Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

My pessimistic side – sometimes the only side I have to display – chalked up the loss to the acceptance of a cute bunny that ate almost all of the first leaves of these petunia plants – but pessimism joyfully lost out to summer persistence. Here is that ravaged batch of petunias, now in full and glorious bloom. They had been making quiet strides of healing and growth, sending out new leaves and buds, as if reinvigorated by their harsh pruning so early in the season – a game of catch-up and bloom like it’s not going to last. 

The bunny did its bit of damage, but there’s now a groundhog on the loose, so this pretty scene is probably of very-limited duration. I will take it and offer gratitude for as long as its prettiness lasts. A lesson of the fleeting nature of summer, perhaps felt more keenly than in any other season. 

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.