Happy Accidents in the Garden

Sometimes it is the unplanned garden combinations that turn me on the most.

 

I planted the Pink Zazzle (a hybrid gomphrena of secretive parentage), but the sweet Alyssum came up all on its own, and from a variety (one of the 'Stream' series) that I thought was sterile. Perfect partners!

This paddle plant (Kalanchoe thyrisiflora) occupies a pot that perfectly matches its coloring. And behind it, 'Red Sails' lettuce picks up the leaf margins. All of these contributors were leftovers and castoffs: the paddle plant, a lanky stem cut from a plant that began to sprout at the base; the pot left over from a bay laurel that outgrew it; and as for the lettuce seedlings, I couldn't bear to throw them out.

 And there are times, many times in fact, when being a messy gardener pays off. Lettuce, Nigella, and bells of Ireland all sprouted from seed tossed (with very little thought about the consequences) on the ground last fall. The sweet Alyssum and 'Golden Jubilee' agastache were intentional, but who knew they would be befriended so sweetly? Bells of Ireland, I have found, must move from place to place in order to thrive. It appears to be autotoxic -- even more so than sunflowers.

Rudbeckia maxima needs sturdy companions, so isn't it lovely that larkspur stepped in to fill the gaps between this trio: the giant coneflower, Agastache foeniculum, and Phlox paniculata 'Robert Poore'.

Here bells of Ireland and larkspur fill in the spaces between phlox and 'Blue Shadow' fothergilla. Dill, though not in this photo, plays a minor but beautiful role. 

I appreciate the aesthetics of these garden happenings because they came about, more or less, on their own. 

I enjoy them without the weight of pride.  

Fall is for Digging

Fall is for digging. It’s for nudging your imagined gardens toward actuality.

Spring may start languorously enough, but it soon quickens its pace and leaves you with half-completed projects as you race to keep up—with planting, and weeding, and pruning, and mowing … and wishing and hoping.

But in fall, everything is dying anyway. It’s easy to put off boring end-of-season tasks, and re-imagine your space. And so you dig. You create a garden, knowing that you don’t have to fill it for at least six months. Such luxury. Such promise!

If you have read my Rules of Gardening, then you know that I believe in shortcuts. I believe in letting nature work for me. I believe in leaving space for things that I don’t know—yet—that I will want. I believe in simple tools, and in preserving my joints. 

I love my Radius Pro Transplanter.

And so, on Sunday, I picked up my Radius Pro Transplanter, and I turned over the sod—which was actually 1/3 clover, 1/3 mock Indian strawberry, and 1/3 grass. And I piled the upended tangle high with mulch, and with straw that had been resting and rotting all summer in preparation for just such a moment as this. On one end of my new garden space I planted a small dogwood tree that a friend had given me two years ago, when it was a mere Audubon whip, and I braced it with a bamboo tripod, which had served as summer support for a crop of rattlesnake pole beans. Later, or sooner, I will wrap it with deer netting.

After using my aged straw, I went out and purchased 3 more bales ... for next year.

My new dogwood will make flowers in the spring and shade in the afternoon. Yes, it will take time, but better to plant young things that you can shape and watch over, than “install” large expensive trees with their roots in a knot. I think of a friend—she may be 85, or she may be 90, or 91 even—who, when asked what type of tree she would like to receive as a tribute to her years of patronage, pronounced (with the aplomb only a self-confident woman in her ninth decade can muster), “I would like a white oak, a small one. I like to watch trees grow.” So we planted the small white oak, on her instructions, in the middle of an open field, where, in her aging mind, it took on the majestic proportions of lone oaks you sometimes see standing out in the middle of fields of grass. “Lone oak” is a dignified name bestowed on farms and campsites, cities and wineries, and even senior housing facilities. The stalwart, elegant image is universal, and it pleases us all.

Landscape gerber daisies

I see my dogwood spreading its roots and its graceful form toward my patio. As for the straw-mulched arm that stretches from the patio to my young champion, I have no immediate plans. Probably I will find some alluring annual flower that I will need to try. I generally do. Last year it was my beautiful landscape gerber daisy; this year, my most gratifyingly dwarf leonotis. And even while the mystery belle of 2014 is proving her merit, I will be tossing more permanent prospects around, trying them out for size in my imagination. 

