Category Archives: Flowers

An unexpected reprieve from fall’s cold cadence, Andy heated the pool for two extra 80 degree days in mid-October, and I dove into both of them with the honor and reverence due. One doesn’t take such balmy weather for granted this late in the game. As I floated there, feeling the luxurious release from gravity on my ever-aging body, I smelled the lemon-like perfume of the angel’s trumpet. This year it has grown into tree-like glory, rising up and over the canopy frame that long ago shed its summer canvass. Thanks to a benign fall, the plant is still in full bloom, even if most of its leaves have fallen. I will cut it severely back at the first frost, and try to overwinter it again. Some things are worth a little winter pampering, and this fine specimen has provided a summer of beauty and perfume. It’s the least I can do.

As for the rest of the backyard patio, we’ve long ago let it go to proverbial seed. The straggly sweet potato vines have alternately floundered and flourished in these warm fall days. An especially vigorous stalk has trailed itself over two lounge chairs, giving the first indication of a ‘Grey Gardens’ deterioration. We seem always on the cusp of crumbling. There is beauty in such decay, though – I know this to be true.

I’ll make a game attempt at overwintering our banana tree too. That did exceptionally well and deserves a chance to come back next spring. A bit of extra work and care now may return an investment: a jump on next year’s growing season. It’s never too early to plan ahead.

September has a way of making its flower colors pop, perhaps more-so than any other time of the year. I think it’s the cooler temperatures and the lower slant of the sun in the sky. The blue seen above is the deepest it gets in September. That makes the perfect foil for some of the year’s brightest blooms. 

This summer got off to a very late and stunted start. I thought we had caught up, but based on the late appearance of the morning glories and seven sons’ flower it seems we are still a bit behind. Normally I don’t mind extending things for as long as possible; this year we are ready to move forward. Still, let’s not rush such beauty. Let it linger as long as it likes. 

The dusty town of Hoosick Falls is where my grandmother was born and raised, and in which she spent about 80 years of her life. When we were old enough to stay on our own, my brother and I were each allotted a couple of days each summer to spend with her, and they were golden memories that remain woven in my heart. Summers were hot and humid then, but I was young enough not to mind. Gram had a couple of fans that oscillated near the windows at night, when I was camped out on a gorgeous green tufted velvet sofa.

This was the second apartment I would know in Hoosick Falls. The first, scene of childhood Easters, was right near the railroad. The train would charge through and shake the entire house – a thrill to us children, especially in the middle of the night. All Gram’s music boxes and whimsical tchotchkes would rattle and clink, while my brother and I would pretend an earthquake was rocking the land like some cheap ratings ploy on ‘Our House’.

In her second apartment, we were far from the railroad, but at the bottom of the main street that came into town. It was the home of a retired doctor, though ‘doctor’ meant variable things in my grandmother’s day. He was an irascible old man, who sometimes rubbed Gram the wrong way, but it was a decent enough space, so she stayed there for a number of years. I remember the summer most in that space.

We would spend the day walking the block or two into the main stretch of town – where the antique store was, and the old drugstore, and the church that Mom made sure we attended if we happened to be there on a Sunday morning. Gram would have taken us anyway; the way she constantly worried her rosary was a continual reminder of her Catholic faith and fears. Just up the street was where my Mom had attended Catholic school.

We would walk to see Gram’s relatives and friends, and on shopping days we would travel quite a distance to get to the Grand Union, which was over a bridge and across a busy stretch of road and I always marveled how she did it in the winter. We took things slow in the summer, happily settling into a routine of daytime television, a daily excursion, and then a homecooked dinner or meal at a relative’s. Mostly, though, I remember short walks around her house, and the little patch of dry dirt bordered by a worn wooden fence where a small stretch of pink cosmos rose and gave glad tidings to those of us lucky enough to pass. Occasionally the doctor would be nearby, waiting in the shade and watching, and as much as I distrusted him (I would always side with Gram in all her personality conflicts and peccadilloes), he was kind enough to me. Not all adults were so inclined.

I brushed by the feathery leaves of the cosmos, and peered into the happy yellow center of each vibrant pink bloom, while overhead the sun beat down and the sky was light blue and the world seemed to stop for a moment. Like the goodness that was an endless summer, so too was my grandmother, whose love knew no bounds, and who could be counted on to give her grandchildren the childhood she had rebuilt in her memory. Her past was painted over in shades of rose and pink, as if she had uncovered the secret to making a summer in Hoosick Falls no less beautiful than the perfect patch of cosmos around the corner.

