I walked out into the garden for a much needed ramble yesterday, only to be confronted by the fact that I was...cold. The temperature was probably about 40 degrees, several degrees colder than it had been two days before when I planted the last of the narcissus bulbs. It was cold then, but I persevered at the time, knowing it was my last chance to dance with these late arrivals (As usual, couldn't resist a sale). But yesterday, I couldn't ignore the fact that my nasal passages hurt, my fingers and toes were getting numb despite the gloves and socks and pockets and boots, my eyes were tearing and a creeping cold was descending on my shoulders. Rats! I am no longer as hardy as my hosta and hydrangeas!
I had the nerve to scoff at a fellow gardener who admitted last winter that they couldn't go outside when the weather got to a certain chill...now here I am with the same horrible realization...
I contemplate that perhaps I've just gotten too soft. I'm not out there every day for several hours weeding, raking, digging, planting, turning compost. I've simply lost my thick skin. Nope...the temperature is definitely the key factor. This body simply will stall at 40 degrees. I read last year's journal, and sure enough, at 40 degrees, I was cursing the turn of weather that forced me to leave off my uncompleted chores. Surely, in my youth (extended by sheer stubbornness well into upper middle age, depending on how you measure these things) I was more resilient...my body could warm up faster, go farther, and recharge on a bottle of water or an apple. Not now, old girl. You need a warm rubdown, a long soak in a sudsy tub, and an hour or two with joint pain tea.
Will I accept this turn of events? Definitely not. What can I do about it? Continue to challenge the systemic indicators...turn up the dials...batten down the hatches...find new ways to "harden off" (not the veins!). The first challenge is to keep active and strong without the warmer weather environment.
Replacing all that weeding, raking and digging with other forms of exercise is incredibly difficult for me it turns out. The health club with the beautiful and the buff is out of the question. My saggy baggy old Nike fleece sweatpants disguising my cellulite and spider veins are inappropriate attire, for one. I find the exercise bike in the garage tearfully boring (I miss the birdsong, the breeze in the trees, the walks from one side of the garden to the other to retrieve a tool...the sheer sense of accomplishment when the Long Bed is nicely mulched.). Walking around the neighborhood in the rain all swathed in scarves and earmuffs and gloves and swishy fleece-lined pants like the abominable snowman holds no charm either. (Maybe in February when the bulbs in my neighbor's gardens start to emerge). What to do?
Friday, December 14, 2012
Thursday, November 8, 2012
The Timeless Garden
There was a time in my life when fashion mattered. As a buyer for a big department store chain, I traveled all over the world to find fashion trends and interpret them for a public voracious for what was "new". I was part of a team of "product development specialists" who laid out hundreds of samples on the surfaces of every table, chair and carpet in hotel rooms in Tokyo, Seoul and Hong Kong to glean the right bells and whistles (line, texture, form, color) that would attract our collective clients and patrons to plunk down millions and millions of dollars to possess them. We went to the Paris shows, the Milan shows, and the street scene in Harijuku to fill ourselves with ideas that we could sell for $99.99 in the after Christmas sale.
I didn't know then what I know now: everything we called the creative process, was an ongoing need to understand the natural world, somehow, in our strange world of artifice.
Perhaps a large margin of what any artist does is labor to connect one's self to the world in which we exist. I have always been clear that all art is autobiographical...what else can it be? Perhaps this is all any human being yearns for...to reconnect to nature. It is easy here to understand the principle of biophilia as E.O.Wilson presents it.
This is the essence of what gardening is for me. Connecting my "self", all that I am, back to the earth and Her gifts. That aforementioned quartet of "line, texture, form and color" are for me guideposts on this journey. Include smell and taste, and these simple sensory markers are in place. These concepts link me tangibly to Her.
Scroll at light speed through the ages of man and consider humanity's efforts to reconnect with nature through the artificial environments he creates and calls gardens. Thumb through beautiful picture books filled with artful paintings and photographs of our idealized concepts of nature. Listen to the scholars expound on the first gardens: the interpreting of nature by her creatures. In our contemporary world, we can grab how-to books to recreate Persian gardens, Roman gardens, Italian gardens, English gardens, French gardens, Chinese gardens, Japanese gardens, Pacific Northwest gardens, Southwest gardens, woodland, desert and seaside gardens, and any other permutation man has devised. And yet, what garden can evoke nature so utterly than observing nature herself? Our audacity comes from our naiveté. We think we are the center of the universe. That most often unconscious position is both our solace and our demise. We survive by being the "fittest" as Darwin would tell us, yet because we underestimate the awesome powers of our natural world, we sometimes stand in Her path at extremely inopportune times. We tend to call them "devastating natural disasters"... or just "zonal denial"...
But enough of the philosophy for now, and back to the garden.
I'm creeping towards a personal goal here I'll call the Timeless Garden. As a "product development specialist", it was my job to come up with the newest fashion trend. Those trends, however, had to connect in some way to what was known...tangible clues to the familiar. As a gardener, it is my quest to develop a garden that acknowledges the fashions and trends of our race's efforts to translate Nature (often quite elegantly), and embrace them in such a way that I (this is a personal thing, after all) am transported to my own niche in this cosmos...suspended in a place that embraces as much as my spirit can contain.
I didn't know then what I know now: everything we called the creative process, was an ongoing need to understand the natural world, somehow, in our strange world of artifice.