Dwarf leonotis, a spectacular garden success story.

I have all winter to luxuriate in the possibilities. Nothing, not even an apple pie in October, is more delicious than a rich bed of empty soil in April.  

Love in a Puff

Plant names are often whimsical, their origins obscure. Kiss me over the Garden Gate. Forget me not. Hollyhock. Who came up with these names, and why?

Love in a Puff is a more literal description, or so it seems at first. A wonder of geometry, each bilaterally symmetrical (or nearly so) leaf sports a triplet of three-part leaflets. Each flowering stem produces a pair of tendrils, from which spring three branchlets, each with three tiny buds. The buds burst into petite white blooms, each one becoming a puffy three-sided balloon. Hence the “Puff” in Love in a Puff. The trinities do not end there, for inside of each Puff are three partitions, and clinging to the three-wall joints are three round, black seeds. Inscribed on each seed is a perfect ivory “heart” (known in math circles as a cardioid, albeit slightly modified), hence the Love.

Cardiospermum halicacabum seeds

Love, or at least the cardioid shape, is everywhere in my garden. Redbud leaves and wood sorrel, moonflower and salvia, katsura, violets, hosta all have heart-shaped leaves. Almost always, they unfold gracefully from a center seam, each side the mirror image of the other. Sometimes, they fold up at night. But the hearts that hide in puffs have no center seam, and they expand, rather than unfold. Are they scars, enlarging from the center point of attachment? How they came to be so reliably heart-shaped rather than sensibly circular is a mystery. 

'Forest Pansy" redbud leaf. Note the folded young leaves.

We, like almost all animals and most leaves, are bilaterally symmetrical, at least on the outside. Scientists attribute symmetry in animals to the fact that, if we are to propel ourselves in an efficient fashion, the mirror image model makes the most practical sense. Right foot, left foot, we walk, arms swinging in opposing directions. On the inside, asymmetrical design has taken over some core functions. Intestinal tubes fold and roll, pushing other organs off pattern. The heart itself is neither “heart”-shaped nor is it symmetrical. It’s more like a screw. 

 

Which begs the question: how did we come to associate the modified cardioid—comma facing comma—with love in the first place? It took a few centuries, as it turns out. The long story involves ivy leaves, playing cards, and religious icons. Eventually Hallmark came along and sealed the deal.  (see below for a more complete explanation)

Outside of the animal kingdom exist types of symmetry other than the bilateral that shapes our preferences and our design sensibilities. The rotational symmetry of flowers (and the three-sided Puff), the spirals of nautilus shells and sunflower heads, and the six-sided symmetry of crystals follow rules of their own. Rooted organisms have no need for economical locomotion. Floaters have other options. The mathematics of the multiple spirals of pinecones that run both clockwise and counterclockwise have been figured out, named, and categorized, but that does little to diminish the mysteries. 

We have always taken our cues from nature. Sacred trinities and technologies draw from its wealth. The hexagonal combs of the honeybee inform aeronautic materials. The famous Guggenheim Museum borrows from the nautilus. The bilateral symmetry of skeletal frames infuses the arts, the automobile, the Taj Mahal, the Brooklyn Bridge. 

Seeds still attached, at the heart, to the inner walls of the puff

The perfect Puff—light as air yet strong, geometrically intriguing, poetically beautiful—is as elegant a structure as exists anywhere. Its three-walled pod, the climax of a series of threes, inflates, seemingly magically, when our heads are turned. So it is fitting that it’s name bursts with enigmatic romance. A source of inspiration, to be sure.

Dutchman's Breeches, still in flower!

It is April 23rd. Teeny while flags fly inches above the soil; clumps of dissected leaves cling effortlessly to the steep east-facing slopes of the Delaware River basin. The Dutchman’s Breeches occupy spaces too hazardous even for garlic mustard. They share space with mosses, last year’s fern fronds, and leaves of dogtooth violet. Skinny chestnut oaks and teenage seedlings of callery pears perch on the rocks above, leaning over the road I travel at precarious 10 percent angles. Root tips probe the cracks of the rocks, thickening, and exploring the depths of the crevices, holding the ever-increasing mass of the leaning towers in place. One day an ice storm will load them up with too many pounds of frozen weight for the clamps to hold. Rocks will pull free; towers will tumble. Still the Breeches will return to greet the spring bumblebees, their reason for being. They will widen their area of occupation, they will fly their flags.

