Critters III

Critters III

      We all eat something.

      What do azaleas eat? People often talk of fertilizing their plants but I never hear of plants “eating”. Your plant's breakfast is crucial to their happiness for the soil is their restaurant. 
 

      People won't talk about the end result of eating, excrement. At least not in mixed company. At least not in the US. But people extol the virtues of compost and humus, much of it the excrement from tiny creatures eating organic matter. Oxygen is another vital endproduct, produced by plants and required by animal life.

      { Major digression from the theme: I believe that talking to your house plants is good for them. Bend low so that you're staring the white flies and aphids in the face and tell your plants how they have the power to be whatever they wish! Oh, wait, that's for encouraging children. No, tell them that they have the power within themselves to grow as if they were in a rain-forest. Or, explain to them, kindly that they'd better start growing or you'll get violent! Either way carbon dioxide is pouring from your mouth, an ingredient that the plants slurp up in exchange for the release of oxygen. Win-win. And, while you're there, spray for the white flies. }

      People are squeamish about tiny bugs and bacteria, but a gardener will happily show you his compost pile, produced by those bugs and bacteria. And their dead bodies merge with the digested constituents of the fallen leaves creating black gold. If left alone for a while that compost becomes even more valuable as humus, a dense, slightly gelatinous pile of lignins (the tissue making woody plants “woody”), complex sugars and proteins. I've heard people described as “happy as pigs in slop” but if I then said they were as “happy as rhododendron tsutsutsi in humus” I would be banned from the bar.

      The fine nature writer Annie Dillard described leaning over a rocky ledge and seeing a snake below, sunning itself. With a mosquito perched on its nose, ready to dive into its midday snack. We all eat something.

      The plantain and dandelions in my lawn, loved by rabbits, eat the materials in the soil, much of which is naturally composted from whatever falls there.

      Caterpillars eat the leaves of almost everything, from spring to fall. Birds rely on those caterpillars through much of the year, though especially for their nestlings. 
 

      The stray cats, which I chase around the yard, look for the birds, squirrels and those rabbits.

      The foxes dig large holes in the compost pile and are delighted when they run into the cats, birds, squirrels and rabbits.

      The Red-tailed and Red-shouldered hawks that cruise through the trees would happily take any from that menu, though an adult fox would give them pause.

      The raccoons and possums hunt mice in the leaf litter. Those raccoons and possums are, in turn, hunted by cars, at least in my experience.

      The mice are themselves looking for worms, bugs and beetles. And the worms, bugs and beetles believe my compost is heaven. I thought it was really cool, once, to dig through the pile and come up with a Unicorn Beetle. Two inches long, including scary looking horns, but harmless to a huge, top of the food-chain being such as myself.

      Everything in the yard is eating something. What do I eat there? I snag a few wild blackberries, though I'm always late to the banquet. The squirrels and birds fill up first. Crab apples, wild cherries and a pear tree produce fruit in the late summer, but these volunteers are not among the commercial varieties and have very little flesh. Still, the taste is there.

      In the end, as most of you, I don't really want to kill and then gut my dinner, disposing of the bloody carcass in the back 40. I don't even have a back 40. I drive down the highway to the supermarket.

      My garden is a restaurant, currently enjoyed by millions of other life forms, and that's just fine!

Critters II

Critters II

      Less entertaining than the wildlife mentioned in the previous essay, “Critters”, are the deer, better known as “azalea parasites”. Repellents such as aluminum pie plates and motion sensor controlled noises have all been suggested by some and rejected by others. I haven't tried those myself.

    {{ I took this picture of an elk in Yellowstone NP on 7/7/14.  I don't have a picture of the Virginia Whitetails in my backyard that looks as good as this, so I'll display this one.}}

      The intruders force me to spend a ridiculous amount of money on “guaranteed” repellents. Strangely, unlike the snake oils of old, they sort of work. However …

      The local big-box stores have some spray-on repellents. Being water soluble, a significant rain requires that I reapply it. A decently long dry period must follow this reapplication. A continuing hassle.

      I did find a spray that worked for 3 months or more: dried blood. This entailed mixing in buckets of water and stirring until I was tired as the blood was flaky and tended to clot. The result was strained through cloth to prevent the sprayer from becoming clogged by the pieces that weren't well mixed in. Then something had to be done with the cloth which was covered with blood. Throwing it away was the only option. And always in the back of my mind was the chance that I could pick up some bovine disease and become mad as a cow.

