Category Archives: Gardening

My childhood hero Lee Bailey once described June as the month in which the roses were practically tumbling off the trellises. Bailey’s book ‘Country Flowers’ turned me into a gardener at the ripe old age of twelve, and it’s been a comforting passion of mine ever since. In much of that time, however, roses were not something I grew very often. Andy had a rose garden when I met him, back when he had a yard of good air circulation, and summers seemed less hot and humid. We’ve tried a few roses in our current backyard – a Peace rose that came back but never quite produced what it had promised, a couple of Knockouts that did produce, but inexplicably refused to come back after one difficult winter, and a Rosa rugosa which is doing a little too well and must not be reined in. In gardening there is often no happy medium, but still we try… and a rose is worth the effort.

The preponderance of petunias I’ve planted in various places is popping its pulchritude as these poofs preen and pose. Pink and peppy, they pop their eye-catching color in hanging baskets for now, while other varieties in the beds are just beginning to sprawl out in bud. 

After ignoring their ubiquitous omni-presence in all sorts of garden centers for quite literally decades, I’ve come around the power of the annual in recent years, and no annual gives quite as much bang for the buck as the simple yet spectacular petunia. Plant them, water them, feed them, and stand back for the show. 

Like lilacs, the Chinese dogwood trees in our yard have big years of blooms, and smaller years of blooms. This is one of the smaller years, making the blooms a little more precious. The last two years have seen boffo bloom shows, absolutely covering their branches with the creamy white bracts (the actual flowers are small and inconspicuous). 

I used to be downhearted on the off years, but I’ve come to appreciate them as a natural part of the ebb and flow of life. They also make the floriferous and showy years that much more impressive, and appreciated. More lessons from the garden…

Bridging the blooming periods (and genetics) of the tree peony and the herbaceous peony, this is the Itoh Peony. Its hybrid form combines elements of both, though outwardly it veers closer to its tree cousins. (The manner in which it dies down to the ground each year is where it shows, or doesn’t show, its herbaceous roots.) 

These are also smaller in form than the typical tree peony, and they manage to stand upright without staking – an improvement on the herbaceous forms that often require support or cages. The only tree peony I grow is a variety that absolutely does not stand up on its own, and as such it’s hidden away in a side-garden nook. Love the blooms, don’t love the form. These have improved on that, proof that hybrids aren’t all bad.

I’ve planted two varieties – one yellow, one white and fuchsia – in the front yard, which is where the strongest sun lands. This is not without some drawbacks. While they love the sun, their blooms would enjoy some shade, which I found out as the white variety lasted about three days in the high heat we had this past week. 

That’s ok – it makes me love them all the more. Also, their fine and handsome foliage stays mildew-free all season, even in the heat and humidity of an upstate New York summer. 

While these originally sold for anywhere from $500 to $1000 (hello tulipmania), hybridizers have made them available for $50 to $75. Yes, a bit of an investment for a plant, but who can put a price on such beauty?

The Korean lilacs are in glorious bloom right now, perfuming the yard with their pretty fragrance. It’s a slightly less potent variation of the sweet Korean spice viburnum that finished up a little while back. These little lilacs extend the fragrant season, picking up where their American counterparts leave off. Nature knows what she’s doing, bridging the transitory weeks in such sweetly-scented fashion. 

These easy bushes have taken off in landscaping over the past few years. Usually that waters down their appeal, but these are such high-performing shrubs that I can’t be mad about everyone else wanting them. The foliage remains fresh and mildew-free until the fall, something our American lilacs have yet to achieve thanks to our humid and hot summers. Some years I prune them back hard, some years not at all. (Pruning should always and only be done immediately after this first bloom to ensure you don’t nip off future buds.) While the American lilacs tend to take every other year off when it comes to prolific blooming, the Korean version blooms reliably and heavily every year, and they often repeat bloom in the late summer when the weather mirrors these spring days. 

Yesterday hit 82 degrees, instantly bringing out the first blooms of the season – and they happened to be blue. These little Scilla bulbs are usually the first into blossom after winter, and often they’re ragged and torn from wind and snow and ice. This year they’ve been largely unscathed, though I’m not holding out hope that such pristine delicacy will last (there were whispers of snow in the forecast sometime in the next few days). For now, they are a welcome beacon of spring – and the one spot of color in a brown and barren yard. Even the Lenten rose has delayed its arrival, still huddled close to the ground and slumbering beneath a layer of oak leaves. 

The photos give a greatly exaggerated idea of their size and stature, but in my mind this is how big and impressive they feel, especially when nothing else is brave enough to be in bloom at this stage. The largest bloom in actual size is about the size of a dime. That such a tiny thing can have such an impact will always impress my mind and thrill my heart. 

Andy and I have been happily watching the bright chartreuse emergence of the fig leaves in our potted plants that have been overwintering in the garage. They are the very first signifiers of spring, starting well before anything outdoor feels safe enough to emerge. March is dangerous business for an outdoor plant in upstate New York. 