Why do I find this harbinger so inspiring?  Maybe it demonstrates that to be tough, we need not be showy. To survive we need not be pugilistic. We just need to find our space and our time, and quietly exert the force within us. We need only discover our niche and fly our perky white flags. When the time is right the buzz will intensify. Pollination will happen.

What I Love About Dahlias

Here it is, almost November. Among the various tawny shades of ochre and russet is a sprightly tone of pinkish red. Though beautiful in any season the perfect petals of the October dahlia seem especially so now, when the rest of the garden is marching steadily toward senescence, that is to say, death and dying. 

 But what I love most about dahlias is not their conspicuous spring-like colors—it is that their centers are almost always alive. 

Literally, alive. 

Oblivious to cold winds and camera lenses, a bumblebee will bed down in the soft golden heart, staking his claim. You may see an occasional slight movement of his hairy legs, and if you could catch sight of his tongue (also hairy), it might also be in motion. But from a casual observer’s point of view he looks content, sleepy, drugged even. There is no hurry at all to get back home; it is not his job to bring back supplies. In fact, he might very well spend the night clinging to the center of a dahlia blossom. Oh, he may be mildly concerned with dabbing a bit of his scent here and there, but that is early morning work. Afternoons and evenings are for hanging out with friends. 

Like a grasshopper with a taste for pink petals. 

The two seem at peace with the fact that their interests are separate and non-conflicting. I’ll take the petals, you take the pollen. If one or the other gets too close for comfort, each simply adjusts his position. 

And carries on.

October bumblebees are so much more laid back than August bumblebees. This has mostly to do with sex. Males are born only after the colony dwindles, late in the season. Most of the busy female workers are dead by this time, and the point of the activities (or lack thereof) is less about the survival of the hive and more about the survival of the species. All the Johnny-come-latelies need to do is eat, and mate. 

A short time after male bumblebees make their appearance the new queens emerge—the progenitors, the rulers of the hives of the future, the heroes of orchard owners everywhere. A queen will fly to where a male has left his scent, and wait. Presumably, she’s an early riser. 

Because by mid-morning, at least in my garden, the men show no interest in doing anything but luxuriating in dahlia pollen.

Sterile Plants: All-season Bloomers

A lot of the plants in my garden this year have something in common: they cannot bear young. 

Lobularia 'Blushing Princess': no seeds but lots of syrphid flies!

One might say it’s a triploid revolution!

But let’s start at the beginning.

The flower exists for one purpose—to attract pollinators. Once its powdery pollen is transported by bee, moth, beetle, or some other vehicle to the ovule of another flower, its function is finished. Seeds form. Eventually, baby plants germinate. So as the summer wears on and flowers turn to seeds, the plant has less and less incentive to make more flowers. Unless, of course, some manipulative gardener beheads the dying blooms. 

But what tedium, what fussiness! 

Cleome 'Seniorita Blanca' in late August

How fortunate for the lover of all-season color that plant breeders have stepped in. What! you say? Breeders “play god” and manipulate plants just so we can enjoy cleome that doesn’t become a spidery tower of swaying seedpods, and sweet alyssum that doesn’t get ugly in August? What’s next—tomatoes that don’t rot?  

Well, maybe … but that’s another story.

Back to the point – how, and why, does a scientist make a flower that will not fulfill its function? 

The answer to how is varied and complicated. Why is a little more straightforward. Take lantana, a beautiful flower that is benign in cold-winter regions like Pennsylvania, but a menace in the south. In fact, it’s one of the top 10 weedy species of the world. And its chromosomes are to blame.

Lantana 'Luscious Berry Blend' makes no seeds.

Many organisms (us, for instance) are diploids, meaning we have two complete sets of chromosomes, one from mom and one from dad. Plants often have multiple sets. Lantana can have two, three, four, five, or even six sets of chromosomes. Those with even numbers of sets are fertile (sometimes very fertile), and those with odd numbers are largely sterile. Combine a plant with two sets (a diploid) with one with four (a tetraploid) and the result is: ta da, a sterile triploid! It will start to form seeds but they will never become blackberry-like and fertile. 

