Category Archives: Flowers

“A rose does not answer its enemies with words, but with beauty.” ~ Matshona Dhliwayo

At the turn of the calendar year, and for some weeks thereafter, I usually find myself obsessing about roses. Their perfume, their petals, their potency, even their thorns – and I see now that it’s a direct response to the idea of winter settling in and taking up residence for the next few months. It’s my way of bringing a sliver of summer and sunlight into the unbreakable season of slumber. Tellingly, it is the fragrance of the rose that touches me most – bringing back childhood memories of the rose garden across the street, and later of roses I grew in my own garden, and finally the roses that Andy was growing when I first met him. All are happy recollections, all drenched in summer and sun.

Most recently, a rustic Rosa rugosa has made its home poolside – it’s entanglement of impossibly-thorny stems made nearable by its exquisite fragrance – as much a sign of summer as of the sea, where these beach roses make their most famous home. It brings to mind vacations in Ogunquit and Cape Cod, seashore romps where dried seaweed mingle with sea grass, and these roses are one of the few plants that manages to bloom in the harsh salty environs.

“As delicate as flower, as tender as rose petals, choosing to be tender and kind in a harsh environment is not weakness, it’s courage.” ~ Luffina Lourduraj

For all these reasons, I find comfort in the fragrance of a rose. Oddly enough, I don’t employ many rose frags in summer. Only the real thing will do then. Synthetic approximations and essential oil concoctions are all too heavy for the lighter seasons, but in winter they call to me, as they are doing once again. This is the time of the year when we so ache for something like a rose, even a facsimile will suffice.

There are some glorious imposters out there, and the Houses of Tom Ford and Frederic Malle each have a couple of rose fragrances to see us through the dimmer days and darker nights. Each is wonderfully distinctive to the palette, woefully so to the wallet, and I’m left wanting a new one for day and night. Stay tuned to see where the quest currently rests…

“A rose does not lose sleep because it was mocked by weeds.” ~ Matshona Dhliwayo

Against the windowpanes looking out onto a snowy scene, a potted cyclamen glows warmly pink with its sinuous blooms and soft dark green foliage. It makes a simple yet stunning show with the backdrop of blue dusk lending its winter chill. Such a juxtaposition gives the scene an added coziness, the way a cooler bedroom at night makes sleep beneath a warm blanket that much more pleasurable.  

There’s also something comforting about a greenhouse beauty recalling the warmer days of late summer when cyclamen typically bloom in the wild, bringing that verdant gorgeousness inside when the earth has been cold and barren for several months, and will be for several more. 

Soon enough, the glow of Christmas will wear off, and the long trudge of winter will continue with the bleak gray and brown earth peeking through the snow whenever weather allows. Little scenes like this stave off the coldness of the outside world. They may be transient, they may be temporary, but the emotional sustenance they provide lasts beyond their prettiness. 

Is a rose more precious in November than it is in June?

I would posit that it is. 

Scarcity and rarity lends everything a different kind of enchantment. 

At a time of the year when things are typically grey and brown, when the gardens have usually gone to bed already, the thrill of a rose in bloom is a thing of beauty indeed. It gives hope in the days when hope seems drained from the world. 

Here are some pictures of cyclamen to offset the gray days. 

That’s all. 

Certain dim Tuesday mornings in November call for a pop of pink color. Faddegon’s to the rescue, with these exquisite orchid blooms – the antidote to any spell of dreariness. Weekly visits to the greenhouse will ensue shortly to keep spirits high as we transition into the winter. Everyone deals with the season differently – I tend to retreat to the beauty I find in flowers and plants – the fresh green to remind of the spring, the colorful blooms to remind of summer, and the vibrant color to remind of parties and gatherings of what feels like an entirely different era. 

Both Andy and I have already begun the countdown to spring, and while it may feel early, we feel we’ve earned a little anticipation. In a little over a month, we will start the return to more daylight, and while that climb feels far away, I’ve learned that time hastens whether we wish it to or not. 

In the meantime, there are greenhouses, and flowers, and greenery to be found if you know where to look, and sometimes you can bring a little of it home with you. 