      My friend Don Hyatt has taken rotten eggs and blended them with cayenne pepper before adding them to the water in the sprayer. He says that this works, but again is a real bother. The downside to anything linked to the word “bother” is that you will find all kinds of excuses to put it off. The deer herds in his suburban neighborhood have continually devastated what would have been a mature garden worthy of a public arboretum. You'll enjoy his website commentary:

www.donaldhyatt.com/garden.html

      For many years we never had any deer in our neighborhood, even after my interest in gardening provided them with a new food source. Then they appeared and began to prove themselves the dark destroyers. The first ones were eagerly photographed, while I was cautious not to scare them away. Now I run outside, screaming like a little child and waving my arms. If that is not sufficient I'll pick up some rocks, saved for their excellent throwing size, and pitch them. That usually provokes the monsters to move over to the next yard, slowly and proudly so that I wouldn't think that I was actually intimidating them. An 8 foot fence would shelter the garden. The 4 foot chain link that I have might as well be 1 foot high as their leaps over it are effortless. They should tryout for the NBA, or the ballet. And, no, I can't afford to surround the ½ acre with 8 foot fencing. Maybe I need to open a Kickstarter!

      Currently I'm trying two things to prevent the yard from being the marauder's fast food restaurant:

1. Cinnamon: My friend Norma recommended sprinkling it around and on the plants. Cinnamon seems to be somewhat rain-resistant and a reapplication every 2^nd or 3^rd shower may be sufficient. The spice is cheap enough when I go to a generic brand grocery where $1 will buy 5 oz.
2. A version of cattle guards: Rolls of wire fencing are sold in the big-box stores relatively inexpensively. I took the fencing featuring 2” x 3” holes, cut the rolls into 3' x 4' pieces (the exact size didn't matter) and laid them flat on the ground around the herbaceous plants favored by deer. Also, they are strategically scattered on some paths into the property. My theory, which is untested, is that their hoofs will get caught in the holes and the deer will become really irritated, do some deer-swearing and retreat.

      In the 3 summers and 2 winters of the test period with those 2 items I've had no damage to the daylilys or hosta. Also, the azaleas, which the deer go to in late winter when nothing better is available, have been unharmed. But, I've haven't seen many deer during this period so the cinnamon-cattle guard theory may be useless and I was just lucky. Haven't seen any elephants around here, either ...

      Unfortunately, my view on these large mammals is not shared by all. A friend 2 doors down puts out a salt lick so his family can watch the herds through the back picture window. Now, do you have some incisive advice I could give to him to prevent such awful behavior? No, I didn't think so.

Crittrers

Critters

      Most come by night, whereas I'm diurnal. We sometimes meet in that middle ground of dusk, as the Martians and the humans did in Ray Bradbury's “Martian Chronicles”.

      The back third of my suburban half-acre is kept as a small, wild woodland, to grow as it pleases. Except when it displeases me (think Poison Ivy). Mainly it belongs to the wild. Except for the giant mulch pile. Otherwise it's wild. Except for the pile of old pots. Of course, the woodland's really for the seedlings growing there by chance. Except for a small dumping ground of mixed and unmixed dirt. Otherwise the critters have the place to themselves.

      My son and I used to lie on the windshield of our car and watch the bats at dusk. Now, with white-nose fungus they've become rare, and my son is grown and living in another state.

      Once a Barred Owl flew in through the dusk and perched a little above me. But I was too big to eat and wouldn't have been tasty, so he flew off. As big as they are they're absolutely silent. It's lucky that I was looking in the direction he came from.

      Turning over a part of my mulch pile one afternoon, I glanced sideways and noticed a raccoon lying on top of a chain link fence about 10 yards away, head on its paws, watching me intently. I imagined him quoting the common joke: “Work fascinates me. I can sit and watch it for hours.” I might have been making it easier for him to dig into the pile and find a mouse nest, but that would be later when I would retreat for dinner.

      Possums wander through, but I don't see them as often as the raccoons. The possums scurry through the leaf litter and always seem to wish that they were somewhere else.

      Foxes run through, quickly and intently, always appearing to be late for something. Once, however, a mother and her 2 kits enjoyed a sunny morning chasing each other around the lawn near the picture window. I got a few quick photos, but they refused to pose. Also, despite my desires, sometimes an azalea would be in their way, so it simply had to be bowled over. I think that I once had that kind of energy but it's getting harder to remember.