Selling sterile plants will not undo the damage caused by the rude tetraploids let loose in warm climates, but it will at least allow gardeners to plant lantana with a clear conscience. And non-seedmaking plants bloom and bloom. Yes, I am aware that lantana berries are ornamental. This, I suspect, is a rationalization that will be handily tossed when the juicy fruits are absent. 

Hibiscus 'Blue Chiffon': blooming itself silly.

Other sterile or mostly sterile plants in my garden are ‘Lilac Chip’ buddleia, ‘Seniorita Blanca’ cleome, ‘Blushing Princess’ sweet alyssum, ‘Diana’ rose-of Sharon (my ‘Blue Chiffon’ rose-of-Sharon is not a triploid but is blooming itself silly nonetheless). Some of my seed-free plants are triploids, others are the sterile hybrids of two different species. 

Burning bush triploids will be available in four to five years, says breeder Yi Li of the University of Connecticut. And other good versions of bad troublemakers are on the way. Scientists are working on making impotent Norway maples, barberries, privets, and callery pears so that they won’t wreak havoc on the few natural areas that have not yet been compromised. 

From the BIG perspective, creating a cleome or sweet alyssum that blooms all summer seems a monumentally trivial achievement. And the self-serving aspect—no self-sown seedlings means more sales—is not lost on me. Scientists working on safe-to-plant versions of invasive plants are providing gardeners with guilt-free alternatives. A sterile burning bush, however, will do little to save the earth. 

But in the evenings, when I revel in the exponential multiplication of the blooms (that still, by the way, attract scores of pollinators), and enjoy the sweet scents, I am happy that breeders tinker with odd-numbered ploidy.  

Now if they would just start working on squash bugs ….

Syrphid flies on Sweet Alyssum

Where's Waldo?

I’ve been spending a little quality time with ‘Blushing Princess’ and ‘Silver Stream’ recently. Just to see for myself. Does Sweet Alyssum (Lobularia maritima) really attract more syrphid flies than other flowers, as researchers have written?

You’ve seen them, those miniature yellow jacket lookalikes that are always hovering about your flowers. Some call them sweat bees, but the fact is, there is an actual bee (family Halictidae) that claims that name. Hoverfly is a more apt nickname for the tiny fly (family Syrphidae). Beating its wings at a furious pace it hangs in the air above favored flowers and, alighting on a blossom, sucks nectar, tail bobbing slowly up and down. The hover fly is not interested in your sweat.

All that hovering about serves the female well when it comes to providing for her unborn offspring. She scouts the landscape for plants that host promising colonies of aphids, and deposits her eggs, one by one, nearby. And this is the good part: a single syrphid fly larva will eat hundreds of aphids.

And yet, as intimate as I am with aphids (we have similar tastes in lettuce) I have never seen a syrphid fly larva. At about 1 cm long they’re certainly visible. And they are undoubtedly populous, judging by the number of adults hovering around. So I have to conclude that I am not terribly observant. This is a good reminder that, no matter how much we might think we know and how observant we think we are, most of the action goes on unseen, under our noses. 

One thing I know is true: the answer is yes. A few syrphid flies visit catmint in passing, and one or two seek out arugula flowers. Coreopsis holds minor appeal and spiraea is fairly popular. But the winner, hands down, is Lobularia maritima ‘Silver Stream.’ 

Go syrphid fly larvae, Go!

Foxglove

Digitalis purpurea. My new love. Finger flower, Fairy bell, Fox glove. The fanciful labels given to this stately beauty evoke whimsical images, but she is rather too dignified for silly nicknames. My garden is rich with white and purple spires. A bumblebee vanishes into one spotted hood-shaped bloom and wiggles out, butt first, only to make its joyous way into another.

