Category Archives: Flowers

Did you ever meet someone who was such an attention-sucker that they did all the screaming and shouting and carrying on every time you saw them, making it impossible for any meaningful contact or communication to be made? (Stop looking at me.) That’s kind of how I feel towards these azaleas, which have been screeching in their day-glo magenta glory and demanding to be noticed from the farthest distance. I like strong color, more than most people in fact, and I’ll never begrudge anyone their need to put on a show. But I don’t necessarily want it in my own backyard. Or front-yard for that matter. That’s why these had to be caught on the street where I work, far from where I’d see them while peacefully contemplating my own home.

That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy them, particularly on a rather dour and gray lunch break from the office, when the extra-long stretch of bad weather we’ve had has us all a little on edge. When these popped open on the first really warm day we’ve had it was like a pop of champagne and an instant celebration of the late-to-arrive season. A colorful party until itself.

Though it’s one of my favorite flowers, I do not grow tulips in the garden. The main reason being that they just don’t last. There are supposedly perennial varieties that come back for five or so years, but I want a promise that lasts longer than that. I’ve also heard tales told of singular bulbs coming back for over a decade, but who wants a single flower?

In addition to their sporadic lifespan, they prove delectable treats for all our woodland creatures, and every time I’ve planted them at least half get devoured by whatever squirrels or chipmunks happen to be hungry. I cannot be bothered to do battle with that.

But every year around this time (or a bit later as our schedules seems to be running) I’™ll happen upon a bouquet that forces me to lean in and inhale their spicy floral sweetness. I’ll remember the flower that so captivated me in my childhood, and I’ll smile at the memories that come flooding back.

In my ongoing efforts to force spring into being, this is a bouquet I put together using some stock and delphiniums. The former is a soft shade of peach and offers its sweet perfume as background to its beauty, while the latter bridges the magical space between indigo and purple, its feathery upper foliage fluttering like bright green wisps of smoke. Together they form a pastel patchwork of loveliness – the perfect antidote for all the dirty snow that refuses to go entirely away.

I like the delphiniums for their tendency to curve upward when arranged in a vase. Some flowers stay rigidly in place, their stems not bending in the least bit (roses and carnations come to mind). Others are more flexible and wild, bending and turning to where the light and their surroundings dictate. Tulips are masterful at this, as are these delphinium stalks. (I think they were designed to be so accommodating; in the garden the tall stalks will often be felled by summer storms, after which they right themselves as best they can by rising straight up and resulting in all sorts of crazy curves.)

In a bouquet, the effect can be enchanting, if you’re willing to go with the flow and let nature takes its winding course. My gardening inspiration, Lee Bailey, used to love the effects that transpired when tulips were left to their own devices in a vase. Over the years, I’ve come to appreciate the unexpected results as well. Sometimes a lighter touch works better than a strict and heavy hand.

As for growing a delphinium in your own garden, it’s no easy feat. Bailey himself admitted defeat when they kept getting knocked over by summer storms. He turned to foxgloves instead as a similarly-vertical substitute, then ended up loving them for their own charms. Personally, I prefer the foxgloves as well. The only fussy thing I want in a garden is me.

If spring wants to take her time in making an entrance, I can respect that. But that doesn’t mean I won’t push and prod and drag her ass into gear in whatever manner possible. The only sure-fire way I know of healing my winter-torn heart is to visit the local nursery and surround myself with the moist heat of a greenhouse and the fresh palette of spring blooms and foliage. Faddegon’s provides just such a respite from the lingering snow and cold.

I walked quickly past all the Easter decorations, warily keeping an eye out for an Easter-Bunny-in-training. These are perilous times. This season’s seed packets were already on display – a happy sign of good things to come. I held my breath past the fertilizer section, then descended a few steps into the first greenhouse, where palms delicately draped their fronds, and the trendy terrariums collected their drops of dew for the smallest ferns.

Bright splotches of color exploded around me as seasonal primroses turned their sunny countenances upward to the sky. I breathed in the humid air and surveyed the surroundings, so rich with green and freshness. It was the scent and scene of life. The Living. It made my heart glad, and that should be enough until the outside catches up.

Happy harbinger of spring! This is a red witch hazel, blooming in Boston long before it will bloom in upstate New York ~ well, perhaps not that long, but long enough. At the tail-end of winter, the days crawl slowly by as we bide our time waiting for the sun. There is nothing new about this post, as I usually post the parade of witch hazel blooms as they start to burst; it’s the first spot of color after a long stretch of barren and depressing surroundings.

Usually I despise repeating myself, but when that repetition is of such a happy tradition I’m glad to suspend my derision. The earliest signs of spring are always welcome, no matter how tried and true.

As a Virgo, I’m a creature of habit. I like order and consistent schedules. The blooming of witch hazel satisfies all that, as well as my love of warmer weather. Soon it will be time for the first tour of the garden ~ a time to assess winter damage, to remind me of where we last left off, to inspire the plans of summer. It shall be a good time indeed.

Things look different in the night.

Shadows play tricks.

Colors shift shade. 