This summer, I planted cosmos for the first time in a long while. They didn’t come up as well as I remember those from my grandmother’s place. Maybe the soil was too rich and damp. Maybe they liked it dry and unwelcoming. A bit of hardship to make them feel alive. Like my Gram, they were survivors, and had no need for the pampering and care I so badly wanted to provide. Yet I managed to coax a single bloom from the packet of seeds I’d scattered and raked gently into the soil back in the spring. It winked at me like a Grandmother might, then went on its way being pretty just for the sake of being pretty.

Behold the simple daylily. Found roadside on many a stretch of America, these common plants are synonymous with summer. Fiery, fresh, and gone too soon, they share many of summer’s traits. Each blossom lasts but a single day (if that) but many buds are held by each stem, giving the appearance of a longer blooming period.

One of my self-imposed childhood chores was to deadhead these in the border I planted in our backyard. I’d ordered a collection of hybrid daylilies from Wayside Gardens, to supplement the single substantial mound of the traditional form you see pictured here, which up to that point had been our only brush with this easy-going plant. Its strap-like foliage stayed handsome year-round, and even though the blooming period of a single bud was a day, their voluminous grouping of buds made for a decent few weeks of successive color. For that reason, daylilies became the early backbone of our garden.

Today, I still thrill at the sight of a wild patch of these blooming in almost unassuming fashion. They occupy a rare room of memory in which the reality matches up with the fantasy. For me, the fantasy was finding a flower like this blooming in a stretch of forest edge beside an unlikely section of road. It was near my old elementary school, down a bank littered with mostly deciduous trees. There, beside the sidewalk, was an impressive stand of daylilies, nodding their orange blooms beneath the dappled sunlight. They were set back a bit from the road, and I wondered whether anyone else had seen them. For me, it seemed like a delicious secret. I ventured down there one day to inspect them up close. The walk was longer than I’d usually go, and that section of forest was unknown to me so I had to be more cautious. Eventually, after a battle with some hefty wild grapevines, I found the daylilies.

They were even more exquisite at close range, where I could better appreciate the bright green leaves and slender stems, along with the brightly-colored flowers – all fire and glowing embers, like little goblets of flame held aloft on torches of green. There was a dip in the ground nearby, which filled with water during the wetter parts of the year. It lent a tropical aspect to the space, and next to the daylily blooms it was like some snippet of paradise, as far removed from upstate New York as one could be.

I savored the moment and embedded the memory in my mind, where it remains to this very day. Summer works its wonders…

With its handsome dark foliage and complementary cherry blooms, this fuchsia is a totally tubular magnet for hummingbirds, who love poking their elongated beaks into the funnel of a flower and extracting its sweet nectar. I should have planted more of these, as it’s a brush with the magical and the sublime when one of the hummingbirds deigns to visit. They love these blooms. I’m told they seek out red flowers more than any other, and the form of the blossoms means that large bumblebees can’t get to the nectar, only moths and hummingbirds. (The hummingbird moth is an equally-enchanting creature, if slightly scarier considering that it is, in fact, an insect and not a bird. I prefer bugs to be small, slow and on the ground, and this one checks off none of those boxes.)

Hummingbirds, however, are not only welcomed but courted. I didn’t get around to ordering a certain cultivar of Salvia that they are said to adore, but hopefully White Flower Farm will offer it again next year. So much happens at this time of the year – I can’t be expected to remember everything. But the invitation to hummingbirds stands, and I do hope they drop by.

UPDATE: The fuchsia has already worked its magic. Before this entry was posted, I was sitting on the patio reading when I heard of rush of air: a hummingbird had practically dive-bombed me, as I was right in front of the pot of fuchsia. It was a gray and black beauty, and I watched it float there, suspended perfectly in mid-air, just before flitting away over the fence again. Welcome to summer, little friends.

More than roses or clematis, the flowering of the Chinese dogwood tree is my official marking of the arrival of summer. Blooming much later than the American variety, and after their own handsome foliage has filled out in bright green form, this is the perfect personification of the purest summer day, with their creamy white bracts (the actual flower is insignificantly hidden in the middle of those lovely bracts). They last a little longer than typical flower petals do too (think of how long those red poinsettia ‘blooms’ last – same principle, same architectural structure).

