The ubiquitous mail-box vine commonly comes in the dark purple shade of color that everyone knows – and loves – but this lighter lavender hue has brought me around to the clematis once again. They are wonderful plants if you have the vertical space and conditions they like (feet in the shade, face in the sun). For some reason, I’ve never pampered the ones we have, and they still reward us with blooms every year. I need to rectify that. If anyone knows the value of a proper pampering…
Suzie was over for dinner the other night (a dinner at which she fingered my wattamelon, but that’s another story) and it’s a fitting point of reference as she was present for the two most salient memories I have of sunflowers. Both are summer tales, meaning they’re light on substance, but imbued with the spirit of summer, at least for me.
The first was a spur-of-the-moment trip to Provincetown in late August of 1995. It was my virgin trip to that famed gay gathering spot, so I was naively unaware of the popularity of the place on summer weekends, even if it was rainy. Luckily that rain made travel a little lighter, and we rolled into a rather quiet town that was damp with the fallen water, but still warm and balmy. Of course there was no room at any of the inns, so like Mary and Joseph with a sequin purse as our baby, we made our way until Suzie found a pricey but doable pine-knotted room that would easily suffice for a night.
The sunflower memory that comes from that weekend was based on one that was blooming beside a gate near the house. I snapped a photograph of it as it shook off the rain and unfurled its sunny face to the world. Scentless itself, it took the smell of summer on as its fragrance, and every time I looked at the framed photo – which followed me from Amsterdam to Boston to Chicago and back – I smiled with the memory of my first weekend in Provincetown with Suzie.
The second sunflower memory I hold is a passing blur. Speeding along some wretched never-ending highway in Montana as we made our way across the country, a field of sunflowers stretched out on either side of us. A sea of yellow and warm summer faces enjoyed the last light of the day as we sped along, bringing Suzie home from her Seattle stint. Once again we were on the hunt for an elusive hotel at prime travel season, where the great park of America stretched its tourist call as far as Montana, making it difficult to locate available lodging. Eventually we did, rolling into some tiny and sterile Super 8, but I already had my sunflower memory to keep me warm at night. The rest was just summer fun.
It started earlier this year, with the burnt tips of the Ostrich ferns giving warning that their feet weren’t quite as wet as they’d like to be, particularly without the usual shade provided for them. Since then, it’s continued, as frond by frond has burned out, quite literally, curling in on itself and drying up until it crumbles to the ground.
The flowers are around the bend too. This is the time of the year when things begin to fade. It’s too hot and dry for the fresh green exuberance of the garden to continue unabated. Thus, the long slow slide out of summer marks its doleful beginning.
In a time, where the sun descends alone
I ran a long long way from home
To find a heart that’s made of stone
I will try, I just need a little time
To get your face right out of my mind
To see the world through different eyes
Everytime I see you oh I try to hide away
But when we meet it seems I can’t let go
Everytime you leave the room I feel I’m fading like a flower…
The summer of ’16 is shaping up to be a rather alarming one. This is a scary time for many of us (and not just because the official Republican Platform includes gay conversion therapy – WAKE UP, PEOPLE) but I’m not indulging in scare tactics here.
Here, life is beautiful.
The guys are beautiful.
Even the orchestra is beautiful.
In mid-July, the garden exhibits its first hints of losing steam. I managed to capture these wild sweet pea shots before they started their decline, so they appear fresh and new, in the hottest shade of hot pink that the garden can muster. I’ll cut them back almost to the ground, as they are already going to seed, and one of these invasive monsters is more than enough.
For now, enjoy their strong color – the perfect reflection of this hot mid-July moment, when the world around us seems to be going up in flames, and the only thing we can do is recoil at the monstrosity and sad beauty of it all.
Though June is really the main month for roses, some spill over into July, especially as we had such a late start of spring. These pink beauties were peering over the wrought-iron fence of a typical Boston brownstone, nodding to themselves and to all passers-by in fine and fair fashion.
I was very happy to see them.
With its bright yellow center and pure white petals, this little daisy plant is the sun and the moon all in one. I think it’s actually a variety of chrysanthemum, or maybe feverfew (or possibly they’re one and them same). However they are scientifically known, the blooms are enchanting in their purity and simplicity. While past endeavors saw me seeking out the most rare and exotic plants for the garden, recent years, and a slow maturation, has me realizing that the key to making a pleasant landscape is less in finding the most strange and exotic specimens, and more about finding decent plants and growing them to their utmost health. That brings about a handsome result more than scarcity or cost of a plant itself.
