One of the most exquisite plants in the garden right now – and throughout the entire season for that matter – is the Japanese painted fern (Athyrium niponicum). Do not be tricked by its delicate painted and they are also said to be deer resistant. I planted one a few years ago, and it has since become a dozen, partly from creeping on its own, but mostly (and rather impressively) sporing itself out into the damper areas of the garden. 

Ferns don’t produce seeds, they produce spores: powder-like particles that act much like seeds. I never bothered with trying this method of propagation because it always seemed to technical and involved, particularly when dividing is much simpler, and quicker. However, nature had other plans, and the consistently damp area near our pool pump provided a perfect haven for a number of Japanese painted fern spores to develop into little plants. Andy noticed them last summer, and I decided to wait and see if any survived the winter before moving them. They all did.

A couple of days ago, after I placed our new fountain bamboo, I moved a trio of clumps in front of them, further enhancing the Japanese atmosphere. I’ll add a Japanese flowering maple when I divide that plant next year. The garden propels us forward even as it beckons us to pause and take it all in. 

These Japanese elements were an intentional design plan for the side yard. It’s the entrance-way when friends and family are visiting for a pool gathering, it’s where Andy grills our summer meals, and I finally realized, after years of slightly neglecting it as a forgotten area, that I spent a significant amount of time there. I want it to be a peaceful transitional place, where the arching canes of a pair of bamboo plants gracefully welcome visitors and a stand of ferns peeks up at Andy when he’s checking on the steaks. I have plans for another corner section, if I can dig up some old shrubs that haven’t performed well and establish a Japanese stewartia. I’m taking my time with the entire plan, hoping to enjoy and be present for each moment. Let it take the whole summer. 

Scientifically named ‘Arisaema triphyllum’, this woodland creature is more commonly known as the Jack-in-the-pulpit. A number of years ago I purchased it from some home improvement store, in one of those plastic bags that has a beautiful picture of a fully-grown ten-year-old specimen at the height of its beauty on it, only to spill out some desiccated little nest of seemingly-dead roots, light and lifeless and surely void of any future glory. I half-heartedly dug a hole for it in the corner of a shaded garden and promptly forgot about it. I didn’t plan on seeing that $4.99 again.

A year later, a dark spire rose in its place. Having entirely forgotten about what I’d planted, I waited to see if it was some strange exotic weed. It was too thick and robust to be one of the standard weeds I’d come to know. It was also more substantial than the little spikes of lily-of-the-valley that were encroaching on that particular space. Slowly, it unfurled its three-pronged leaves, and then the hood covering the spathe, and I was enthralled to recall the Arisaema triphyllum I had planted the year before.

This particular variety is darker than the plain green version I knew as a child. It lends it a more sinister and mysterious aspect, something I enjoy at the garden in this portion of the year, when everything else is so bright and chartreuse and innocent. The garden should be a place of balance and contrast, as well as a land of mystery. There should be room for magic and the casting of spells, and even little heads named Jack.

The fountain bamboo – Fargesia nitida – blooms once every hundred years, give or take a year or ten. It is quite an enchanting event – the way the little blooms dangle from their canes, dancing with the slightest breeze – but a rather mournful one: after flowering, the plant dies. Most of the Fargesia plants that had been dispersed around the world were propagated through division, meaning the vast majority of fountain bamboo would flower in one mass event, then experience a mass die-off. That blooming explosion happened about seven or eight years ago, which affected the two specimens I’d been cultivating since we first moved into our home.

I purchased and planted them years before everyone realized the blooming cycle was at hand, and for the past few years nurseries would not guarantee survival of Fargesia species because some still hadn’t bloomed. Nurseries are just now coming into supplies of seeded plants from the new generation of Fargesia nitida, and are once again guaranteeing their survival since they aren’t due to bloom for another hundred years.

I’ve been waiting an extra couple of years because when you’re talking about a century of time, you don’t give or take a day. As magnificent as their blooming was – how often do you get to witness a once-a-century flowering event in your own backyard?! – it was heartbreaking as well. I’d grown to love our two fountain bamboos, thrilled at the way they started off so slowly, but soon sent up their name-sake fountain form when coddled with a bit of manure and water during dry spells. They had just begun to develop their characteristic arching form, and outside the bedroom window the canes curved and waved in the wind like the backdrop to some Japanese woodblock. 