This bouquet of stock is quite purple in the day, when the light is bright and tinged with whatever blue we get from the sky. At night, however, and in the warm amber glow of a lamp, it changes to a more rosy hue, as if shot through with an extra dose of blood from within. 

The beauty of these blooms, apart from the exquisite way they change color depending on the light and the time of day, is their perfume. Sweet and soft and the merest whisper of spring and summer – it is the breath of hope, expelled in the coldest of winter nights. 

I crashed early this year. Usually, I can make it to at least February before feeling the drudge of winter. This weekend, I felt it. Too soon. Too early. There is too much more to go. The only thing that saved me was a visit to the market, where I stumbled unexpectedly upon a few classic spring blooms. Leaning into the hyacinths and daffodils, I breathed in the sweet scent of spring, a couple of months early, and just int he nick of time. 

I was talking to Kira last time I was in Boston and proposing a possible visit to the New England Flower Show (if such a thing still happens). This is the sort of thing that gets us through the winter. 

Some see a flower, some see a crucifixion, I happen to see the wizened face of a lion.

This questionably-monikered Thanksgiving Cactus began blooming a couple of week ago, which is why I’m considering it more of a Halloween cactus at this point. Such a strong pink is more apropos for that holiday rather than the amber and autumnal hues of Turkey Day anyway.

As much as I abhor photoshopping pictures, on my Instagram I tend to add a little boost of saturation to some of my nature shots. What can I say? I love color, and sometimes the intensity is lost in the lighting or shaky camera work. For these photos, no such amendments were necessary, supporting proof of my theory that flowers in the fall glow more brilliantly than at any other time of the year.

This simple Pelargonium veritably thrills with its neon-like sparkle. It sat in a lowly pot with another annual that had long passed its prime, but this one kept going, shining brightly until the first hard frost will finally strike it down.

It is often said that there are no true-blue flowers in the natural world. I’d fallen for this notion over the years, perpetuating the idea and even making vague plans to seek out the closest we could get (the elusive Himalayan blue poppy), yet it appears there are such hues, as this salvia begs to differ. Check out the vibrant blue tones here, in unfiltered, un-additionally-saturated form. It’s nice when the universe defies humankind’s stories. It keeps me on my toes. {Insert ‘Black Swan’ reference here.}

The extended warmth of this fall season has produced a bountiful crop of dahlia blooms. I have a soft-spot in my heart for this flower, for myriad reasons. It was one of the first plants I ever planted and grew in the little side garden that my parents allotted for me. I watered and weeded and took care of them for the entire summer, wondering when they would deign to bloom. The payoff came later, but was worth it as shades of crimson and peach and lemon yellow exploded as the school year was about to begin. I wouldn’t grow them again for a long time; that was too long to wait for such color, and the idea of waiting until school began to enjoy a bloom sucked the fun out of it.

These days, I still find their blooming period a little too late. By this stage I’m ready to shift focus indoors. However, this year has kept us out later than normal, and it’s always nice to see how others have employed such a lovely garden plant.

Here, the late morning light softens the saturated glow of the dahlia’s fiery petals.

Sounding a clarion for beauty and perfume, the tropical angel’s trumpet plant (Brugmansia) was once a stalwart presence on our summer patio. After a few years, however, I got tired of lugging the large pots up and down the attic staircase, so they fell out of favor and have been missing for the last several seasons. This year, I found a large robust specimen at Faddegon’s for a relatively reasonable price (they’ve gotten way too expensive for such an easily-propagated species) and brought them back into our summer fold.

Luckily, they bloomed, which isn’t always the case with this plant. (It usually takes a year or two to get them going.) Their lemony fragrance is a delight, particularly as it ripens and becomes most pronounced as the evening progresses. It’s a magical thing when perched beside the pool on a hot summer night, emitting its lovely perfume and filling the area with sweetness. The pendulous dangling form of its flowers are just as enchanting as its scent, enthralling with their trumpet-like form, beckoning for a closer inspection like most objects of mystery and beauty do.

Their care is simple – lots of sun and heat, lots of water and regular fertilizing, and then over-wintering indoors if you’re in the brutal Northeast. I’m pretty sure they’re only hardy to about zone 8 or warmer, but I’ve heard tales of plants surviving in unheated garages. That’s too risky for a grand specimen like this, so I’ll bring it in to the basement for a change. I can usually get two or three years out of a plant this size without needed to repot – just a top dressing of new soil and some additional fertilizer throughout the year usually suffices. After three or four years, you’ll need to repot or start over again with cuttings. The latter is often easier.

This post is for my friend Diana, who once coaxed a moonflower to the brink of bloom last year only to have it wither on the vine a day or two before blossoming. That kind of heartache is a blow to even the most seasoned of gardeners, but I’m happy to see that this year she’s had several big blooms to make up for it.

I happened upon this particularly robust moonflower vine the last time I was in Boston. Paired with a traditional old-fashioned morning glory, it makes for a full day of flowers: there are early blue blooms at the break of day, and these wonderful white beacons in the afternoon and evening.

They have a very delicate fragrance that becomes slightly more pronounced in the evening, but this is one flower that doesn’t shout its presence out with vulgar lily-like bombast. It whispers. Evokes. Sighs.

This is how we say goodbye to summer.