      Years ago rabbits munched some Satsuki azaleas and I was irritated. But the rabbits which have come by the lawn in the last 2 summers have become the perfect guests. They eat only the weeds: plantain and clover, ignoring the hosta and heuchera. I sampled those items myself and can see why they made those choices. Maybe some other gardener trained them. A bunny-whisperer?

      The field mice in the leaf litter don't seem interested in munching the azaleas so we rarely interact; until they get into the shed in the winter. But that's a story for another time.

      Squirrels are the children of the yard. Diurnal. Hated and loved. They dig up small plants and leave them for dead (looking for the acorns buried the previous fall). One small plant lost its left half to a deranged squirrel that insisted on repeatedly doing back flips off its low branch until it broke (the branch unfortunately, not the squirrel). One never thinks of animals as being psycho, just people. Animals are supposed to be noble and do natural things. The French writer Rousseau celebrated naturalism in people and animals, but he didn't live to meet my squirrels. However, when their faint echoes of humanity have me focused at the window, time isn't passing.

      The garden is so much more than the azaleas that bloom in the spring. It is alive with bees, butterflies, ants, katydids, praying mantis' and dragonflies. I can spend the whole day there! Oh, and did I tell you about all the birds? Well, there's this irritating Red-bellied Woodpecker ...

                                                                                                       

The Senses

The Senses

      Everyone who creates a garden does so to achieve a certain look. Even if it's just a couple of azaleas by the steps of a townhouse, gardeners have something in mind and hope the plants grow into a hedge to be proud of.

      I seem to be slightly color blind so I'll never see the world exactly as others do. Building the palette of the landscape will match my view of the world. It always surprises me when someone walks through the yard and points out a flower they really like when it looks ordinary to me. I suspect that no one has perfect color vision and our preferences are dependent on what filters through to our brain.

      How about the other senses? We all like different foods, so we taste differently. Vegetable gardeners are trying to get better taste than they can get from the stores where “traveling well” and “storing for a long time” are more important than simple taste. Does a Kurume azalea flower taste better than a Southern Indian? Have you checked?

      For the last couple of years, rabbits have invaded my back lawn but left the ornamentals, including the herbaceous ones, alone. Why? I decided to do a taste test and found that the plantain the marauders were eating actually was better than the hosta and heuchera they weren't. Don't duplicate this test. The heucheras were really bitter. And the leaves need to be spit out after that enlightenment.

      Hearing? I once went on a nature walk along the north rim of the Grand Canyon and the Park Ranger asked us to be silent for a while, listening to the stillness. Then, beyond the serenity, to listen to the sound of the wind. And beyond the wind, to listen to it in different trees and bushes. They each had their own quality of sound: hissing, sighing and a lot of sounds we haven't created words for. Quite an experience which went beyond what I had done before. Surprising, in a satisfying way. Listen to the wind in your trees and bushes. Listen to the wind in the pines; it's different than through the oaks. Do the azaleas discuss the wind among themselves? With your eyes closed, focus on the aural effect of different parts of your garden. If your garden is simply the small front yard of a townhouse, local parks can give you that variety: Green Spring, Meadowlark, Brookside and the National Arboretum come to mind in the DC area.

      Touch? A branch snapping back and hitting me in the face is no fun. We'll skip that form of touch here. When I touch evergreen azaleas, they each are distinctive. Magnifica leaves are tacky. Hard to clean off my hands. Others, such as Delaware Valley White, have large, dull leaves, a little hairy and not sticky. The Kurume group show off small, waxy leaves. If you were dropped into your garden in an unknown place and put your hand on a plant, would you be able to make a good guess at which it is? OK, the thorny roses and hollies would announce themselves. But the others? I can't do that yet but I'd like to be able to sometime in the future. Beyond azaleas, run your hands over the bark of different varieties of oaks. The Red Oak group feels differently than the White Oak group. Maple trees? Red Maple trunks will not remind you of Snakebark Japanese Maples.

      Gardeners will look for scents in their ornamentals, unless the space is filled with evergreen azaleas which have almost no fragrance. Fragrance is a highlight of the deciduous azaleas. So many flowers have a distinctive odor that they are often bought for that alone. Consider a new experience: have you knelt in a patch of snow and mud, sniffing a tiny crocus? The fall crocuses have a slightly sweet smell and will be different than the spring versions. Remember to try that next March.