The occasion of their blooming caught me off-guard.

I felt the sorrow before I could feel the excitement. 

The celebration of a luxury of rarity paled to the inevitable loss, and I felt more sadness than elation at the magical sight of their blooms. I was in a different mindset then. I took such things to heart, lamenting the loss and reveling in the regret that I hadn’t appreciated our two Fargesia plants while they were alive. Only near the end did I inhabit the moment, giving in to the wonder of what I was fortunate to witness. 

A couple of days ago, four new fountain bamboo plants arrived on our front step. They come from the new generation of Fargesia nitida, and the nursery assures me if there are any blooming issues or die -off they will replace them. We should have about another century before they bloom again. Andy mentioned that we won’t be here to see it, and there was nothing macabre or sad about it – it was the simple truth. Someone once said, “Society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in.”

With that in mind, I tucked the four new bamboo plants into their chosen locations around the yard, amply amending the soil with the manure they love so much, and watering them in well to give them the best possible start. A new generation had been put to bed for the first night in their new home. 

As much as I have tried to appreciate every moment in this year’s garden, I still managed to miss the quicker blooming periods of certain plants, such as this beautiful Solomon’s seal patch. With the extended show of the daffodils and lilacs this year, I guess I expected the same luxury for these pretty little blooms, forgetting that the temperatures had risen and the air had turned more dry. They lasted a few precious days and by the time I got on the ground to sniff and examine them close-up, they had already dropped these subtle bells, along with their delicate sweet fragrance. 

Luckily, they are a hardy bunch, and have expanded extensively in the yard, so they will be back next year. I’m making motions to move some around a bit. There will probably be more than we have room for, and the surplus I can slip into the hidden side yard that needs a bit of work. It’s shady there, thanks to a pair of enormous oak trees, and Solomon’s seal is able to handle a fair amount of shade. It will be nice to have more than pachysandra there, and with just a bit of soil amending, this plant should be just as simple to maintain. 

We are still in the glorious phase of late spring, which makes regular turns around the garden a happy excursion for our house-bound situation. It’s the perfect break from sitting at the computer and working from home. Those breaks are important, as I’ve discovered. At this time of the year, when everything is practically growing before our very eyes, it’s also important not to miss a single day outside. Even in the rain, I try to get out and examine how each plant is coming along. 

The weeping larch in the featured photo started on an iffy note, but after some heavy pruning and readjustment, it’s exploded into a carpet of the lovely wintergreen color seen here. It’s being crowded by a pushy stretch of Thuja, but for now it’s holding its own. 

A hosta with leaves that could have been painted by a skilled artist makes a keen argument for the power of texture, form, and the various shades of green that abound at this time of the year. A few years ago I planted this specimen – one of several in a row bordering our back patio – and after some serious pampering they have grown into a fine little hedge. 

The daffodils held on longer than any season in recent memory, thanks to a cool, wet spring, lasting well into the end of May. It almost got to the point where I was taking them for granted, which never happens with their typically-short flowering period. 

We have several large stands of Solomon’s seal, one of the stalwart performers in the mostly semi-shaded green sections we have near the house. It spreads nicely, sometimes too nicely, and may need some editing, but that makes for more clumps. From one plant we now have three large patches, and several friends have started their own stands from ours. I still need to cut some back, so I may be adding them to the wilder section at the side of our house that we never quite get to clean up. 

Though they’ve become a bit of a menace in the lawn, these violets make it difficult to be completely mad at them, especially when they are one of the first to appear after a long winter. 

This tree peony is the first peony to flower every year. Sadly, its head swells so large and the bloom gets so top-heavy it cannot stand upright on its own, which means it gets a rather hidden location, and hangs its head when it puts on its show. For that reason I often pick it before the critters can cut it out or it hangs into the muddy ground. 

Finally, our Kwanzan cherry made a stand-out showing this year, lasting longer than usual and wowing with these full double blooms, resplendent against a blue sky. This is why spring gets all the glory.