Merry Christmas

The chores are done,

the bulbs are buried,

the roots are dormant,

the beds are chilling,

the arbor is lit,

the teakettle is on,

the earth awaits

and all seems right with the world today.

Merry Christmas to all!

The Nose Knows

What a difficult time I've had with this entry in which I intend to name my FIVE favorite floral fragrances. I've pondered all day, shuffled flowers in, shuffled them back out to let another in (and actually felt badly for hurting a flower's feelings). I considered the near impossibility of this selection process. I'm not including shrubs, so the heavenly lilac did not have to compete. After all the hard choices and with quite a mental list of runners-up, here we go - my five favorite scents in the combined divisions of annuals and perennials:

The rose could even be the universal favorite scent, as often as it is used in literature, love letters, poetry....... I never, ever smell a rose without thinking about my first prom, my first corsage. Funny how scents bring back memories, isn't it?

Sweet pea, so deserving of the name. A sweet fragrance in a most delicate, lilting way.

"lavender, sweet lavender;
come and buy my lavender,
hide it in your trousseau, lady fair.
Let its flovely fragrance flow
Over your from head to toe,
lightening on your eyes, your cheek, your hair."

Cumberkand Clark Flower Song Book 1929

The peony. It fills a room. In fact, it fills an auditorium. The townsfolk of my home town lined the graduation stage each year with vases of peonies from their own June gardens. I wonder if they still do.

Heliotrope - for it's rich and heady vanilla scent. I could re-write the bible with this one. Frankincense, gold, myrhh and heliotrope. I plant one of these each year close to the spot where I put my outside reading chair.

As I pondered these good things, it was only natural that a few plants crossed my mind that caused me to scrunch up my nose. And so, with no offense intended, I segue to my three least favorite scents:

I can't bring the pungent marigolds into the house for bouquets but they have their righteous space in the vegetable garden where their scent keeps insects away.

I truly dislike brushing against Russian Sage. But because it thrives in the spot next to my garden hose, it is inevitable. I will give it credit for its redeeming value, though. The deer dislike it as much as I do. I think it has done its part to keep them from nibbling away at "delicacies" such as the dayliliy buds.

When I saw Gentian Speedwell "Ramona" at a garden center last year I was arrested by its beauty. But the scent overwhelmed me on the long ride home; it was a most offensive traveling companion! The worst of the worst. I'm sorry Ramona, but you could have let me know before I paid for you. You will not have a place of honor by my reading chair. (But I still think you're pretty.)

How I would love to know what YOUR favorite flower scents are and what memories they bring to mind. Do share!

The Joy (and woe) of Composting

The problem to be solved: My compost pile had been rendered useless by the massive infiltration of roots.

The task at hand: Restructure my two- bin compost area in an attempt to save usable materials and to reduce future root problems.

Hank, always my co-partner in problem solving, created a new bottom for the bin that would receive properly layered materials for a decomposition process that could begin before winter. The new bottom was a metal screen raised a few inches from the ground and held off the root-bound earth by scrap lumber.

Lacking leaves in this young yard (hence lacking "browns"), we offered to rake our daughter's lawn. I could barely contain my excitement as we drove "Big Red" away with six big bags of leaves. Sarah was pretty happy with the situation as well. Time to organize the materials to layer: My hefty heap of old greens, bags of leaves, bone meal, bagged cow manure, a bit of fertilizer and the water hose. Let the layering begin.

The most challenging aspect was transferring my huge pile of poorly composting greens into their new bin. Initially it went quite well. Half way down I met with my nemesis, the roots.

Wishing I had a team of oxen, I severed and forked out clumps of tenacious roots, shook the dirt off and tossed them aside.

Whatever remained I forced through a screening device rigged up on a wheelbarrow. In a Go-Back-To-Start Monopoly move, small sticks and woody chips that didn't make it through the screen were tossed onto my new compost pile.