Perhaps a large margin of what any artist does is labor to connect one's self to the world in which we exist. I have always been clear that all art is autobiographical...what else can it be? Perhaps this is all any human being yearns for...to reconnect to nature. It is easy here to understand the principle of biophilia as E.O.Wilson presents it.
This is the essence of what gardening is for me. Connecting my "self", all that I am, back to the earth and Her gifts. That aforementioned quartet of "line, texture, form and color" are for me guideposts on this journey. Include smell and taste, and these simple sensory markers are in place. These concepts link me tangibly to Her.
Scroll at light speed through the ages of man and consider humanity's efforts to reconnect with nature through the artificial environments he creates and calls gardens. Thumb through beautiful picture books filled with artful paintings and photographs of our idealized concepts of nature. Listen to the scholars expound on the first gardens: the interpreting of nature by her creatures. In our contemporary world, we can grab how-to books to recreate Persian gardens, Roman gardens, Italian gardens, English gardens, French gardens, Chinese gardens, Japanese gardens, Pacific Northwest gardens, Southwest gardens, woodland, desert and seaside gardens, and any other permutation man has devised. And yet, what garden can evoke nature so utterly than observing nature herself? Our audacity comes from our naiveté. We think we are the center of the universe. That most often unconscious position is both our solace and our demise. We survive by being the "fittest" as Darwin would tell us, yet because we underestimate the awesome powers of our natural world, we sometimes stand in Her path at extremely inopportune times. We tend to call them "devastating natural disasters"... or just "zonal denial"...
But enough of the philosophy for now, and back to the garden.
I'm creeping towards a personal goal here I'll call the Timeless Garden. As a "product development specialist", it was my job to come up with the newest fashion trend. Those trends, however, had to connect in some way to what was known...tangible clues to the familiar. As a gardener, it is my quest to develop a garden that acknowledges the fashions and trends of our race's efforts to translate Nature (often quite elegantly), and embrace them in such a way that I (this is a personal thing, after all) am transported to my own niche in this cosmos...suspended in a place that embraces as much as my spirit can contain.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Gold is the color of the moment
Gold is the color of the moment. It warms me up, thrills me and comforts me. The moment is now. The season is about to get serious. I saw the first hints weeks ago, but this is the moment. Now. As I gaze out my window, the native ash trees in the background are blazing...nearly crackling with heat...the dark firs and spruce modify the scene nicely, like the andirons in the fireplace...stalwart, dark and cool, holding the heat at bay. I do so love my vista. I can no longer see every plant and rock and path, as the garden has grown and morphed and presented so far from my window, but there are still direct views to my favorite things...I suppose I should now call them "my vistas," plural. I do so love my vistas.
Yes.
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| The view from my desk...today's color is gold |
Cornus sericea 'Midwinter Fire' has been blazing for more than four weeks...imagine that. It's lost a few leaves, and the color is beginning to fade, but the stems are beginning to redden in anticipation of the cold...like my nose. I got the courage to coppice it last winter, but feared the result. Well, I need not have feared. It is more lush and more vigorous than before. I will probably thin a few branches in January or February and see what happens next. In its anchor spot on the lower second terrace, I think it will continue to be a lovely introduction to the woodland garden.
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| up close |
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| c.s. 'Midwinter Fire' |
C. alternifolia, slightly above it on the same terrace, is finally beginning to turn golden. The tips of the leaves went to burgundy two weeks ago, and now the leaves are richly colored burgundy, gold and the remnants of green. (Like many other shrubs and trees, the color begins closest to the trunk, and radiates outward, like warmth.) Above all, I treasure this tree for its four season vitality. After the leaves complete their cycle and fall, the bare mahogany smooth branches will reveal themselves, graceful layers of arms to produce a different kind of balance to the terrace in winter months. Spring and summer have their delights too, with delicate upright flower umbels and shiny black berries for the birds.
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| betula nigra 'Heritage' |
Acer palmatum 'Utsu semi' is brilliantly turning from chartreuse to gold right at its feet...nice.
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a.p. 'Utsu semi'
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Acer palmatum 'Sango kaku', in the chinese pot near the deck, is running interference with the disanthus cercidifolium. They are both singing the same song right now...gold. I'll have to move this to a more appropriate spot next season so that they can both bask in the spotlight and sing their arias.
This is the time to finesse the fall show. The "lights" and "action" for the stage sets are in play...each fall, those in containers get to move around or claim their space as best supports their role in the play.
Those already planted validate their positions, or not. Cornus s. 'Aurea', and soon cornus s. 'Hedgerow's Gold' will lose their places , having proven to be too rangy and sunburn prone where planted. Hopefully, their new homes will be more to their liking...damper and shadier. I will still labor to prune them for a graceful shape...they are still awkward teenagers.
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| libertia peregrinans |
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| cercidyphyllum japonica 'Pendula' This shot was taken last year, two weeks from now...I cheated, it's so wonderful! |
The japanese forest grass ( hakonechloa 'Aureola'.) in the same bed has a blondish frosting now, having seeded, and begun its decline, yet it still provides a lovely froth of ...gold...cascading down the terraces like a river to enhance the weeping katsura (cercidiphyllum japonicum 'Pendula') and the viburnum davidii, which always needs a little accessorizing.
