2007
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
When one recipient of last year’s garden letter mentioned that she missed a letter this year, I decided to turn my next perfect gardening day into a written attempt. Yesterday was that day. High 70’s, no humidity, bird-song everywhere, gentle breeze. The biggest problem I faced in my little world was deciding which bugs that fell into my water mug made it undrinkable and which ones I could work around! So here it is, a letter that only a gardener could possibly enjoy. Anyone else would say, “Is this EVER going to end??
Buoyed by Hank’s perfect brew of coffee, I grabbed my trowel and my father’s old, holey- bucket and headed to my “annual seed” garden to weed. There is one reason and one reason only, that I have an annual garden at all this year. Hank built me a bunny fence! Last year my garden was completely annihilated by those cute little nibblers. Hank need not ever bring me diamonds. He has built my compost bins… and now this.
I didn’t anticipate all the little surprises I would find tucked here and there amongst the weeds. I think it’s the surprises that make gardening so exciting. You just never know! Most of my surprises come in the form of “volunteers,” those flowers that sprout from a rogue seed you know you didn’t plant, but somehow it survived the odds and presented itself in all its beauty anyway. Take for example, tithonia, or Mexican sunflower. Last year I planted a whole row. It was a little garish in color. Though not terribly displeasing, I decided against it this year. One little seedling from last year must have taken offense, for amongst the weeds I found a small six inch tithonia plant on it’s way to being a very bright and yes, welcoming orange spot in my garden. Or my cleome, the spidery pink queen of the annual garden. I really, really thought I planted one row of cosmos and one of cleome. Imagine my disappointment when the rows sprouted and they were both cosmos. Harrumph. I wanted to blame it on Burpee - - “How could they make such a packaging error??? In actuality, though, it was not likely that Burpee mixed their seeds. We know who made the mistake. It was growing late for a second planting, so I begrudgingly let it go. But last year’s cleome probably knew I would do something scatter-brained like that – they self-sowed and I found at least a half-dozen volunteers mixed in amongst my other annuals. Several years ago I planted one of the prettiest annual seeds I have ever come upon. The name is Salvia Coral Nymph. It is delicate. It is two-toned pink. It is perfect. The seeds are hard to come by – they’re not at the local Home Depot, so I no longer plant them. But every year since their birth, they have reappeared in another spot, so anxious to carry out on their progeny. And it was a sweet moment when I found them again yesterday.
I planted annual bachelor button seeds……..again. I love them. This spot reminds me of “Little Women.” The bachelor buttons, like dear, sickly Beth March, struggle so. They are fragile. They struggle to send up shoots from their slim, pale foliage. They have setbacks. If they do make it, their blossoms will be soft pastels. They are surrounded by zinnias, the strong, resilient Jo, Amy and Meg March; the zinnias are the staple of this garden. Their palette has no limits.
I was having SO much fun in my annual garden, but I had to leap the fence and heap a bit of attention upon the perennial garden, lest it get its little feelings hurt. Not as many surprises there, but the one I did find more than compensated. Perhaps twenty years ago I dug one Turk’s Cap lily that was growing wild on our farm in Connecticut. This is the lily with the deep orange blossom, dotted with dark brown freckles. It blossoms on the top of a slender stalk lined with large brown beads, which are the seeds. I transplanted this lily to my garden in Scotia, NY where it flourished and multiplied. For whatever reason, it did not make the cut or the move when I brought pots and pots of divisions to my Pittsburgh garden. But unbeknownst to me, one of the pots must have had a “stowaway,” because three or four years ago up popped a Turk’s Cap lily in my Pittsburgh garden. This is the first year it has reached enough maturity to show off its freckled faces. It’s just about to bloom, and I am so happy knowing that little bit of the farm has come all the way home to me!
I like to focus on the positive in this letter, but I do have a boo-hiss award to give out this year, and it goes to the gerbera daisy. I vow next year to stop being a fool for this plant. Each year as I go through the nurseries (and Hank IS going to put a tracking device on my ankle one of these years), I stop dead in my tracks in front of the gerbera daisy table. Strong, perfect, full daisies of every imaginable color, supported by lush green foliage. a banquet for the eyes. While trying to discourage myself under my breath (“I know I’ll kill it, I know I’ll kill it”) I go right ahead and look for the most beautiful color, and add it to my cart. I WILL NEVER LEARN. This year’s cave-in was to the most heavenly shade of salmon-pink. With high hopes I tucked it in my garden with the finest of compost. Its reaction was immediate. Its head was drooping by the next day, its foliage was yellow by the next week. Of all my plants, its gasps for life are the most audible.
If there is one spot where I could plop myself down, put my chin in my hands, bask in its beauty, maybe even write a poem, it is where the graceful Russian sage overlooks the apricot verbena and the pure white angelonia. I am transfixed, I am transported, oh, I am a garden drama queen.
So, for my perfect gardening day. I overlooked the flaws and there are many. If I had the discipline to stake, the huge eryngium would not go splat-phlat every year and bring disgrace to everything around it. If I had time and patience I would start my day by flicking each Japanese beetle into soapy water. If I had confidence, I would dig up and separate the candy tuft that is losing the battle to the white phlox growing out of its center. If I had a true green thumb I would have a gerbera daisy.
One reason I can compose this today is because I don’t have to give any thought to dinner. A dear gardening friend has invited Hank and I to dinner. I can’t stop thinking about how relaxing it will be. Good friends, good conversation. Jane and I make annual nursery runs together, share divisions and solve a good number of problems sitting next to one garden or another. Her husband, Bill, is a very creative person and built the most idyllic backyard pond I have ever seen. The pathway through a friend’s garden is the nicest pathway of all.
Because this year’s letter was predominantly about surprises, I’ll close with a verse from John Greenleaf Whittier:
“Thine is the seed time: God alone
Beholds the end of what is sown;
Beyond our vision weak and dim
The harvest time is hid with Him.”
Lauri