We’ve had a multitude of posts about this cactus. It blooms according to its own wish and whim, so the monikers of Christmas Cactus, Thanksgiving Cactus, Easter Cactus and even Halloween Cactus have all rung true spending on the year. This season it just started – smack dab between Halloween and Thanksgiving, and just as November solidify into the dim gray and brown desiccated form for which it is best known. In other words, this crazy little cactus is giving us life right now when the outside world has suddenly turned dull. There’s magic and a metaphor in there somewhere but I’m too tired to dig it out. Do your own deductions. I’m just enjoying the striking color and beauty afforded us. 

Continuing the thread of saturates beauty from this colorful post, the blooms here are a striking shade of hot pink, and the main reason I’ve kept this otherwise unimpressive cactus around for all these years. It was a gift from a co-worker I believe, and it’s been largely ignored in the guest room. That’s really the best way to take care of these plants – they don’t want a lot of water or fuss, and no artificial light beyond the natural length of daylight – that’s the key to their blooming. An unused guest room is the ideal spot for them. 

I appreciate a plant that wants to be left alone. It speaks to my own Greta Garbo impulses. And so, crazy little cactus who knows precisely when to bloom for its own happiness, I salute and honor you. Thank you for the impressive show. 

Here’s another azalea in bloom from a few days ago, just as confused as so many of us seem to be these days. The only comfort is knowing that it is not alone. We are not alone. Whatever state the world finds itself in right now, hold tight to your family and friends, reach out to your ride-or-die crew, and hang onto your hats. If you need to bloom right now to stop yourself from going crazy, go on and bloom. 

During the Victorian era, orchid collecting reached such a high pitch among some of the wealthy that the term ‘orchidelirium’ was born. Not unlike tulipmania, it was as much a past-time for the rich as it was for those genuinely interested in botany and plants. Such frenzies have always fascinated me, not for the fevered hunger it incited in people, but for the realization that many orchids, for which some of the wealthiest families would pay thousands of dollars, can now be found at your local supermarket for $19.99, if not less. 

Such is the fanciful way human nature works. We are a silly and superfluous species in so many aspects, particularly when it comes to our fleeting obsessions. They burn with the passion of a thousand suns, and just as brightly they are as quickly burned out. That didn’t mitigate the wanting, and sometimes the only way to conquer a temptation is to yield to it. Or so Oscar Wilde would have us believe. Living to the moral compass of Mr. Wilde may be temporarily thrilling, but even Oscar himself may have some hard-won wisdom given the way his life worked out. 

The point of this post is orchids, and the Victorian era, and for me that brings it all back to the atmosphere and surroundings of decadence and beauty. Lacking a proper greenhouse room, our living room and its bay window are the closest we get to such extravagance, and so it is here that I have assembled a little collection of plants to hopefully see us through the winter. A well-known harp piece introduces the scene at hand. Do give it a listen and see if it calms the frenetic November wind just outside the door. 

This little beauty is named ‘Jumping Jack’ which is more silly than one would expect from the Victorians, and it makes sense since it’s a relatively new hybrid. I fell in love with its lush green foliage, and then that beautiful flower tinged with chocolate and kissed with violet cemented the deal. Some varieties are said to smell sweetly of hyacinth mixed with a bit of black pepper, which sounds absolutely divine. Woefully, I have yet to detect a scent emanating from this fellow. No matter. Something this exquisite come with charms that have no additional need for perfume. 

I understand the work at hand. With the newly-acquired humidifier in the living room, and a Majesty palm joining the ranks, I see that I am attempting to craft our own little oasis from whatever mayhem the world will unleash before the year ends, and likely beyond. Winter knows no calendar devised by human hands; it recognizes only the sun and our proximity and twirl around it. 

Seeking comfort and prettiness, I adorn the living room with a healthy level of moisture in the air, and a few pretty plants to keep things green until spring and summer arrive again. In a little while I shall force some paper white narcissus and maybe find an amaryllis or two to see if I can force a Christmas bloom. Flowers do make a holiday extra festive. 