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| Acer shirasawanum '6910'
My "Gold Tour" took me to the front garden, where I knew the gingkoes were doing their thing. They never disappoint, so ancient in their lineage, survivors of millennia, symbols of longevity that they are. Mine are petite, slowly gaining character in the Zen garden. Their moment is also now.
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The Zen courtyard...serenely...golden gingko biloba dwarf in the foreground pot, styrax obassia in the background
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Sunday, July 8, 2012
Time is of the Essence
What the heck does that mean anyway? Hurry up? Don't waste your time? How long does it take? Is it efficient? Make up your mind? I suppose all of these things.
My resume once included in my "interests" form vs. function in all matters. This "interest" is actually something of an obsession to me. If a thing doesn't "do" something, what good is it anyway? This idea doesn't actually exclude much, and is, naturally, extremely subjective. The efficient use of time has become a more and more significant "interest" for me as I "mature".
The dimension that has become more and more relevant to my garden endeavors is time: "how fast does it grow? and what exactly IS it's lifespan? These questions have myriad applications. I find the most important to me in my pending dotage, is "how big/mature/productive will it get while I still care (or can see it, or get to it, or prune it)? After all, "a sense of urgency" attends "time is of the essence". The desire for robust growth to fulfill my dreamy garden imaginings...just exactly how long will it take for the cornus controversa variegata to achieve it's second tier...the pricey plant in the 5 gallon pot, once planted, is hiding amongst the bearded iris...
A delicate path we tread, we gardeners. Fast growth, slow growth, no growth...
When selecting plants for our gardens (not them selecting us...that's a whole 'nother subject), we spend a lot of time chewing our collective lip, reading the tag (if any), researching the comments and recommendations of others, envisioning the "mature" height and spread of the subject at hand, and the other useful but sometimes contrived design rules to consider (how does this plants texture or form or structure or color associate with what's already there, or that will be there each season...ad infinitum). The terse comment often read, "mature height/width, 25X15", doesn't tell you how long it will take to achieve this dimension!
Many of my friends who have smaller gardens than mine, freak out over purchasing a shrub that at maturity may reach 10 feet. But what if that shrub is extremely slow growing, like osmanthus or buxus for example, and won't reach that height for 20 years? These same people will be either dead or 100 years old (at which point they may not be gardening anyway). I say, if you like it, plant it. Enjoy it for your time and let the next gardener (or sadly, developer) prune, limb up or bulldoze as required for their time... This may sound irresponsible if taken unilaterally...there are as many caveats to this attitude as there are situations. But I must rush to say that...time is of the essence.
I just read Nancy Ondra's blog, Hayfield, which I thoroughly enjoy and learn from. Her wonderful photographic skills allow you to glimpse the development of her garden over more than ten years. This is a good span for me to consider. Ten years from now, I will be 77 years old (God willing and the creek don't rise). I hope to still be gardening my entire little 1/2 acre, harvesting apples for my pies, herbs for my gumbo and roast chickens, and enjoying the sweet scent of the magnolias. I may not be able to bend over to smell the pink convallaria, but perhaps if I sit on the bench in the stumpery, I'll catch a waft from the lovely colony intermingling with the hellebores that I can admire from my perch below their beds.
Nancy talked about effective spacing. How I struggle with this...how often I have failed. Over the years, many shrubs and trees began jostling for space a couple of years after I planted them out. My most infamous example was the magnificent multi-trunked ficus nitida retusa, which took me months and many forays all over southern California to research and find, for my first real landscaping job, my own home. My sprawling tract house new construction home in San Fernando Valley had a lovely L-shaped front facade and an elegant brick approach. My careful research led me to the ficus as the perfect centerpiece for the space. We measured carefully to get the angles and sight lines perfect, dug a Rolls-Royce hole, blessed it with the proper amendments, and planted it with great ceremony. It thrived. I was proud. Many years later, marriage long over, house sold, I drove out to the house to see how my landscape had faired. Much to my dismay, my amazing ficus had far exceeded the space allotted it, was encroaching horribly onto the guttering and roof of the house, and clearly looked like Shrek in a port-a-potty...it's days were numbered. How sad I was, shocked, even, but I learned a critical lesson that in my enthusiasm I hadn't been able to absorb from all the books I had read. Know your plant. Consider carefully the adolescent and the adult it will become. Site it appropriately. Note I did not say plant it according to directions, either.
In our eagerness to "see" results of our labors, we tend to plant way too closely our shrubs and trees, conveniently forgetting the directions, or that they are not static unchanging objects, although permanent, yet we plant our perennials, bulbs and annuals way too far apart, following the directions faithfully. I say, modify as needed, to taste, just like any good recipe. Nowadays, thirty years and several gardens after the ficus debacle, I have learned to fill in with expendables and polite support players while exercising patience with the divas, who take time to reach their destiny.
I have only recently begun planting parts of my garden that I cannot see from my windows or the deck. These first three seasons, my focus has been on the areas immediately surrounding the house. As I continue to bring plants home, however (I now know this will never stop...there will always be more plants I have to have...purchased, rescued, graciously accepted pass-a-longs, and tag-a-longs), it dawned on me that it is now impossible to plant everything within sightline of the house. A good deal of juggling goes on when a new kid comes on the block. In addition to the new arrivals brought onto the site, existing players sometimes need a new spot. Shrubs and trees that have lived for years in containers, to be admired up close, are now teenagers, needing to stretch their limbs...these too must find good homes in the larger community. Indeed, time is of the essence for all these, too. If not planted out, they languish and succumb. Know when to thin, prune, limb up and choose compatible partners that won't jostle for the same space.