Foxglove performs brilliantly for those who are sensitive to the cycles of the natural world, and also for those who are oblivious to nature’s ways. The clearing outside my mother’s home in the Adirondacks was lush with hay-scented fern and foxglove every July. Scoffing at the herds of deer that lounged on the thin grasses, the acid soils that limited gardening possibilities, and the 280 inches of annual snowfall, the steadfast pair created a spontaneous scene that any gardener would be proud to replicate. The chemicals in foxglove’s leaves can kill, as deer evidently know. Deadman’s bells, some call the charming hoods. My mother sensibly chose to grow a mini crop of kohlrabi in a planter high upon her deck railing rather than fight the wild world for the sake of a tomato or rose. Meanwhile in her clearing, foxglove faithfully returned year after year in the brief moment that is summer in the north country, unbidden and underappreciated. 

Seldom seen in manicured yards of turf and mulch, foxglove does not take kindly to landscape crews that descend en masse to perform “spring cleanup” in late winter. She also does not tolerate Mr. Neat (who lives in every neighborhood). Clipping the stalks of finished flowers before they have the opportunity to fulfill their function is a sure way to banish the beautiful foxglove. But the gardener—or slacker—who allows the tiny seeds to scatter themselves at will on bare ground, and then waits for the seedlings to show themselves before putting down a reasonable layer of mulch (or not) will be rewarded handsomely the following year as rhythmic spires elevate the merely pleasant to the dazzling. A small indulgence for such a big return.

She is so easy to love.

Carefree Delight, Indeed

“The rose is a rose, And was always a rose …” 

So wrote Robert Frost. 

But roses have many poses. One may take top billing. 

Magic Meidiland

Another may be part of a chorus line, made all the more stunning by the flash and glitz of a glory repeated many times over. 

I particularly like a rose that can adapt to being a part of an ensemble, a bit player in a big show, playing off of the strengths of the other members. The doggedly gifted might achieve superstardom. But the rest of us must feel our way through the tangle to reach the spot in the sunlight that allows us to spread our own distinctive brand of joy for a moment in June. 

And again, perhaps, in August. 

 

Carefree Delight and cutleaf maple

 

“… You, of course, are a rose But were always a rose.”

Dracunculus vulgaris, or, Antics of a Dragon

The Dragon, May 25

You smell it before you see it. “Sex and Death” is what my friend April has taken to calling the short-lived Dragon Arum (Dracunculus vulgaris). Its cadaverous odor saturates the air within a 50-yard radius of the potent-looking ruffled spathe, which suggests that the flies that find it so exciting don’t have to have a particularly keen sense of smell to find it. Unsheathed and coated with a glistening lubricant the fetid purple spike must compete with roadkill and refuse cans for the attentions of its pollinators. And although they flock to the party, the flies, according to a pair of Australian researchers, are extraneous to the action. It’s the clumsy carrion beetle that gets the job done. Losing its grip on the enticing decoy (rotten meat being a slime of a different nature) and tumbling into the bulbous chamber below, the hapless beetle desperately and futilely climbs up and slips back down. Meanwhile the Dragon, in regal control of the situation, literally heats up. Soon the hostage finds himself, conveniently for the plant’s purposes, covered with pollen. Only then does the spike provide the beetle with the necessary traction to scramble out.

Sex and Death might have led to life, but for the lack of a second Dragon in the gardens at Morven. The pollen must move from one flower to another in order for fruit, and its ant-dispersed seeds, to form. The beetle willingly (we presume) moves on to visit another captivating spathe…suggesting that carrion beetles do not have a particularly keen sense of memory. Or maybe we just don’t understand the bliss that comes from rolling around in a putrid well. Regardless it is quite clear who is orchestrating the action. Like a gambling addict, the beetle proffers his services for the benefit of a body larger than he. Like a casino, the Dragon uses and then ejects the unsatisfied and (we presume) depleted beetle.

The Dragon, Spent, June 1

 But cheers to the beetle that continues to embrace the perfume of the dead, for naïveté serves body and mind better than suspicion. More often than not. 

Pruning Roses

Although I prune roses every year, and have for decades, I really don’t know what I’m doing. Yes, I know about outward facing buds, crossing branches, and twiggy growth, but when confronted with an actual rose, those directives feel very abstract. And somewhat useless. So before I make the first cut I think about two things. First, there was the year I didn’t get to the shrub roses at the Glasbern Inn soon enough to suit the owner. He took a chain saw and sheared them at a height of about 18 inches, and you guessed it—they bloomed beautifully that year. The second example came in an article I read a year or two ago, written by a British rose grower (who must have been an excellent gardener because he lived in England). In the article were photos of pruned and unpruned roses side by side. There was absolutely no difference between the two!