And below the screen? MANNA FROM HEAVEN!! Rich compost, complete with wiggly little creepy crawlies. Running my gloved hands through this and inhaling made all the effort worthwhile. It was at this point that Hank shouted over, "Do you want a spoon???" Three wheelbarrows full of GOLD were bagged and set aside for next spring.

And here is the finished project! My new, reconfigured and (hopefully) properly layered compost pile. Of course, the proof is in the temperature. I couldn't help but compare the testing to the hundreds of times I have run a thermometer to a fevered child and hoped the mercury would be down. But this time I hoped for rising temperatures each day as I tunneled to the center with a pitchfork and tested with my hand. Day One: Stone cold. Day Two: Stone cold. Day Three: cool. Day Five: Maybe a little warm? Day Six: Warmer! And this morning on Day Eight when I exposed a center portion to the air, STEAM!!!!!

Uh-oh, Hank just announced that if the compost pile makes me this happy he guesses he will never have to take me on a cruise...........I better tone it down.

"Naturalizing" Bulbs

I've just made a stooped over bee-line for the aspirin and heating pad. Maybe the gardening magazines portray the naturalizing of daffodils at the wood's edge as bucolic, beautiful........and easy. But today's endeavor was far from a "Fine Gardening" moment as I set out to plant my 50 bulbs at that fictional bucolic edge. Ten holes measuring 10"x 10"x 6", five bulbs to a hole, that was my plan. I hadn't counted on each little hole consuming 25 minutes of my precious, dwindling, October daylight. While I would like to write that I was setting bulbs in rich, loose loam along a rambling old stone wall, that was not the case. Where the lawn meets the woods has been the pit of hell-fire I've chosen to ignore for three years. Today I ripped out numerous young saplings, yards of grapevine and briars, severed countless mazes of inch-thick roots below the ground with my pruners. I've removed shale, rocks, dense clumps of long grass and scraps of builder's landscaping plastic. My labor had a sweet spot, though, when my eye caught a vine of bittersweet deep in the woods. It was one of those illuminating moments. Intellectually, I know I am not supposed to delight in this discovery because bittersweet is an invasive menace. But I love when the orange berries swell and split their cream colored cloaks, adding jewelry to the bland brown wardrobe of the November woods. Where it is, it will cause a problem to no-one. The aspirin is taking hold now and in retrospect I can stand by one of my gardening principles. As long as you love what you're doing, it's never work. Hopefully, each time I round the last bend homeward next April the daffodils will smile at me from the woods. And if my intent is realized, I will believe that God put them there, not I!

The Dirtiest Book I Own

Whenever I head to the garden for a serious work day this book hitches a ride in the wheelbarrow along with its companions - the shovel, bucket, trowel, clippers and bug spray. It's easier than tracking my garden dirt into the house countless times to double check a when or a how-to. THIS is the book that bears the marks and scars of the great outdoors. As I flip through the pages I can find evidence of muddy fingerprints, hose mis-firings, debris from the garden gloves, dribbles of sun tea, flower petals, a squashed mosquito, a random seed or two, and (ew) maybe even a drop of blood from a rose thorn. More than any other gardening book, this one is subject to abuse as it lays open on the reference section of my stone wall. I can't attack the chores without Tracy DiSabato-Aust's help. She has divided her book into three sections. Section I is devoted to basic perennial planting and maintenance. Section II is all about Pruning. These sections are more for feet-up study with my peanut butter sandwich and glass of milk. Section III is my favorite, the most useful (and has the dirtiest passages!) It is an A-Z encyclopedia of perennials. For every plant name there is a banquet of information: zone, description, size, exposure, flowering time, pruning and maintence tips for every season. And there's dessert on the banquet table, "Other maintenance tips." It's a wealth of information to encourage success for every plant. So the secret's out. I own a book that is too dirty for my coffee table.

Sigh....