My rambles to find the perfect home for my new acquisitions take me all the way to the creek and the bog and the campground (and sometimes what I call the DMZ...on the property line where my neighbor won't notice). I've had to embrace the "garden room" and "secret garden" idea as much out of necessity as anything (I'm a "sweeping vista", "broad expanse" kinda gal). This turns out to be really good. I have added the element of anticipation to my garden rambles, and the allotment of time to explore the unseen. A new tall perennial glade has developed in the woodland for all the stuff dug out of the long border to make room for the fruit trees. The japanese iris behind the gunnera can only be seen from the bottom of the creek path. The paris yunnanensis greets you when you turn the corner at the last azalea, in the lower hosta bed, on the last terrace...
I have also discovered a way to "trick" time...to make less seem like more. My meandering through design books found a practical use in my garden for creating proportional distortions to my advantage. In discussing the creation of an allee with a longer perceived length, I realized that by planting my gorgeous metasequoia glypostroboides 'Gold Rush' at the terminus of the bog walk, which descends gently down the slope, I could create an effect of greater height and presence. Now, at 20 feet, and with some judicious trimming of the cornus sericea around it, it looks more like 40 feet, at a much greater distance...and simply glows.
Oh, joy! Time, it turns out, is also relative!
My resume once included in my "interests" form vs. function in all matters. This "interest" is actually something of an obsession to me. If a thing doesn't "do" something, what good is it anyway? This idea doesn't actually exclude much, and is, naturally, extremely subjective. The efficient use of time has become a more and more significant "interest" for me as I "mature".
The dimension that has become more and more relevant to my garden endeavors is time: "how fast does it grow? and what exactly IS it's lifespan? These questions have myriad applications. I find the most important to me in my pending dotage, is "how big/mature/productive will it get while I still care (or can see it, or get to it, or prune it)? After all, "a sense of urgency" attends "time is of the essence". The desire for robust growth to fulfill my dreamy garden imaginings...just exactly how long will it take for the cornus controversa variegata to achieve it's second tier...the pricey plant in the 5 gallon pot, once planted, is hiding amongst the bearded iris...
A delicate path we tread, we gardeners. Fast growth, slow growth, no growth...
 |
| Tier one, cornus controversa variegata, yea. |
When selecting plants for our gardens (not them selecting us...that's a whole 'nother subject), we spend a lot of time chewing our collective lip, reading the tag (if any), researching the comments and recommendations of others, envisioning the "mature" height and spread of the subject at hand, and the other useful but sometimes contrived design rules to consider (how does this plants texture or form or structure or color associate with what's already there, or that will be there each season...ad infinitum). The terse comment often read, "mature height/width, 25X15", doesn't tell you how long it will take to achieve this dimension!
Many of my friends who have smaller gardens than mine, freak out over purchasing a shrub that at maturity may reach 10 feet. But what if that shrub is extremely slow growing, like osmanthus or buxus for example, and won't reach that height for 20 years? These same people will be either dead or 100 years old (at which point they may not be gardening anyway). I say, if you like it, plant it. Enjoy it for your time and let the next gardener (or sadly, developer) prune, limb up or bulldoze as required for their time... This may sound irresponsible if taken unilaterally...there are as many caveats to this attitude as there are situations. But I must rush to say that...time is of the essence.
I just read Nancy Ondra's blog, Hayfield, which I thoroughly enjoy and learn from. Her wonderful photographic skills allow you to glimpse the development of her garden over more than ten years. This is a good span for me to consider. Ten years from now, I will be 77 years old (God willing and the creek don't rise). I hope to still be gardening my entire little 1/2 acre, harvesting apples for my pies, herbs for my gumbo and roast chickens, and enjoying the sweet scent of the magnolias. I may not be able to bend over to smell the pink convallaria, but perhaps if I sit on the bench in the stumpery, I'll catch a waft from the lovely colony intermingling with the hellebores that I can admire from my perch below their beds.
Nancy talked about effective spacing. How I struggle with this...how often I have failed. Over the years, many shrubs and trees began jostling for space a couple of years after I planted them out. My most infamous example was the magnificent multi-trunked ficus nitida retusa, which took me months and many forays all over southern California to research and find, for my first real landscaping job, my own home. My sprawling tract house new construction home in San Fernando Valley had a lovely L-shaped front facade and an elegant brick approach. My careful research led me to the ficus as the perfect centerpiece for the space. We measured carefully to get the angles and sight lines perfect, dug a Rolls-Royce hole, blessed it with the proper amendments, and planted it with great ceremony. It thrived. I was proud. Many years later, marriage long over, house sold, I drove out to the house to see how my landscape had faired. Much to my dismay, my amazing ficus had far exceeded the space allotted it, was encroaching horribly onto the guttering and roof of the house, and clearly looked like Shrek in a port-a-potty...it's days were numbered. How sad I was, shocked, even, but I learned a critical lesson that in my enthusiasm I hadn't been able to absorb from all the books I had read. Know your plant. Consider carefully the adolescent and the adult it will become. Site it appropriately. Note I did not say plant it according to directions, either.