      I had a fantastic sense of smell when I was young. The world almost spoke to me in odors as much as hearing and touch. I remember walking down a crowded hallway in 8^th grade and knowing a lot of students and teachers by their “fragrance” as they passed. The lack of air conditioning back then made this easier. Nowadays, I guess you could know people by the smell of their brand of antiperspirant. Unfortunately, I had no real use for such a super-power (no one stuck an article of clothing against my nose, asking me to go running through the woods looking for a lost child) and that ability has now declined to the point where no one will make a comic book about my amazing gift. What it has done is to give me a different perspective on smells in the garden. Things that people like are usually overpowering and unpleasant, such as Paperwhites, Lilies and deciduous azaleas. The reverse is also true: evergreen azaleas are thought of as having no scent, but when I put my nose up to a flower (being careful not to get stung!) there is an odor and it is different than that of the neighboring variety. And the vegetation has an odor, even before a leaf is crushed and then sniffed. Our yards are full of scents.

      As noted with my ability to smell, our senses change over time. Some of us have worked so much with our hands that they are calloused and more insensitive to what we touch than the hands of others. Some of us can hear the high-pitched hiss of the wind in the trees or the top notes of some warblers. Others (often older, or into heavy metal) have lost the upper registers.

      The point of all the above? When we walk side-by-side into a garden, we aren't seeing, tasting hearing, touching or smelling the same world. I wonder what your world is like?

Curves

Curves

      Who could be upset by a flower bed with a straight edge?

      A long bed that was in the back yard when I bought my house had a straight edge, bordered in vertically placed granite stepping stones.

      When I needed more space for a few small plants I built a square extension on it, about 2' x 2'. This was greeted with horror by my wife who pointed out that the edges of beds had to be curves. OK, I bent to some more digging, as directed. And beds I built later were curved to avoid further unpleasantness.

      Formal gardens from the 18^th and 19^th centuries in the US and Britain seem to have an abundance of Euclidean Geometry: lots of straight lines and circles. Views through rectangular gates with semi-circular tops. Round fountains surrounded by round flower beds, surrounded by grass, all bordered by rectangular beds.

      The antithesis of formality is “naturalism”. A naturalistic garden climbs upward with almost no human geometry visible and it looks like nature “could” have made the garden that way, if it felt like making it attractive to humans. Of course, an attractive naturalistic garden takes as much planning as a formal one, but the design seems casual and almost accidental. I think of a formal garden with its boxwoods sheared into gumball shapes, a naturalistic garden almost unpruned but planted in interesting combinations and a professional landscaper's garden with lots of hardscape patios and paths.

      So, starting in 1995 with an almost-clean slate, what did I decide to do? I wanted the high-shade of the large oaks to dictate the plantings, so azaleas and hostas were the first thoughts (and 20 years later they still are a backbone). But which of the two themes should I follow (assuming that I would want the front, side and back yards to all follow the same plan)? I had enjoyed birding for many years, hiking through the wilds and my choice was easy.

     Strangely, there were still some ambiguities. I liked bordering some of the beds with granite stones. I think that they help maintain the moisture during the hot droughts which are our annual punishment. And granite looks natural. Except when it doesn't. The smooth curve of a “natural” looking bed, bordered smoothly with smooth granite stepping stones of similar size starts to look a little … umm … smooth. Formal?

      Part of the problem is that I, and maybe others, don't really have a plan when we start out. At the beginning we haven't read much or seen many gardens so the idea of a plan hasn't occurred. If I had a plan then it was to have a lot of large bushes completely covered in flowers (OK, over 20 years later that's STILL my plan, but maybe with some nuances …).

      After a couple of years of gardening we have read some articles (maybe books), visited gardener's gardens (as opposed to neighbor's gardens) and thought about what was possible with our combination of size, shade, soil and the view beyond. (View? Whenever I take a picture of my backyard I have to aim the camera so it doesn't encompass the toxic waste dump on one side or the oil refinery on the other.)

      So, after seeing some gardens that make you want to create a copy, there's a powerful urge to create a formal or naturalistic garden. Would you consider a hybrid? How about formal around the house and driveway and naturalistic around the edges. Could you have edges that don't look messy  when both sections are viewed? Would that be a grating juxtaposition or nice contrast?