Armed with the knowledge that pruning roses is not a matter of life or death I put on my rose-colored glasses and make up my own rules. My rule with the vigorous ‘New Dawn’ rose wired to this historic brick wall is, if a lateral branch sticks out too far I cut it back. Horizontals I don’t touch unless they’re sprawling in the wrong direction. As for the dozens of shrub roses at the Glasbern, no one rule applies. Some are in locations that have become shaded over time, so I allow them to reach (through weeping hemlocks or up against stone walls) for the sun. To do otherwise would be cruel. I groom most of my shrub roses (‘Carefree Delight’, a couple of Easy Elegance roses, and a mix of Meidilands) fairly lightly, pruning off last year’s hips and cutting long canes back to two to three feet. I leave the cascading roses that drape down from a height of 15-20 feet toward the Glasbern parking lot below completely alone. For one thing, I would need a crane (and some really tough gloves) to prune them safely, and for another, I want them to eventually coat the entire bank with luxurious pink blooms. At that point I may rethink my non-strategy.

Without fail, all of the roses reward my fumbling attempts at grooming them with an exuberant show. This, by the way, was the perfect week to prune roses.

Or not.

Spring Garden

I only went out to cut some forsythia.

But the sweet little white crocuses that opened up this morning were such a welcome sight that I had to photograph them. And then there I was on my knees worshipping the spinach as it peeped out from under its bed of straw and admiring the strappy foliage of Tulipa clusiana that was curling around under the hydrangea … which called to me as I passed and insisted that I cut off the scruffy remains of last year’s flowers. 

Garlic greens were poking through the soil (yes!) and Jackmanii clematis was tangled all through my sweet Carol Mackie, a situation I could not just pass by without correcting. Gray-white Nepeta foliage demanded to be set free of last year’s brittle remains, and that old spiraea stump yielded (finally) to my not-so-gentle pushing and broke off at its rotten base. It takes, you might or might not be interested to know, three years for a decades-old Spiraea x vanhouttei to mostly disappear after it’s cut off at ground level. Viburnum setigerum berries are still hanging juicily aside pregnant leaf buds, fermenting. Maybe the birds that have eschewed them all winter will now begin to find them fascinating.

Piles of snow still rest in shady corners, and the soil is too cold to sprout much besides bittercress, onion grass, and last year’s larkspur seedlings. It is not spring yet.

But the sun is shining and the view, though short in stature, is tall in promise.

The itch tickles. 

Three Plants I Can't Live! Without, Part 3

I am a fool for sweetbox (Sarcococca hookeriana var. humilis). Here it is next to native pachysandra (Pachysandra procumbens) all shiny and perky. It looks good from spring through spring, spreads at a moderate pace, grows in dry shade ... what more can you ask of a plant? Bloom is fragrant, they say. I have put my nose in the early spring flowers and smelled a light scent. Maybe it's a variable trait. With or without fragrance it's a winner.

The viridiflora tulip is in a class by itself. What distinguishes it is  the green streaking that accentuates the pink petals. The color changes as the flowers mature, and the blooms last and last in the garden unlike other tulips. They have persisted in my garden for three years now, also unlike most tulips.

New this year, Lobularia 'Snow Princess' is an annual worth looking for. This photo was taken in November! What's different about this cultivar of sweet alyssum is that it is sterile, so puts all of its energy into producing blooms all summer long and into the fall. Okay, so it won't self-sow into the cracks of your walk like the standard sweet alyssum. There's no rule that you can't get some of each. Just don't put them side-by-side. 'Snow Princess' will put the the standard variety to shame.

Three Plants I Can't Live! Without, Part 2

Rose ‘Little Mischief’

This brilliantly colored rose has become my favorite garden rose. It’s in Bailey’s Easy Elegance series. Why do I like it better than you know who? For one thing it blooms and blooms without a mid-summer siesta.  For another, it stays nicely compact, under 3 feet. My son Dan planted ‘Little Mischief’ at the Glasbern Inn about three years ago, where it dances with Nepeta ‘Six Hills Giant’ all summer long. Every time I walk past it stops me in my tracks.

