanderer. 

The older I get, the more beauty I find in those gardens that whisper rather than shout – the cooling foliage and tranquil forms combine for an effect of serenity which speaks to me more than a riotous cacophony of bright flowers and fiery floral-technics.