This lovely pink/peach-hued cloud of a flower cluster belongs to the Filipendula. More commonly known as the Queen of the Prairie, she holds these flower umbrels high above the prairie, upwards of five feet tall. She attains such size and stature when afforded a wet and consistently moist piece of land. 

A few years ago I planted this one, and didn’t give her the extra water and care she wanted/needed, so she survived but didn’t thrive. She would return, sending out runners to different locations (never a desirable trait for a struct Virgo gardener, but entirely understandable in a difficult prairie situation). When other plants in her proximity demanded more water, she finally got her happy place and started blooming like this. 

That said, those haphazard and unpredictable runners had her popping up all over the place, including at the very front of the border, reserved for smaller edging plants and not conducive to something of this size. I allowed her a few seasons of this, but we’re at the point where all these not-so-little stalks simply have to be pulled. 

Another drawback is that without staking, some of the tall stalks end up falling over. If not corrected immediately they will simply bend upward, contorting into all sorts of weird and undesirable angles. With all these issues, I may have to gift this one to someone with an actual prairie where she can roam freely and unfettered. 

Our collection of ferns gets all the credit for the tranquility they conjure even on the hottest summer days, the same magic could be claimed by the fountain bamboo, which cradles raindrops and morning dew in exquisite beauty to rival the finest fern. When Andy and I first moved into our home in 2002, I promptly planted two fountain bamboo plants. It took a couple years, but they eventually grew into the gracefully arching clumps for which the fountain bamboo is rightly renowned. They softened the corners of our new house, each creating a calm turn along the garden border. It was a marvelous effect, but it was not to last. 

The fountain bamboo flowers once in its lifetime, then promptly fades out from all the effort. This bloom cycle only happens after about 100 years, and it turned out that the plants we had were from this batch. The flowering happens across the world, and masses of fountain bamboos were dying off in a period of a few seasons. It was sad to see them go, and I waited a few more years before trying to plant new ones, in the hope of avoiding such a scenario for another hundred years. 

The bamboo evokes centuries of history, as it should considering it’s once-a-century blooming cycle. Some plants have memories that stretch back longer than the lives of most people. They have seen the world in all its iterations, and they watch silently, without judgment or condemnation. I like such history, and such knowledge. It lends the garden a certain gravitas that should be respected. Plants are so often much more resilient than people. It is unlikely that we will be alive when these bamboos flower, and there is acceptance and resolve in that if you remain calm about it. The good part about planting new fountain bamboo is that we are just at the start of another hundred-year-journey. There’s all the hope in the world when you put it into that perspective. 

One of our unheralded performers, despite years of neglect (I’ve often forgotten about it completely until it sends out this balloon signal) is the balloon flower seen here. It reliably sends up a single unremarkable stalk of green on the late side of spring. By the time it appears, most other plants have filled in and hidden it from notice. 

Then in July, and quite consistently, it sends up a bloom or two, presaged by the balloon bud you will see below. It’s an exquisite pattern that I’ve come to rely on, even if I don’t give it the attention, care-wise, that it deserves. Every year I promise to do better, and every year I fail to remember. 

Still it blooms, generously providing this mid-season beauty even when we don’t always deserve it. There’s a lesson of grace in that, and it’s one that I’m trying to learn. Bloom – no matter how badly you are ignored or treated – just bloom. 

These little flowers were trailing out of a potted geranium that my Mom planted this year, and together they create happy duet of color, form, and prettiness. Despite the skewed perspective of these close-up shots, they are actually quite small in size, making up for it by number and sprawl. 

The whimsy of a container planting is found in its demand to be seen at close-range. It beckons the viewer closer, as if it were going to share some delicious secret. 

Perhaps no other plant produces quite the sensation of calm and tranquility than the fern does. With their graceful arching fronds, and often-intricately-divided leaves that look more like lace than some spore-sown terrestrial being, ferns run the gamut from tiny and delicate to towering and awe-inspiring. For our gardens here in upstate New York, ferns provide a varied and constantly undulating form that adds elegance and grace to any setting. 

With the exception of the potted Kimberly ferns that we replace each year, all of our ferns are winter-hardy, surviving the brutality of a Zone 5 snow and ice laden landscape, exhibiting a durability that belies their fine form. A beauty that’s also a brute – that’s my kind of plant. 

Aside from their hardiness, I grow ferns for the peaceful countenance they give the garden. Whether it’s the five-finger Maidenhair fern, with her stunning black stems and kelly green matte leaflets fluttering in the slightest breeze, or the dramatic ostrich fern, rising to four feet of bright chartreuse brilliance when its feet are kept wet and its fiddleheads unfurl to their full height, or the magnificent Japanese painted fern, which lives up to and beyond its name with some spectacular foliage that looks positively-painted-on by some genius alchemist of color, our fern collection is a way of keeping things cool when summer heat threatens to overwhelm.

In certain summer situations, simply arming the landscape with scenes of serenity can create the illusion of calm that ultimately lends a cooling effect to those present. That’s the real power of the fern, and we have it in plenty.