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........