In our eagerness to "see" results of our labors, we tend to plant way too closely our shrubs and trees, conveniently forgetting the directions, or that they are not static unchanging objects, although permanent, yet we plant our perennials, bulbs and annuals way too far apart, following the directions faithfully. I say, modify as needed, to taste, just like any good recipe. Nowadays, thirty years and several gardens after the ficus debacle, I have learned to fill in with expendables and polite support players while exercising patience with the divas, who take time to reach their destiny.
I have only recently begun planting parts of my garden that I cannot see from my windows or the deck. These first three seasons, my focus has been on the areas immediately surrounding the house. As I continue to bring plants home, however (I now know this will never stop...there will always be more plants I have to have...purchased, rescued, graciously accepted pass-a-longs, and tag-a-longs), it dawned on me that it is now impossible to plant everything within sightline of the house. A good deal of juggling goes on when a new kid comes on the block. In addition to the new arrivals brought onto the site, existing players sometimes need a new spot. Shrubs and trees that have lived for years in containers, to be admired up close, are now teenagers, needing to stretch their limbs...these too must find good homes in the larger community. Indeed, time is of the essence for all these, too. If not planted out, they languish and succumb. Know when to thin, prune, limb up and choose compatible partners that won't jostle for the same space.
My rambles to find the perfect home for my new acquisitions take me all the way to the creek and the bog and the campground (and sometimes what I call the DMZ...on the property line where my neighbor won't notice). I've had to embrace the "garden room" and "secret garden" idea as much out of necessity as anything (I'm a "sweeping vista", "broad expanse" kinda gal). This turns out to be really good. I have added the element of anticipation to my garden rambles, and the allotment of time to explore the unseen. A new tall perennial glade has developed in the woodland for all the stuff dug out of the long border to make room for the fruit trees. The japanese iris behind the gunnera can only be seen from the bottom of the creek path. The paris yunnanensis greets you when you turn the corner at the last azalea, in the lower hosta bed, on the last terrace...
I have also discovered a way to "trick" time...to make less seem like more. My meandering through design books found a practical use in my garden for creating proportional distortions to my advantage. In discussing the creation of an allee with a longer perceived length, I realized that by planting my gorgeous metasequoia glypostroboides 'Gold Rush' at the terminus of the bog walk, which descends gently down the slope, I could create an effect of greater height and presence. Now, at 20 feet, and with some judicious trimming of the cornus sericea around it, it looks more like 40 feet, at a much greater distance...and simply glows.
Oh, joy! Time, it turns out, is also relative!
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Stream of Consciousness Gardening
I used to travel on business with some high energy ambitious people. Being a laid back, thoughtful kind of person, I often enjoyed observing and listening to their antics after a few after dinner drinks. One young woman (who maybe the CEO of some major corporation by now) would jump from one subject to the next without taking a breath...and then apologize, belatedly, for her "stream of consciousness" barrage. This was the first time I ever heard the term, nearly 25 years ago now, but the example has been so firmly imprinted on me, I never fail to think of my friend, and how much fun we had together.
Now I have fun relating the concept to my most pleasurable gardening days. Having a sense of humor about the whole matter is also essential...
The elements are all here for stream of consciousness gardening, intended or not.
Of necessity, I change chores as often as possible. My body can no longer endure sustained anything...digging, weeding, pruning, raking...but changing up the activity at intervals helps considerably. My constant search for the right tool facilitates this chore changing ritual admirably.
My half acre garden is on a gentle slope, which I have terraced, and created paths and steps to accommodate carts, wheelbarrows and aging knees. The potting shed is about half way down, but inevitably I need a tool somewhere else: in the bog, all the way down the incline, in the scree garden, all the way up the incline, or in the potager, all the way across the property. I have acquired several of everything (clippers, pruners, cultivating forks, shovels, gloves, etc.), but often while in the quest for the new and improved, so I have many many too many tools that are actually mediocre in performance, that I really should give away or toss. (...run on sentence, or stream of consciousness thought? :). The tool I want (the favorite weeder, the best clippers, the right gloves) is inevitably not in the potting shed, but in some secondary, or tertiary storage area, or worse, stuck in the pot or flowerbed that I was working earlier, or yesterday, or last week (I confess, I am also an "I'm-coming-right-back-to-this, so-I'll-leave-it-here" kinda gardener). The pole pruner hung in the cherry laurel for two weeks before I had the courage to try and trim the cypress (yes, I had to retrieve it from the laurel to even begin). So I march back and forth, up and down constantly...trying to remain focused on my errand or mission, but always drawn to the plants peopling my path, trying to break my concentration (...prune me! smell me! save me! ) That little plant voice begets the next stream of consciousness segue and chore changer...
The next element that makes stream of consciousness gardening really productive for me, is that I can practice my multi-tasking skills, and thereby keep my mind sharp. (...now where was I?) Focus does not mean a one track mind. Focus means being able to remember what you started out to do despite myriad fascinating distractions (Case in point, plant the black colocasia in the bog...but on the way to the shovel, you see that the scotch bonnet pepper seedlings need water!!!). The fascinating distractions themselves have whole worlds of possibilities, too, that you must file appropriately for future reference, or follow at your own pleasure or peril. After all, the prime directive (planting the colocasia) may not seem so prime if you're about to lose your raised-from-seed scotch bonnet peppers because you forgot to water. Now, dear reader, the trick is to file that heretofore primary task for a better moment. Planting bog plants can wait, in their boggy shady haven, for later, whereas you would supremely regret a missed opportunity for homemade hot sauce unattainable without going to Jamaica.