Quieter Days of Autumn

Having waxed melodramatic on the subject of my autumn clematis in a recent post, I'm reluctantly ready to "dial it down a notch." My divisions are......... done. As I tend to the tasks remaining, it's all so quiet, so crackly, so peaceful, so thought provoking. Ghosts of this year's garden are my silent partners. Brittle seed pods, green leaves turning purple, the brown stalks that the daylily plants are so eager to release, the yellow nasturtium just daring the frost to nip it away, the burning bush now clashing with a neighbor it found companionable a few weeks ago....to everything there is a season. And so it is with these posts. I will not go away. (But I may be a little calmer!) The quiet season will afford me opportunities to share an occasional thought, follow an impulse, and perhaps to recommend books I enjoy, like this one.

Two Gardeners - A Friendship in Letters is an mmmmmm read for anyone who loves to write, read and garden. Funny how those three things seems to pop up in the same person so often! Katherine White was a legendary editor and garden columnist at the New Yorker Magazine. A beautiful friendship began when Elizabeth Lawrence, another noted garden writer sent a letter of encouragement to Ms. White. Over the next twenty years they exchanged letters, seeds, suggestions, catalogues, concerns about each other's health, and sentiments of the gardener's heart. The ideas they shared with each other they now share with us, the readers. Tomorrow after I make sure all my changes are entered on my garden map I'll drag the Adirondack chair to a place in the sun where I can put my feet up on the stone wall. Lulled by the lazy cricket sounds at the edge of the crisping woods, I'll escape into this book again. Maybe, just maybe, I'll look past the page to the garden and despite all the challenges and setbacks will be able to say, "Well done, Lauri."

Mums and Remembrance

Exactly ten years ago I was driving down a country road on a most beautiful morning anticipating the purchase of six pots of mums to set on the old milk cart in the front of my home. On the car radio I heard that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. I continued on my mission, believing it was a small and errant commuter plane. By the time my car was colorful with mums I knew the horrible truth of September 11. It wasn't until much later that afternoon that I even took the mums from the car under an eerily quiet sky that was accustomed to regular air traffic. I remember that it seemed wrong to be doing something so trivial when our nation was in such a grave situation. Yet as I look back I see it as my small way of bringing light to a very dark world. Today was a mum day again.

I've always set pots of mums on a cart, watered until I grew careless, then chopped them up for November's compost. I have NEVER planted a mum! Their reputation as poor winter hibernators precedes them. I recently read an article that made me believe I could do it. Planting instructions were to 1) Buy Belgian 2) Buy plants in bud, not bloom 3) Plant early 4) Soak the roots first. I removed from along the walk the petunias that are tired of "waving," and gave to the Angelonia and Victoria Blue Salvia the job of complementing the mums. Planting six mums took over ninety minutes because of the tedium of teasing the roots from the root ball and because of the care needed to avoid snapping off brittle stems (score - minus one). I handled them like newborn babies. But I'm glad I'm trying something new. When September turns to October, they should be in full bloom. And on this tenth anniversary, they did their part to brighten a sad day.

Autumn Clematis, Autumn Delight

The Autumn Clematis has astounded and delighted me more than any other perennial in the garden this year. In a rare and gasping moment I realized that I finally have a plant that looks as lush in my garden as it did when it first caught my eye in a catalogue. I planted it one year ago, it climbs and climbs, blooms its heart out, and says every day of it's late summer life, "I love you for buying me!" It is Mother Nature's bridal bouquet, heavy laden upon the trellis. A word about the trellis.... my new bare bones garden/patio was in great need of a focal point when our home was built three years ago. My brother had recently purchased an older home that had a beautiful, old picket fence and trellis in the backyard. He called one day to ask if I could use the trellis which wasn't fitting in with the plan for his yard. Rarely have I jumped upon an offer with such enthusiasm. Once gracing an older garden owned by people unknown to me, passed on to me by Henry, transported in our handy old red van , carefully installed by Hank, it has found a good home on its sentimental journey. Today I noticed the first blossom of a late blooming morning glory climbing up the other side. It's a new variety for me, softer than the "heavenly blue" variety, just an experiment. Soon the two vines will meet at the top and there will be a real occasion for that bridal bouquet. Now those are the kind of garden weddings I love to attend!