We enjoy the delicate first flush of leaves close-up, taking the time to examine and appreciate them, because they will not last. In the dim windless protection of the garage, they come into the world to cheer us momentarily, but as soon as they get brought out into the wilderness of the backyard, where there is no shade and no buffer from the wind and colder nights, these leaves will shrivel and drop before the real summer crop begins. 

For now, they give us hope. I know Andy is getting antsy for the warmer weather, for the time when his back will ease a bit with the heat and the pool and the extended sunlight. He has eyes on opening the pool at the earliest opportunity, a happy thought not very far away.

I yearn for that too. 

Behold the Ficus umbellata!

Emboldened by the recent success of this Ficus ‘Audrey’, I’m trying my hand at the predicted plant superstar of 2022, the Ficus umbellata. Supposedly its care falls somewhere between the ease of ‘Audrey’ and the difficulty of the infamous fiddle-leaf fig. Unimpressed by the wrinkled form of the latter, I never bothered trying the fiddle-leaf, and I’ve had mixed success with the common Ficus benjamina (I currently have a variegated version of the weeping fig doing relatively well. It loses some leaves, but soon grows new ones.) 

As for the Ficus umbellata, its big, bright and beautiful leaves are the main attraction, getting larger the happier it is with its surroundings. Hopefully we can find enough light and humidity to keep it content. My finger are crossed. 

The other day our outside temperatures reached into the mid-60’s for perhaps the first time this year, and though I’ve been hesitant to prematurely herald the end of winter, we seem to be on the right track. I took a quick look at our side yard, and after startling a rabbit, I found this little sign of spring poking through the ground. 

The very first jonquil to appear is always a happy sight. My parents have a few that have already shown up in a protected space outside their front door. These brave and bold shoots run the risk of being buried in blizzards and snow squalls up until April, so to see them take such a chance and demand their place in the sun at this early point is emboldening and heartbreaking at once. The simple yearning of the world to shake off the frigid countenance of winter always touches me. 

Whenever I see a spring bulb poking through the winter snow, I’m reminded of a May snow squall from my childhood. Yes, May, because in upstate New York that’s the bullshit we sometimes get. A little plot of tulips was just about to bloom, and I had been anxiously awaiting the show for months. Every day as the buds swelled and then started to show some color, I rushed out to make note of their progress, carefully studying and examining each bud as it evolved, wholly invested and caught up in their growth. When at last they opened their red and yellow petals, the snow squall hit, and snowflakes piled up on their petals and leaves, rising on the ground around them. I wanted to cry. How cruel, I thought. How utterly unfair and cruel to snow on such beautiful flowers and destroy all the months of slumber and growth it took to get here. I went inside dejectedly, wondering at life, accepting its harsh lesson, and teetering between feeling despondent enough to give up and invigorated to try again. 

The next day I went out to see them, and to my surprise all the snow was gone, and the tulips were still blooming. They’d survived the quick brush with snow and recovered. A few of the leaves sagged and bent beneath the ordeal, but overall most were intact, and as beautiful as before. That was my second lesson in as many days. Even when you think all is lost, keep going. Some things are stronger than we think they are, even if they’re delicate and pretty. 

“Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.” ~ Buddha

Behold the burgeoning beauty of Ficus benghalensis ‘Audrey’ – a specimen I procured a little over a year ago which has done decently in our front window, and marked the ticking of time in miraculous fashion. I only just noticed how much it had grown over the last year when I revisited the original post announcing its arrival. Back then, it was only a couple of inches high, with about six leaves held tightly  to a central stem. As it became comfortable in its new home, it would unfurl a new leaf every month or two, until it arrived where we find it today – well over a foot tall with 17 full leaves (and a new arriving as seen below, indicating the start of another growing season. 

I am usually better at keeping track of such growth, waiting with anxious anticipation and measuring growth in inches and leaves and blooms with annoyingly Virgo-like precision. For the Buddha tree, I’ve merely enjoyed its company, pausing beside it as I do my daily meditation – inspired into a calmer state simply from its pretty and peaceful countenance. Such a gorgeous green keeps me inspired during the dullest winter days. It also reminds me to be present in the moment, grounding my thoughts and worries, seeking to find a similar peace as the Buddha, seeking some state of enlightenment through the practice of mindfulness. 

And so this happy little guy grew right before my eyes, and I didn’t even notice it. I don’t know if that’s because I was being more or less mindful, or whether my mindfulness was focused on what did or didn’t matter. Like the mangled roots these trees sometimes develop, some entanglements are best left alone. 

As for the future plans for Miss Audrey, I’m going to allow him to grow a bit taller and see how well it attains a single-trunk tree form. At some point it may require staking to stabilize it, depending on high high and heavy it gets, and how thick the trunk develops. But these are thoughts and worries for another day. 

For now, I’m offering gratitude for how far this plant has come in the past year – a journey that can only be seen in hindsight, if it needs to be seen at all. (Below is where we began a year ago.)

“If you forget the joy of life and get caught in the pleasures of the world, you will come to envy those who put meditation first.” ~ Buddha