      What would make you want to drift away from the house and check out the farther reaches of the yard? Some bright colors or unusual shapes can be inviting. And some companion plants for variety? Hostas, heucheras, hellebores, hydrangeas? And maybe some plants that DON'T begin with an 'H'? All just around the curve in the path …

Landscaping

Landscaping

      If you're reading this then you've done at least a little landscaping.

      You've decided to put that plant there and the other one over there. Someone else might not do it that way. Your garden isn't exactly your image of the garden of your dreams, but it's a step in that direction and next year it will look even better than this year.

      If you have the money, would you consider calling in a professional landscaper and have them do it all for you? If the point of a yard is to look good for parties and avoid HOA complaints then that's a good solution.

      Do you enjoy playing the piano? You could hire the local piano teacher to come play for you, instead. Do you like knitting? You could pay the knitting shop owner to knit for you and then you wouldn't have to. But that misses the point.

      If ever there was a perfect example of the old line about how happiness is the journey and not the destination then gardening is it. I once read that a garden is never finished. There are new azaleas to enjoy from our local hybridizers, ferns to move that got too big for their surroundings, great experiments to dig out that failed to perform as the catalogs advertised and new collections of colors to enlarge the pallet. It's never finished (unlike the landscaper who, at some predetermined point, IS finished).

      We're gardening because we WANT to garden. The process of enjoying gardening is the goal and even tiny gardens with limited budgets provide that.

      We come home from work after dark and don't have the time or energy to get out into the yard (though I do have a friend who digs holes and mixes dirt under spotlights). The items on our checklist become more numerous. That's why our gardens don't resemble the National Arboretum. And Barbara Bullock of the NA would quickly tell you that they, too, could use more help, funding and time.

      What does MY yard look like? Wave your arms to brush away the cloud of mosquitoes and take a look: over there are all the plants in pots yet to be crowded into a bed (some with roots escaping through the drain holes and becoming feral). Just behind that is a huge mulch pile which, after 5 years, will become the world's best compost. Empty pots are lying over by the fence because the shed needs space for tools.

      I once heard the line “If you're not killing plants then you're not trying!” We don't know if the new plant we just bought will survive and thrive in the micro-climate by the fence, and if not then maybe it would if we put it over in the shade by that tree. It's fun to try and REALLY fun when it succeeds!

      Beyond the idea of dropping a nice plant in the ground, there's the question of beds. Should they have straight sides or curves? Should there be a lot of small ones or a few large ones? A mixture? Raised or on the level with the surface? Bordered by stones, railroad ties or just overflowing with mulch? Or even a rock garden with slivers of soil between the stones of the pile, the dirt almost apologetic for being there?

      And what's in the beds? A variety of genus' or all one species? Plants from the same hybridizer or multiple people? The same flower color? The same bloom time? The same funny names (the “Striptease” series if you're into hosta, the “Confederate” series if deciduous azaleas are your thing)?

My beds have a variety of themes: azaleas in a bed all bloom at the same time, herbaceous beds are a mixture of textures, heights and colors. Bulb beds are of a type: crocus, daffodil or daylily, which also all bloom at the same time. I give myself good reasons for my choices but I'm not sure that those reasons would survive intense scrutiny.

      People like to construct things. Some will build boats or planes in their basements, knowing that the finished product will be trapped forever. It's fun building them, anyway. Some knit large projects, some draw complex pictures, some write garden essays (the least defensible craft...).

      Building a garden is so satisfying that language is inadequate to describe the feeling. And yet we're trapped communicating in that poor medium. Maybe someday when we all have computer jacks in our heads the feeling WILL be transferable. Until then, we'll just have to do it to feel it.

Pay a landscaper to do it for me? I'll be one with the compost pile before I let that happen!

You're One or the Other

You're One or the Other

      An old computer joke goes: “There are 10 kinds of people. Those who understand binary arithmetic and those who don't.” I'm sure that was told to me by an old computer.

      Just so we are all starting from the same point: “10” is the way you would write the number “2” if you were working in the binary number system used by computers. Looked at that way, the first sentence makes sense.

      We look at things in binary: black and white, us and them, good and bad, good and evil (which is more theological than “good and bad”), butter or Parkay (for those of us of a certain age).

      Not one to rock the boat (you're in the boat or out) I'll bring this around to gardening by noting that gardeners seem to be collectors or landscapers.