By the way, have you basted the herb roasted chicken in the oven lately?
Another, perhaps most significant impact stream of consciousness gardening has had on my garden is that I have gotten more accomplished in several areas of the garden that would otherwise have remained an undeveloped wilderness of invasives. For me, the advice to tackle circumscribed areas for development in a new garden to have a greater sense of accomplishment fell on deaf ears. At my age, time is of the essence. I want results everywhere, immediately, just in case I become incapacitated sooner rather than later. Those trees I want need to be planted now, and start growing now, if I am to see them bigger than saplings in my lifetime. That paris yunnanensis must multiply immediately so that I can have a colony growing before I become mulch. Therefore, I have managed to claim the entire formerly blackberry- and ivy-ridden property, except about 1000 sq. ft. adjacent to the creek (I call this the Wilderness for the Wild Things). My dreams and visions and stream of consciousness gardening have permitted me in three seasons to cultivate a dry garden, a potager, a shady hosta garden, a stumpery, a stunning long border of perennials and fruit trees, an iris spring, a scree garden for my eremurus, a campground peopled with native plants and fairy houses and this spring, my granddaughter's play garden, filled with whimsy and colorful tasty treats. I visit and work in them all, nearly every day.
My gardens will always be in progress. I will always fret about the italicum pictum and the pigweed getting out of control. I'll try to stay ahead of the slugs and the cabbage moths. I'll try to remember where I left the clippers. I will continue to ramble slowly through my magical gardens several times a day, caught up in the beauty, the birdsong and the industry of the bugs, knowing that I have accomplished much, and content that my "method" works for me.
Now I have fun relating the concept to my most pleasurable gardening days. Having a sense of humor about the whole matter is also essential...
The elements are all here for stream of consciousness gardening, intended or not.
Of necessity, I change chores as often as possible. My body can no longer endure sustained anything...digging, weeding, pruning, raking...but changing up the activity at intervals helps considerably. My constant search for the right tool facilitates this chore changing ritual admirably.
My half acre garden is on a gentle slope, which I have terraced, and created paths and steps to accommodate carts, wheelbarrows and aging knees. The potting shed is about half way down, but inevitably I need a tool somewhere else: in the bog, all the way down the incline, in the scree garden, all the way up the incline, or in the potager, all the way across the property. I have acquired several of everything (clippers, pruners, cultivating forks, shovels, gloves, etc.), but often while in the quest for the new and improved, so I have many many too many tools that are actually mediocre in performance, that I really should give away or toss. (...run on sentence, or stream of consciousness thought? :). The tool I want (the favorite weeder, the best clippers, the right gloves) is inevitably not in the potting shed, but in some secondary, or tertiary storage area, or worse, stuck in the pot or flowerbed that I was working earlier, or yesterday, or last week (I confess, I am also an "I'm-coming-right-back-to-this, so-I'll-leave-it-here" kinda gardener). The pole pruner hung in the cherry laurel for two weeks before I had the courage to try and trim the cypress (yes, I had to retrieve it from the laurel to even begin). So I march back and forth, up and down constantly...trying to remain focused on my errand or mission, but always drawn to the plants peopling my path, trying to break my concentration (...prune me! smell me! save me! ) That little plant voice begets the next stream of consciousness segue and chore changer...
The next element that makes stream of consciousness gardening really productive for me, is that I can practice my multi-tasking skills, and thereby keep my mind sharp. (...now where was I?) Focus does not mean a one track mind. Focus means being able to remember what you started out to do despite myriad fascinating distractions (Case in point, plant the black colocasia in the bog...but on the way to the shovel, you see that the scotch bonnet pepper seedlings need water!!!). The fascinating distractions themselves have whole worlds of possibilities, too, that you must file appropriately for future reference, or follow at your own pleasure or peril. After all, the prime directive (planting the colocasia) may not seem so prime if you're about to lose your raised-from-seed scotch bonnet peppers because you forgot to water. Now, dear reader, the trick is to file that heretofore primary task for a better moment. Planting bog plants can wait, in their boggy shady haven, for later, whereas you would supremely regret a missed opportunity for homemade hot sauce unattainable without going to Jamaica.
By the way, have you basted the herb roasted chicken in the oven lately?
Another, perhaps most significant impact stream of consciousness gardening has had on my garden is that I have gotten more accomplished in several areas of the garden that would otherwise have remained an undeveloped wilderness of invasives. For me, the advice to tackle circumscribed areas for development in a new garden to have a greater sense of accomplishment fell on deaf ears. At my age, time is of the essence. I want results everywhere, immediately, just in case I become incapacitated sooner rather than later. Those trees I want need to be planted now, and start growing now, if I am to see them bigger than saplings in my lifetime. That paris yunnanensis must multiply immediately so that I can have a colony growing before I become mulch. Therefore, I have managed to claim the entire formerly blackberry- and ivy-ridden property, except about 1000 sq. ft. adjacent to the creek (I call this the Wilderness for the Wild Things). My dreams and visions and stream of consciousness gardening have permitted me in three seasons to cultivate a dry garden, a potager, a shady hosta garden, a stumpery, a stunning long border of perennials and fruit trees, an iris spring, a scree garden for my eremurus, a campground peopled with native plants and fairy houses and this spring, my granddaughter's play garden, filled with whimsy and colorful tasty treats. I visit and work in them all, nearly every day.