Nicotiana sylvestris

Tall, stately, attention-demanding, and night fragrant are four attributes that come to mind. Woodland tobacco also self-sows, just enough, not too much. This is the time of year I take seedheads from the 5-ft tall plants and toss them around the garden in spots where I envision it growing next year.

Gomphrena ‘Fireworks’

I’ve always liked the idea of gomphrena—bouncy little flower balls rising up through beds of zinnias or dahlias. The reality just never quite came through. Until now. ‘Fireworks’ is a new variety, offered by Burpee, and it does deliver! Tall, about 3 1/2 ft, but not floppy. Colorful but not garish. It's already on my seed list for next year.

Three Plants I Can't Live! Without

You may think that the title of this post is an exaggerated statement. I considered that. Of course if these three plants vanished from the world I may still be alive (unless the same catastrophe claimed me too, a distinct possibility). But being alive isn’t the same as living! (with the exclamation point). There is one point I'm not being exactly truthful about—there are more than 3. Maybe 30 … or 300. I will name 3 at a time, taking a very undisciplined approach and not favoring any particular type of plant—I’ll do it on Mondays, just in case anyone’s interested—until I run out of inspiration. Or die. Please feel free to offer suggestions ... or link me up to your own post!

Dragon Wings Begonia

My relationship with red has not been an easy one. But we’ve reconciled our incompatibilities. I use red in brief brilliant shots to fire up the garden scene. Dragon Wings is shiny, flashy, tough-as-nails, and always makes a healthy splash. I must have this red. I’m now working on improving my relations with pink.

'Robert Poore' Phlox paniculata

If you’ve fallen for the fairytale about David being the only mildew-resistant summer phlox, you really need to meet Robert. Tall, handsome, clean … and he’s more colorful than David. Trust me, he’ll keep you interested.

mid-height Zinnia hybrids

Currently in my favor is sweet yellow ‘Highlight’ hybrid. Here it is in late August after a summer of constant rain not splaying or showing even a hint of powdery mildew! But ‘Profusion Orange’, ‘Zahara Scarlet’, and ‘Zahara Rose’ are about on a par. They all contain some Zinnia angustifolia (a fine small garden plant in its own right) parentage and they’re all just so nice in mixed company.

Dwarf Evergreens--for Now and Forever

I have a thing for dwarf evergreens.

Spruce at the Glasbern Inn, about 20 years old

This was not always the case. In my reckless youth I loved bad boys—fire-engine red monarda that will paint an entire field in three years, and archangel lamium, the devil dressed in yellow. I planted galloping grasses, furry masses of snow-in-summer (Cerastium) and expanding borders of flash-in-the-pan forsythia. Lysimachias and gooseneck loosestrifes, hederas and houttuynias, I loved them all. But over time, as my hot desire for sparkle and speed subsided, I erased them, one by one, from my little black book. I still appreciate a glossy calendar photo that shows their best assets under a summer sunset, but I don’t need to possess them in my beds.

Dwarf Hemlock, age 5

Slowly, my roving eye turned to something that could sustain me for the long haul. I began to appreciate the sweet rounded shape of a ‘Mops’ mugo pine, and the alluring new needles of a hemlock that can be coated with oil (for woolly adelgid—the insect version of snow-in-summer) with ease.

'Goshiki' Osmanthus, age 5

I place them in the garden, these little cuties, and fill in the gaps with the latest new zinnia or gomphrena or argyranthemum. Every spring I savor the wee bits of fresh new growth, and dream ahead to a time when they’ll have put on a couple of new feet of gorgeous girth.

Falsecypress at the Glasbern, age 20

A few decades hence I will hobble out to the garden on my new-fangled knees and pet my soft beauties, which will have grown together amiably, neighbors stroking each other’s needle-y boughs. The openings between will have slimmed to nothing, leaving no more room for flashy flowers that bloom and die. But that’s okay. In our older years we will have transcended that sort of thing, my ‘Mops’ and I, and left the wildness of youth behind in photos, and in the memories of friends and lovers. Sweet serenity will be ours.

This is my 'Mops' Mugo Pine, and he's with LaRita (Argyranthemum)

Well, except for the occasional visits from uninvited guests, Neodiprion sertifer and Chionaspis pinifolia.