Their faces usually start the growing season as they are one of the first nursery plants to explode in a riot of color. Their preference for cool, crisp nights means that they enjoy closing out the season too, so when I happened upon this purple pansy last week I paused to take its picture and honor the pretty way it had of bookending the spring and fall. I forgot to upload it as part of this purple flower celebration, so it gets its own post. Being forgotten deserves something special. 

It figures that 2020 will have a weird way of flowering into Halloween. This is in no way a complaint – extending the warm days as late as possible into the year may serve us well this winter. Or it may backfire and land us with even more chaotic weather – all a crapshoot these days. But this little pansy smiled at me on my lunch break, and I smiled back with a slight nod. If it sees us into November, it will be a resilient little reminder of spring days past, and spring days to come. It’s never too early to indulge in hope. 

Asters remind me of fall in Maine. 

There’s a small little shaded nook that’s on the path to the Marginal Way.

While technically the space is heavily trafficked, most people rush on by for the more dramatic gardens further down the path, and for the sea itself, crashing against the rocky outcroppings. There is also a little grove of trees that lowers some of its limbs to somewhat obscure the purple asters, the kind seen here in some sunlight. 

I needed this memory right now. We also needed Maine this year, but COVID circumstances have kept us home. Seeing these asters the other day brought it all back… 

In its somewhat secretive spot, the asters in Ogunquit winked only to those of us who noticed them. You had to slow down a bit, and you had to look a little closer. In the shade, the purple hues were even better at hiding than had they been conspicuously in the spotlight of the sun. Their shyness resonates with me. 

For many years, this would traditionally be the time when we’d be preparing for our fall trip to Maine, packing for temperatures that could swing dizzily from eighty-degree beach days to thirty-degree night flurries. The same held true for our Memorial Day weekend visits, so we are accustomed to bringing a little of everything. 

In the smiling faces of these asters, I see those happy days again. I recall lazily rolling out of bed and trundling along to Amore Breakfast with Andy, and I can picture the leaves beneath our feet, the receding frost as the sun ascends. I remember our siestas in the knotty pine room, when I’d return from Bread and Roses with some coffee for Andy and a cookie for later. 

Nowadays it’s Andy who makes the coffee in our kitchen as fall whips through the fountain grass outside the window, shaking the finches still clinging to the seedbeds of the cup plant. They seem as sad to see summer go by as we are, but it’s warm inside, and our focus shifts cozily to the warm hearth…

This big bouquet of lilies, currently emitting a pretty and potent perfume into the entire living room, gave me an idea as I was gazing upon its beauty the other night. I tend to use fresh flowers in bouquets for the summer, when they’re available outside, as well as in the floral section of the market, but I don’t do it as regularly during the fall and winter. This year, I may change that. We are going to need as much beauty as possible.

I also tend to only buy flowers when we are having guests, but as that’s gone by the wayside for the moment, why not do it for Andy and me? We are more than enough, and one can never put enough beauty on display.

Even the azaleas have gone completely bonkers because of 2020. On a day when downtown Albany saw manholes blowing up and burning away, I found the sight of this confused azalea more disturbing, but also more enjoyable. 

We have witnessed this phenomenon before, usually brought about by a shift in temperatures that triggers something in the plant to set a few blooms into motion. I’m just glad there was enough time to see them flower; sometimes a late-season warm spell will send out buds whose blooms never see the light of day. 

These wild asters have subsisted behind my childhood home’s backyard for over forty years. Some summers they are sparse and scant, others they are extensive and robust. This year falls under the latter, with an impressive showing of blooms and colonization, especially resplendent in the late afternoon light. Summer insists on showing off right until its very last moment. 

Their smaller blooms, almost insignificant when compared to bigger and brighter glories of early summer, make an almost echo of those earlier days. Our second bloom is always smaller and more delicate, and, because of that, often more beloved. 

These are hardy little plants, managing their survival beneath some rather deep shade and the selfish roots and barren soil of several ancient pine trees. A portrait of hardiness and beauty, even as the world is unforgiving and unaccommodating.