Darling Dahliettas

Dahliettas are the "darlings" of my September garden. Barely a foot tall, they pop with color just when color is most appreciated. Mums and asters seem to be the traditional favorites, but I've not had great luck with them. I find that mums are challenged to survive the winter and asters too often succumb to mildew or unsightly stems. Dahlietta's are not usually found as pre-packaged tubers like regular dahlias are (in plastic bags with sawdust with the pretty picture stapled to it). They are sold as annual bedding plants and I suppose most people treat them as just that. I was speaking to a salesperson of such annuals at a local garden center this summer and launched a discussion of the dahlietta. She said with great sympathy for me in her eyes, "Oh, honey, those aren't the kind that can be dug up and replanted, you're thinking of the dahlia." Sometimes salespeople can be wrong. All of the dahlietta's pictured here were purchased as annuals last year, tubers dug up, replanted this Spring, and are now reaching their peak of bloom.

When I first grew dahliettas, determined to save my darlings I researched the method carefully. I followed a tedious list of steps. Cut back before the frost, cover the cut stems with aluminum foil, dry for ____ days, remove foil, dig up, dry for ____ more days on a tarp, layer in a tub with a recipe of ingredients and moisture. When I delved into the tub in the spring, there were alas, NO SURVIVORS.

But give up on dahliettas? NO!

Last year I simply cut them back after frost, dug the tubers, shook the dirt off, threw them in a kitty litter bucket, covered them with peat moss and wished them a good winter. It took half an hour. When I tentatively dumped the bucket out this Spring they were already showing green shoots, so eager were they to be planted. I'll be an optimist this year, go a step further and label the colors. That way that nice orange one will be sure to be placed next to my purple heliotrope. Mwah!!

Division Woes

It is rare for me to come in from a gardening chore with a scowl on my face, but yesterday's task was just cause - the challenging division of two perennials that are, well, resistant to division. The grey foliage of my Dianthus "Baths Pink" had formed a HUGE, low sprawling mat. Lovely during its two week bloom, but for the rest of the season the foliage monopolizes 12 square feet that could potentially be shared with another pretty blossom or two. Likewise, the softer, grey foliage of Cerastium (Snow in the Summer)had sprawled far beyond its intended space.

Most of my perennials can be divided by my easiest method. I position the shovel over an outgrowth of the basal foliage, throw all of my weight into one big jump onto the shovel, apologize to the mother plant for the intrusion, and walk away with the division ready to plunk into a prepared hole. Works great for everything from Astilbe to Veronia. Occasionally I need to dig up the entire plant and do my shovel-jumping aerobics out on the lawn, then replant divisions, tossing out the tired center. But neither method suits these pretty little troublemakers. The sprawling foliage rests atop the soil far away from the strong center of the plant. Oh, it tries to send down new rootlets beneath the sprawl, but those are precarious at best. Yesterday I looked for healthy chunks in each mat, stabbed the shovel in with gusto, removed the chunk with PLENTY of soil not daring to look to see if it was even attached. I ran each to its new hole as if I was an organ transplant doctor, watered well, and just hoped it would be forced to send down new roots before death overcame it. Today the dianthus mother plant looks shocked, traumatized, as if it has suffered a very bad haircut (I know the feeling). The new divisions of the cerastium look wilted, brown and equally traumatized. But days are shorter now, cooler, and as I type this I'm listening to a steady rain. I know that Mother Nature is giving the best medicine to these poor victims of my well intended division. Cheers to the beginning of the season of great division.

Daylily Delight

On May 7 of this year I posted a sad picture of the early daylily fans . At least two thirds of them were afflicted with "Spring Sickness," no known cause, no known cure. I held fast to hope throughout early summer that what I read was true - the affliction is not fatal to the plant. It was hard to imagine anything remotely pretty springing forth from the damaged vegetation in that picture. But my faith was rewarded. The plants did eventually shrug off the cruel twist to their vanity and put forth a nice display. Without a doubt, the daylily bed is the object of my greatest obsession. I remember a picture in my high school Biology textbook. It was of Gregor Mendel standing by his trellises of peas, notebook in the crook of his arm, looking so absorbed that the earth could have swallowed him up and he wouldn't have blinked (I know the look), documenting data on his charts and probably losing sleep over the mysteries of genetics. In July I feel such a one-ness with Gregor!!