The branches also make great cut flowers, so if you need to do any pruning, now is the ideal time. A single stem can make an entire bouquet of blooms that seems to float like a collection of butterflies. I’ve had guests over solely for the purpose of showing off one of these bouquets. (Don’t tell them that though.) For that reason, the blooming of the dogwoods has always recalled happy gatherings of friends near and far, the same sort of giddy remembrance I get when thinking of summer parties and pool days. A joyous thing indeed.

They bloomed later this year thanks to our lingering winter weather. They didn’t need to be so accommodating, as we stayed home on the Memorial Day weekend when they’d usually burst forth into full bloom all at once. I like the later bloom period. It slows things down. Let us rush madly through the end of fall and all of winter, but let the spring stay as long as she can. Let the beauty remain. As long as possible…

This exquisite little scilla got lost in the rush of spring blooms, but I found the photos before too much time has passed and am posting them now because they’re pretty. Such beauty, coming as it does at such a desperate time of the year, is not to be wasted. These hardy souls fight through late snows and dire spring storms to bloom, usually with petals torn and tattered, spotted with mud and chewed up by rodents, but each year they come back for more. A hunger for life, and for putting on a show no matter how small, is commendable.

A quick bit of midday beauty. These English daisies always make me feel a little happier. So bright and cheery are they, the mere sight of them lifts the spirits, signaling the height of spring. All happy hope, all giddy promise. 

On some days it can be quite difficult to bring joy to a work office. I do my best with colorful outfits and floral coats, but that only goes so far. My Tom Ford cologne only carries a certain distance as well (and only garners a select group of fans). But when the lilacs are in bloom, and the office needs a Ford-free lift, I’ll bring in a stem or two of the sweet flowers and it instantly makes the day happier.

Their perfume is so potent that it only takes a small branch of blooms to fill the surrounding desk space with a signifying scent that reminds me of childhood and spring and hope. I remember picking them surreptitiously at night to surprise my Mom for Mother’s Day, the evening dew and leftover rain spilling onto me as I wrestled with the large stand of them at the top of our street.

I remember spying another group of them over the neighbor’s fence – they had white and dark purple varieties that seemed so exotic, so accustomed was I to the standard lilac shade that is ubiquitous in the Northeast. We had our only ancient trees, whose trunks had twisted and contorted over the years, but that still produced flowers on those branches that found enough sun. 

The variety you see here is a double version, a gift from Andy’s Mom delivered posthumously by his Dad and sister, adding to their sentimental value. I didn’t think it was possible to improve on the original standard, but this hybrid packs a punch not only in beauty, but in fragrance as well. (Often, the price of better blooms is a lack of perfume; this is a worthy exception.)

Since the addition of that single small starter, we have seen the gradual expansion of our lilac patch. I’ve managed to transplant sections to two areas of our side yard which started blooming last year, and recently added a small line in the neglected property behind our surrounding fence. I’ve found that the flowering varies from year to year – sometimes there are lots and sometimes it’s a little more lean. This is an in-between year.

Luckily, you don’t need a lot to leave a big impression. There’s something valuable to be gleaned from that.

Where else would Narcissus rather be, other than perhaps regarding its own reflection over a pool of water? That would make for wet roots and rotten bulbs, however, so the placement of the legendary flower is suspect to me. Current readings of what make up a narcissist would place them more aptly in a pool of sunlight, where they could shine and astound and receive all the notice and glory attributed to their desire. Traditional readings require some sort of reflective surface in which it may admire its own self, unconcerned with the rest of the world.

I’m a traditionalist in that sense.

I don’t need anyone’s approval to revel in my glory. 

Such happy faces! Such cheerful countenances! Such confidence in the shifting alliances of weather! These brave little Narcissus have been battered and bruised this year, but some still manage to bloom in almost-perfect form. No, I will not qualify that: they are perfect, not almost, because nature intends it as it should be. Baby, they were born that way.

The photo above is one of the rarer pink-cupped varieties, something that Lee Bailey so treasured, and inspired me to treasure as well. They bring the spring, better later than never, and as I inhale their distinctive fragrance everything feels right with the world.