      You're a collector if you have to have every fern that is sold, or every azalea hybridized by Ben Morrison. Hunting down the missing ones is part of the sport. Over time, only the rarest are still to be found. They are put in the ground where there is a bare spot next to some plant (the new plant, not the collector). Do you care if the neighboring colors go well together? Do they bloom at the same time? Does one grow rapidly and completely shade the other? Doesn't matter. You almost have them all!

You're NOT a landscaper if you hire one, producing a hardscaped deck area, paths and a Koi pool. The remaining ground will be filled with stuff bought in bulk from a garden center giving a good discount. When the landscaper has left it's all finished. The grounds look OK to you. Your party guests give the required compliments.

      “... it's all finished”?? For a non-gardener it is. For a landscaper a garden is NEVER done. That's another dichotomy to add to the ones above. A landscaping gardener is always moving a plant that matures and then doesn't look as good as hoped. It is replaced by one that was a gift from a fellow gardener. Or a new introduction from a nearby garden center. Or purchased online. And there are always plants in pots: rookies waiting to replace veterans.

      I will have to say that I am on the side of the angels: a landscaper. Collectors are silly creatures who fill gardens with plants named after Disney characters, fill rooms with beer bottles or sports teams memorabilia ... and don't get me started on National Geographics!

      You're a landscaper if you put this plant over there because it looks better and fits into the whole scheme of that section.

      A small plot, even the postage stamp-sized area behind a townhouse, could have a hundred glazed pots in complementary colors with attractive shelving along the fences, all filled with a variety of plants that can be moved around to look good together.

      In contrast, a large area could have a background of tall bushes and small trees with successively smaller plants cascading toward you. A path probably starts there. You might see some small but attractive hosta and heucheras by the path, their leaf textures rewarding you for wandering by. The trail leads to hidden gardens behind the tall plants. Yes, you DO wish you were there!

     

    Collectors are crazy! Why can't everyone be like landscapers? Are you in or out?

                                                                                                                  

Red

Red

      The azaleas were overwhelmingly pastel.
 

      When I finally decided, two decades ago, to see if I could keep the plants in my yard from dying I also wanted the palette to be juiced up. True reds would save the day.

      I already had the azalea 'Mother's Day' and it looked fine, so I bought a number of others of that variety. However, over the years they grew slowly and looked a little sparse so they wouldn't do.

      Asking an experienced grower about true reds, the recommendation of 'Hot Shot' was offered and I bought some of those. But they were an orangy-red and not what I was looking for. I suspect we all see colors slightly differently. Maybe 'Hot Shot' DOES look pure red to some people! 'Wolfpack Red' also had that orangy-red look to it, though the effect depended on the quality of the light and the effect seemed to vary from year to year. The color of most azaleas change slightly in that way. The color expert Don Voss noted that such small changes were still an unsolved problem.

      'Red Ruffles'? It grew well, had a nice large flower and was a fine addition to the garden … but it seemed to have a trace of purple in it.

      'Midnight Flare' stood out. Looked good, but a little late flowering (and getting disfigured by the fungus 'Petal Blight'). And it was a very dark red. As was 'Karafune'.

      'Hershey Red'? The color was fine, though the flower and plant were small. Got to keep looking.

      'Sunglow'? 'Johanna'? I couldn't put my finger on it, but they seemed ordinary in some inexpressible way. Some rejects from hybridizer Joe Klimavicz were also OK but still had an “ordinary” look. I guess that's why they were rejects!

      Finally I found 'Coronado', a James Harris hybrid from Georgia. It was a perfect red, the flowers were good sized and the plant grew well. Well, THAT was taken care of!

      What else did I like? Dark purples and strong bi-colors grab attention in the landscape, contrasting well with the dark green overtones of the grass, foliage and trees. 'Robin Hill Congo', a vigorous hybrid from Robert Gartrell, had large dark purple flowers that somehow were still showy. Bi-colors? Bob Stewart's 'Ashley Ruth', Pete Vines' 'Dawn Elizabeth' and the Glenn Dale 'Fawn' all seemed happy to grow and show off.

      Returning to the show-stopper: what is it that makes red such a great garden color?

      Could it be reds and oranges grab our attention like no other? Fire trucks and ambulances are red. Traffic cones are orangy-red.

      Could it be the contrast with the greenery and blue skies? Contrast always grabs our attention, as painters and photographers will attest.

     Could it be that our blood is red and our faces flush when we get excited? Umm ... no.