 |
| The ever expanding Long Bed, bridging the sunny Terrace I and the beginning of the woodland Terrace II. |
My gardens will always be in progress. I will always fret about the italicum pictum and the pigweed getting out of control. I'll try to stay ahead of the slugs and the cabbage moths. I'll try to remember where I left the clippers. I will continue to ramble slowly through my magical gardens several times a day, caught up in the beauty, the birdsong and the industry of the bugs, knowing that I have accomplished much, and content that my "method" works for me.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
A Child's Garden Grows
All us gardeners know that a garden is never "finished". If you want a "finished" garden, you hire a garden designer who makes meticulous lovely drawings, plant lists, and hires a professional crew to "install" the "hardscape" and plant "materials". Us gardeners, as varied as the flora of the world, having many skills (or no skills at all), gaze out onto our territory (balcony, terrace, lawn, or country estate, and everything in between) and "envision" (some say conjure) what was, what is, and what could be. We suffer over vacant spots that need "something" or overgrown wonderfulness that has taken over some other treasure, perhaps planted in haste to beat the first frost, or simply because we miscalculated the "mature" width, or height, or the dwarf turned out to be a standard in disguise. As Jamaica Kincaid says, "What to do?". This is my joy and my pleasure each and every day as I step into Mon Paradis.
I make meticulous lists by season. Copious notes about cultural requirements. A whole sketchbook of possibilities. I have a library of astounding inspiration...from the Cloisters to Villandry, from Lloyd to Brookes to Ouldof. What I just added to the mix is a seven year old granddaughter who asked not too long ago, "Gramma, can I have my OWN garden?" What to do?
First, respond in the affirmative...and pretend that it is a brilliant idea that you'd never thought of. I want her to be totally in control of the idea, so that she is the owner of this project, even though I know that 99% of the time, labor and materials will be provided by Gramma. No worries. This also, is as it should be.
Next, cut a deal to include a plant or two that you haven't figured out where to place yet...in this case, specifically, the asparagus beds (she doesn't even like asparagus right now, so this will be tricky), and the Russian comfrey, guaranteed to run amok, but its oh-so-good for the compost pile.
Near the same time my kiddo asked me for a garden, I found out that her parents were conspiring to relocate to "the bay area" to enroll her in a fabulous school which will educate our little brilliant child superbly. There is nothing one can do under such logic but agree, support and give blessings. Being a grateful and happy soul at this stage in my life, as I diligently work the soil in my chosen space, I know I will be ok...but lordly, will I miss my little sous-gardener constantly. She was just learning the botanical names of a few perennials...and we had a great time last summer solving the world's problems, on our respective garden stools, with our respective favorite weeders (she knows how to dig out the crowns and taproots!). She is learning to make a hand-tied bouquet from her gleanings to take home to Mom. She's becoming quite the garden photographer, too. In her new much more urban and sophisticated environment, will she retain these lessons learned?
Thus, the Garden Project takes on even greater meaning. It is the tangible foundation for all the love and gramma memories and future visits I scheme to secure. My own Gramma certainly had her issues, but what I remember most, and what endears her so much to me, are vivid lessons in "grandmothering". I often think of these many things while interacting with my own grandchild.
We made a list. Her favorite vegetables (brussel sprouts, cucumbers, onions, carrots, peas) and her favorite flowers (foxglove, poppies, lavender, marigolds, butterfly weed, sunflowers and hollyhock). And a cherry tree. Somewhere in there, she thought it would be a good idea to plant the garden on her birthday...so that the plants would celebrate their birthday the same day as hers. Who, may I ask, could resist such logic?
When bare root fruit trees came into the nurseries, off we went, to pick just the right one. Gramma had done her research to select two or three varieties that promised to perform for us. Our local fruit tree gurus recommended 'Stella', 'Van' and a few others. I referred her to the tags on the trees, and the pictures. She read the descriptions and chose "juicy heart-shaped dark red fruit" ('Stella') over "large fruit, good flavor and prolific" (Van). Stella was planted with great fanfare before anything else was done.
Now the raised beds are in place. I was thrilled to find just what I wanted in materials..."pre-fertilized" 2x12 recycled barn boards...perfect for the u-shaped configuration I came up with. The beds will require a considerable amount of soil, so I ordered a unit of blended soil, heavy on the sandy loam, which I can amend with more compost as needed. The subsoil is heavy clay, quite wet all winter, so I'm concerned about drainage. I'l likely add extra gravel in the bottom of the beds before filling with soil. The materials and the labor arrive tomorrow. I'm excited to get from the planning to the planting.
I make meticulous lists by season. Copious notes about cultural requirements. A whole sketchbook of possibilities. I have a library of astounding inspiration...from the Cloisters to Villandry, from Lloyd to Brookes to Ouldof. What I just added to the mix is a seven year old granddaughter who asked not too long ago, "Gramma, can I have my OWN garden?" What to do?
First, respond in the affirmative...and pretend that it is a brilliant idea that you'd never thought of. I want her to be totally in control of the idea, so that she is the owner of this project, even though I know that 99% of the time, labor and materials will be provided by Gramma. No worries. This also, is as it should be.