And here is what is in the crook of my arm. At the top is the three year old map on graph paper, so worn and crumpled it is like old linen. On the left is a detailed description of each of 29 varieties. On the right are pictures to match each description. I stuff them all on my clipboard on daily basis in July and head out the door to record data, compare, change descriptive words, shuffle pictures, edit the map. Any of my kids who visit in July and witness this can't resist mocking me. ("Oh no, she's doing it again. Could someone bring her in?"). But I find the process so oddly soothing. If I could bottle the feeling I would have Gardener's Valium. If I could apply it to my basement, I would be able to walk through that area unobstructed. When we had our initial landscaping installed, "Jason the Nursery Man" may have grown weary of my barrage of questions when he finally said not unkindly," Don't forget to just sit and enjoy the garden." Good advice. And as I sit at the computer and turn my head over my left shoulder, I can see my daylilies and I am enjoying them. But the wheels start turning and I think, "I really need a backdrop.... I wonder about a white picket fence........

Summer in Saratoga

So much to love about Saratoga in the summer. It should come as no surprise that I'm drawn in, amazed and enchanted by the flowers. I've never known a town that loves flowers more! Flowers here, flowers there, flowers, flowers everywhere!! It is a delight to the senses to stroll down Broadway where floral displays show off the shop-fronts........

And their eateries.

There are parks around every corner and it is as if a master gardener could not bear for one to be unadorned. There's the Hathorne Natural Spring......

Saratoga's own "Spit and Spat" in Congress Park.....

A bench is just one more good reason to put in a garden.....

Clock on the corner? Plant flowers!!

The porches of the historic mansions of Union Street

lead to ........

whose flowers here are a fraction of the cascading displays they will be by the end of August.

It's hard to find a base of a tree that isn't encircled with flowers. This one caught my eye. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and I will be duplicating this combination in my own garden next year. I've never been a big fan of Celosia, but this scarlet celosia POPS when next the the New Guinea Impatiens with scarlet eyes. So it's official - I've begun to plan next year's garden

The Fairest Gardener of Them All

Margaret Chapin Frueh

Oct. 10. 1921 - July 20, 2011

This week I said good-bye to my beautiful mother. My words could easily number in the thousands. But because this is a gardening blog, I will write about Mom as the first person to share her love of gardening with me. I'm quite sure she began that sharing by stopping the stroller along the "Mosquito Path" to show me the Daisies, Black-eyed Susans and other wildflowers of the countryside. When I was old enough to walk along the side of the stroller she revealed more wonders to me, like looking for the one tiny little dark blossom in the middle of all the white blossoms on each cap of the Queen Anne's Lace. Or laughing as I turned up my nose at the smell of the Skunk Cabbage. Or probing with a stick to find the spit bug in the middle of the froth on the plant stem. She always kept a flower patch near the back door of the farmhouse. The first crocus blossom was a joyful event to be celebrated; as the pansies were planted, she showed us that each blossom had a face. Nasturtiums and Hollyhocks were favorites of hers. (I've never since known hollyhocks that grew as prolifically as hers.) Even with five children to consume her time, she planted a large vegetable garden, often finding time to can tomatoes, freeze corn, make pickles. Snip-snip from the clump of chives to sprinkle on potato salad. Snip-snip from the mint patch to flavor the lemonade. She delighted in simple gifts. Once a year, when the time was right, my father came in from a mysterious spot in the woods with a special gift for my mom - a blossom from the tulip tree. Mom floated it in a glass dish and we marveled at this miracle. And as if my gift was an equal, she would light up when I pushed my fist of dandelions into her face. Later in life Mom lived in apartment buildings many miles from the farmhouse. She always put flowers next to the steps leading to the apartment. With the same hands that had nourished and loved us, she checked on them daily, nurtured them and talked to them. Her favorite gardens were the ones she snuck in against the rules, for no rule was as abhorrent to Mom as "Residents May Not Plant Ornamental Flowers." How she loved to be naughty!! (As if white landscaping rocks were a good substitute for flowers!) And in her final weeks, even though she was nearly completely blind, I took bouquets from my garden to her beside so that she could smell them, and hear me say the names of all those old friends of hers. She will live on in my heart in so many ways. As I sow, weed, water and reap I will feel her presence with me. I close with this verse attributed to James Douglas:

"It is good to be alone in a garden at dawn

or dark so that all its shy presences

may haunt you and possess you

in a reverie of suspended thought."

My simple gardens will help me to bear her loss.

July in the Garden

July has been, historically, the "Month of the Great Blahs" in my garden. The sweetness of Spring blossoms which were nurtured by early rains are only a memory by July. The second putting forth of blossoms, encouraged by June's shearing back have not yet emerged. Japanese beetles, and a plethora of their garden pest friends chomp their way through foliage. Little diseases pop up here and there which leave me scratching my head. The soil hardens and becomes less hospitable to both my flowers and my camera. But forewarned by experience is to be armed for attack. I've tried to embrace the un-fun aspects of gardening and be more of a problem solver. And I have looked to plants that will actually flourish in this, the hottest month of the year. (And okay, I confess that I'm enjoying and using the "crop" feature of my digital photography as a sneaky way to eliminate patches of brown, defoliation.....)

Annabelle Hydrangea, liatrus and shasta daisy are my July friends.

My Aubrey Johnson daylily, in turn, is a friend to the hydrangea.

More on July's bountiful daylilies in a future posting.

And I finally, finally, have the sweet peas of my dreams.

Inhale, hold that scent to the count of four, exhale.

Astilbe Season

It's Astilbe season!! My shade garden this year has hosted columbine, lily-of-the-valley, astrantia, hosta, japanese fern, coral bell and lupine. But right now astilbe is holding court. Most of my astilbe came from my Pittsburgh garden so I feel as if I am greeting old friends when I see their feathery plumes.

But one astilbe is new to the garden this year. I saw Astilbe "Milk n' Honey" in a slide presentation at the Gardening Seminar I attended in April. It set my heart a-flutter! My husband will attest that on the rare occasion that I get tunnel vision about a plant, not finding it is not an option. I could only find one nursery in a 25 mile radius that carried it. I threw myself at their mercy on the telephone and begged them save one for me. They were happy to oblige. Here it is in its first year. The plumes have the puffiest, softest pink at the base. Only v-e-r-y gradually does the pink climb the plume. I hate to play favorites, but I think this is, shhhhhh, my favorite this year.

Location, location, location

I'm sure I've never before had an astilbe that is shoulder high. This one has blessed me this year. I can only believe that it must be the location, where it gets morning sun followed by filtered mid-day sun followed by afternoon shade. The "location factor" gave me pause to reflect on two comparisons elsewhere in the garden:

This is the sweet pea's "happy spot." They are in good soil which is protected from drying out. Early morning shade, sun most of the day with late afternoon shade. They have reached the top of twine I provided and today I had to string more twine up the railing to keep up with their exuberance to climb. I just can't wait to see and smell their blossoms.

But.... the flip side. This picture was taken at the "other" sweet pea location. When the very brown seedlings (which you can barely see at the base of the trellis) reached their maximum height of 5" and refused to climb I disassembled the whole system. The seedlings did not even dignify a toss onto the compost heap. Live and learn

Last year a friend invited me to help myself to all the myrtle I could dig from his lot. I put small transplants wherever I wanted to cover the foundation. It LOVED this spot on the North side of our house and one year later it has rewarded me with glossy green leaves in abundance.

And this is the myrtle that I planted where there is strong southern exposure. It is struggling, whimpering, begging for mercy. The experimentation and constant moving around are all a part of the fun, the challenge and the mystery of gardening.