     The final answer as to why the red flowers look so great in my yard is (wait for the drumroll…) because I like them!

Score: Emotion 1, Philosophy 0

Colors

Colors

      I'm not a fan of the monochrome of winter.

      The winter is brown, black, gray and white. North of about latitude 30°: months in a row. Day after short, dark day. Wind. Damp cold. Desert dry house.

      Rogers Hornsby, the Hall of Fame baseball player, said: “People ask me what I do in winter when there's no baseball. I'll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring.”

      OK, I'm not quite that bad. I wander out, poke a few holes in the ground, mix a little dirt, pull dead leaves off the bushes and generally putter around, but it's not the same as the rest of the year.

      Winter colors? Holiday lights are fine in December evenings, but if they made up for the colors of our gardens we'd simply put up strings of them and declare our labors at an end.

      Colorless can work: there is an artistic genre which specializes in black and white photography, emphasizing the form of objects without the distraction of color. Nice in small doses.

      From late winter through early spring the shoots of bulbs expand and provide a daily surprise.        Crocus' are the first to break the gloom with bright oranges, yellows and purples. They're small and it's rare to see a large area covered with them, but they confirm the early spring.

     And then the azaleas. Lords of all they survey, coming at you with a brilliance that transforms the world! After the brown, black, gray and white of winter, our love affair with gardens is renewed. And what are those bright azalea colors that say “Spring!'? Reds, pinks, oranges, lavenders, and purples. It's too much for some people. Adrian Higgins, garden writer for the Post, finds them overwhelming and too much, maybe, for a delicate constitution.

      Whites? A man of my acquaintance prefers whites over any other color. Ah, bleak winter again. Whites are good for separating two colors that might not look good side-by-side, but you don't want too many of them or the show weakens, hearkening back to the cold, dark times.

      After the flower show of spring, plants grow and change shape, giving you a subtly different garden every day. You can see them straining for dominance as you stand surrounded. Summer is a deep green ocean, punctuated with a cicada's buzz.

      More colors pop out in the fall. A few late-flowering plants show that they have something left in the tank and the canopy thins, revealing the puffy clouds and blue skies of the end of the year. Changes every day.

      Everyone has their favorite colors and arrangements. For me the colors of winter are best shown in a supporting role, letting the unmatched blaze of the spectrum celebrate the new garden year.

(c)2016 Barry Sperling

Posterity

Posterity

      Sometime after I moved into my current home a neighbor told me about the people who used to live across the street. They took pride in their home and grounds, both of which were in Better Homes and Gardens Magazine. Time passed, eventually the house became too much for them and they moved away. Were they thinking of what their place would look like in a hundred years? Should I?

      Consider:

      The view across the street when I moved in was of trees and some bushes, decorated with a large variety of cars and trucks, many of them rusted and no longer in working order. The new family had driven over the plantings for the more or less permanent parking of their vehicles. A rusted truck in the front yard is a traditional decoration in some parts of the country. I could make out the bones of the original garden, which I had never seen, and notice some odd, large shrubbery that must have been a centerpiece when the photographers showed up.

      Some later occurrences meshed with the above:

      A) When a next door neighbor died his home was purchased by a family that grew up in a land with few trees. The centuries-old oaks came down despite my protestations about how it would look in our heavily wooded neighborhood and the denuded lot made the street look like it was missing a tooth.

     B) The house on the other side of me is owned by a man who is renting it out but promises he will take down all the trees and build a Mc-mansion. After all, the trees make it harder for the construction workers to build and they might fall on the house! (the trees, I think, not the construction workers)

     C) Attending some planning meetings for the Rt. 1 corridor where I live, a plan was revealed to have the DC Metro line extend into our neighborhood in twenty or thirty years. However, the subway people won't consider it until the population supports such an extension. That meant that the area must be leveled and high-rises constructed to draw in the people.

      How does all of the above fit together? I'm landscaping a garden for myself, my wife and the people I know. The county will not take my half acre for a park the way the Margaret White Estate in Annandale, VA will be preserved. When they pull me out of the house feet-first those who move in next will bulldoze the property for soccer fields (remember – the trees might fall on your house!). The buyers, in turn, will be uprooted when the county uses eminent domain to take the property so that high-rises may be built (Think of the tax base! And the Metro!).

      When I put that azalea over there because it looks good it has to be without a concern for posterity and how it will fit into the garden plan years after I'm gone. It has to look good NOW and for a decade or so hence.