In other words, if you can take proper care of a classic peony – removing last year’s fallen leaves, mulching the area around the perimeter, amending the soil with a healthy dose of manure, taking care not to wet the leaves when watering, and providing circulation in the heat and humidity of a northeast summer – it can look more beautiful than the most expensive and elite orchid that barely manages to survive a few weeks because it wasn’t designed for such a climate.
Apologies for that lengthy example. My sentences run on when I get excited talking about plants and gardening. The point is that even the simple daisy-like flowers seen here have the power to cast a spell, and we’d be fools to overlook the beauty in such austerity.
On a recent weekend in Boston, I got up-close and personal with a few showy blossoms. Like Ms. Desmond herself, they all but shouted to be noticed, so beautifully were they blooming. It was as if we never said good-bye last fall, as if there had been no winter ~ mild or otherwise. Plants can be like certain friends that way ~ you pick up right where you left off, without awkwardness or pause. These pretty things have caught my notice before ~ the rustic elegance of the Rosa rugosa, the frilly painted petals of a few rhodies, and the intricate architecture of a way-more-than-double clematis.
Caught in a focus much tighter than usual, these photos reveal even greater beauty at work than I usually notice. The markings on a white rhododendron, for example, show themselves to be a painting of stunning detail and nuance ~ a place where artistic masters may have learned their abstract craft.
These marvelously-shaded throats aren’t always immediately evident on examination from afar ~ only when you move in can you get a sense of how subtle and gorgeously-rendered nature crafts her florals.
As for that clematis, it may not be solely the work of nature. Humans can’t help but mess with things, and sometimes our efforts turn out something amazing, such as the spectacular thing you see below. Whether or not you enjoy such hybridized monsters, there is beauty in everything ~ even the garish and extreme. Thank goodness that it is so.
Here is an example of a flower I love but would never grow. One of the most beautiful perennials out there – in a rare shade of blue – this is the delphinium. The main reason I haven’t grown them is that they are reportedly rather finicky and difficult to grow well. Most require staking at some point (the bane of my gardening existence) and the soil and conditions that they like are not those typically found in the wild and unpredictable Northeast.
However, I do love them in other gardens, where I can appreciate their floral form and color without the trouble of devoting hours of time and yards of space to their cultivation. One of the more difficult lessons of gardening is learning what you can and cannot handle. Aim high, but aim realistically.
White balls of summer blossoms.
Purity.
Virginity.
Impossibility.
Give me the blasphemous black-eye of the Queen Ann’s lace over this insouciant innocence.
The celadon poppy frequents woodland areas in early spring to mid-summer, so its reign is about to come to a close. Like some humans, they wilt in the heat of high summer. Until then, however, they will throw out these happy yellow blossoms. The sap of this plant matches its flower color in vibrancy and potency, and these will stain your hands and clothing if given half the chance, so do be careful.
It’s still a small price to pay for such exquisitely delicate blooms and foliage.
Some years are good years for peonies, some are bad.
This was a pretty good one.
I, on the other hand, was bad – at least as far as taking the time to appreciate and pamper them.
It all just came so quickly – blooms burst forth in a few days of high heat, then we missed a few days in Maine (our peonies like to bloom in private as they traditionally take that weekend to give it up) – and by the time the show was nearing its end, I’d almost forgotten to take a few rounds through the garden to make the most of it. That’s my regret – but it wasn’t entirely my fault, given the piss-poor weather we’ve had off and on.
Next year, I will try to do better.
Next year, I will pause, and sniff, and take in the moment.
No, not just take it in – I will inhabit the moment.
Live in the moment.
Nothing should be taken for granted.
This beautiful specimen was one of the last to bloom.
It’s never too late to show a little gratitude.
Summer is almost here…
A break in the last weekday, one spiced with a tree peony that exudes the scent of tea.
The weekend, a celebration of Pride.
These weeks leading up to Summer Proper…
Happiness and hope.
This orange tree peony has been featured here several times. Tucked into an inconspicuous corner, I entertained moving it this year when we found ourselves with more light and room from a chopped-down cherry, but upon further research, and my own experience, it seems the blooms are not borne on stems strong enough to hold them upright. As such, I’ll keep it slightly hidden, and clip the blooms for the magic to work indoors.
The purple pulchritude presses forward with this second part of Purple Panache. I’m running out of pretty ‘P’ words, so before things turn nasty let’s quickly proceed to the images. (But just out of curiosity, what were you thinking: penis or pussy? My mind went to piss.)
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