      After that only some pictures on the net will be left. Please visit (both the garden and the photos).

 https://goo.gl/photos/g7XdWc1NXy93wBwJ8

Plural

Plural

 

      After years of research in arcane libraries I have discovered the use of plurals for groups: A flock of birds, a school of fish, a hive of bees, a pod of whales, a clutter of cats, a parliament of owls, a sleuth of bears, a streak of tigers, a silence of mimes, a neverthriving of jugglers. OK, one of those I just made up. So sue me.

      Which brings me around to gardeners. Gardeners, for all the solitary pleasures enjoyed, are often social animals, gathering in groups to hear speakers, trade plant material, visit gardens and snack at a buffet. These are often called “meetings”, “tours”, “conventions” and the like. But there is no term for the actual collection of the gardeners themselves as there would be, say, for a mob of kangaroos (or a mob of mobsters??)

The Northern Virginia Chapter of the Azalea Society of America

      What to call this grouping? Almost everything we grow turns out to be green, so: a Green of Gardeners? Maybe, but the “village green” may already have co-opted that term and even oil companies try to brand themselves as “green” nowadays.

      A Flowering of Gardeners? Pretty appropriate, but vegetable gardeners don't often think of the flowers that their plants produce. And shade gardeners think more often of texture than color.

      A Raceme of Gardeners? Could be, as we pack in a meeting room or a hotel check-in line we do resemble the flowers packed closely on a stem. But the word is a little too obscure and I didn't exactly know how to pronounce it myself until I looked it up while writing this.

      A Waiting of Gardeners? One thing we all do is wait for almost a year to enjoy particular plants for a short time. We wait for the rain. Wait for the sunrise. Wait for the end of winter. Unfortunately, most people who will hear the term (and not read it) will look first to our girth, thinking of the homonym “weighting”.

      A Patience of Gardeners? I would take that as a compliment and be happy with the term. A little quiescent for my taste, especially as I'm simultaneously tearing out weeds, slapping at gnats and clearing the sweat from my eyes.

      What else is common to gardeners? We've probably all stood in our gardens with a coffee cup, thinking about what needs to be transplanted (a cup of gardeners?) We all do laundry after the day is over, we all wear hats, we all use tools (a shovelful of gardeners?) I'm out of ideas, other than A Hopeful of gardeners. You can do better so please make a suggestion. Off now to meet a Host of Hosta gardeners!

                                                                                         

Pumpkin Pie in the Heat of July?

Pumpkin Pie in the Heat of July?

      I liked the flowers at first.

      A vine had appeared with very large blue flowers on a pole in a neighbor's yard. I didn't remember seeing it on my jogs and decided that it must have just been planted. A month later the vine and flowers were still there, exactly as they had appeared the first day. Come fall and then winter, those large flowers on the vine were still shining as gloriously as the day they were made in some Chinese factory.

      Is that homeowner's approach better than planting the vine, waiting for the flowers and then cutting it down when it turns brown in November? I tried to think why and then I remembered how much the tiny crocuses are enjoyed in the brown dirt, snow patches and dead leaves of late winter. It was so long since I had seen any flowers and nothing else was around for competition.

Female Downy Woodpecker, Male Goldfinch at my feeder

      Why do I like the yellow and blue Warblers of spring more than the birds that visit my feeder? The warblers only pass through during a brief window in May whereas the Chickadees, Cardinals and Blue Jays are always here.

The only place to be in early May

      The dominance of azaleas in May, a mass of color in the landscape, is like no other display and I'd rather be in my backyard then than anywhere else. A wall of soft, bright color here. A blaze of garish lights there. And of course they fade, but while our time with them is short, it is special.

      We don't eat pumpkin pie and drink eggnog in July. The few times that we enjoy them are memorable.

      Christmas lights look great in the winter evenings, but a neighbor keeps a small evergreen lit with them all year and it just becomes part of the woodwork.

      The flower colors of spring, the dark green dominance of summer and the leaves of fall are pleasures that haven't been seen in a year and we always look forward to the show. 
 

      I hate winter: cold, windy, icy, dark. But I grudgingly admit that without that contrast the spring wouldn't look, feel and smell as great. So I'll raise a cup of hot chocolate to the collapsing thermometer, wait for the first crocuses and give winter its due.

{{ An extended version of this essay was published on March 20, 2019 }}