Next, cut a deal to include a plant or two that you haven't figured out where to place yet...in this case, specifically, the asparagus beds (she doesn't even like asparagus right now, so this will be tricky), and the Russian comfrey, guaranteed to run amok, but its oh-so-good for the compost pile.
Near the same time my kiddo asked me for a garden, I found out that her parents were conspiring to relocate to "the bay area" to enroll her in a fabulous school which will educate our little brilliant child superbly. There is nothing one can do under such logic but agree, support and give blessings. Being a grateful and happy soul at this stage in my life, as I diligently work the soil in my chosen space, I know I will be ok...but lordly, will I miss my little sous-gardener constantly. She was just learning the botanical names of a few perennials...and we had a great time last summer solving the world's problems, on our respective garden stools, with our respective favorite weeders (she knows how to dig out the crowns and taproots!). She is learning to make a hand-tied bouquet from her gleanings to take home to Mom. She's becoming quite the garden photographer, too. In her new much more urban and sophisticated environment, will she retain these lessons learned?
Thus, the Garden Project takes on even greater meaning. It is the tangible foundation for all the love and gramma memories and future visits I scheme to secure. My own Gramma certainly had her issues, but what I remember most, and what endears her so much to me, are vivid lessons in "grandmothering". I often think of these many things while interacting with my own grandchild.
We made a list. Her favorite vegetables (brussel sprouts, cucumbers, onions, carrots, peas) and her favorite flowers (foxglove, poppies, lavender, marigolds, butterfly weed, sunflowers and hollyhock). And a cherry tree. Somewhere in there, she thought it would be a good idea to plant the garden on her birthday...so that the plants would celebrate their birthday the same day as hers. Who, may I ask, could resist such logic?
When bare root fruit trees came into the nurseries, off we went, to pick just the right one. Gramma had done her research to select two or three varieties that promised to perform for us. Our local fruit tree gurus recommended 'Stella', 'Van' and a few others. I referred her to the tags on the trees, and the pictures. She read the descriptions and chose "juicy heart-shaped dark red fruit" ('Stella') over "large fruit, good flavor and prolific" (Van). Stella was planted with great fanfare before anything else was done.
Now the raised beds are in place. I was thrilled to find just what I wanted in materials..."pre-fertilized" 2x12 recycled barn boards...perfect for the u-shaped configuration I came up with. The beds will require a considerable amount of soil, so I ordered a unit of blended soil, heavy on the sandy loam, which I can amend with more compost as needed. The subsoil is heavy clay, quite wet all winter, so I'm concerned about drainage. I'l likely add extra gravel in the bottom of the beds before filling with soil. The materials and the labor arrive tomorrow. I'm excited to get from the planning to the planting.
Monday, March 12, 2012
MY PERSONAL CHARTREUSE
"A variable color averaging a brilliant yellow green." ---Webster's
Okay, I'll have to accept that...what this simple definition does, is leave lots of room for personal interpretation. I have seen way too many shades and hues of green trying to pass for what my brain wants to perceive as "chartreuse". You see, the precise exact perfect personal chartreuse registers some magical extremely specific little nook in my brain. I find myself actually repulsed by some things, always man-made, that often call themselves "chartreuse", but to me are really somebody else's interpretation of chartreuse. Pantone parades out a marvelous array of new names every year to describe their range of yellow-greens. Benjamin Moore pays talented people a lot of money to rename and reinvent their pallet of yellow-greens. regularly. Roget's has almost one hundred words to elaborate on "green". This gives me a clue that (a), there ARE infinite shades of green, and (b), the human eye and brain interprets these greens very personally indeed.
Back to the subject of my reflections: my chartreuse... my spring visual awakening... my garden. Today the weather is doing what it does around here this month, clashing back and forth, twisting and turning, uncommitted so far whether to wake up or continue to slumber (much as I do myself in the early hours of the morning). Last night it was in the low 30's, right now it is windy, rainy for a while, then a snow flurry will furiously pass through, then depart with nary a trace. This we must endure for a few more weeks, dashing outside to pull a few weeds, toss the compost on the veggie garden, or prune the last of the old hellebore leaves when the goddess of Spring peeks out of her coverlets. What sustains me when literally being outdoors is just too cold or muddy, is the sight of ... yes of course ... chartreuse.
The plants bred to be "aurea" really fulfill their purpose right now. As brilliant as they are in the depth of winter, or against the backdrop of dark pines or laurels, they now buddy up with the emerging leaves and flowers of hellebore, corylopsis spicata, the new growth on cupressus 'Wilma Goldcrest', the stems of cornus sericea, 'winter fire' (truly flamelike...with red and yellow, heating up the woodland terrace bed). A hardy fuchsia in the Long Bed never went down in the mild winter this year. It has cheered me every day when I stand in the living room window gazing at the view.
I suppose, eventually, my climbing roses will festoon the potting shed, but painting the whole thing chartreuse was a stoke of genius. There's no doubt my purpose was not to camouflage the utility shed...it was to make a statement...and indeed it does...cheerfully, brightly, homogeneously and usefully, out there...both a backdrop for the soon to leaf out viburnum plicatum and royal purple irises in May, and the brilliant fall foliages of my acer palmatum collection in the fall.
What fun, chartreuse! And every one of its permutations!
Okay, I'll have to accept that...what this simple definition does, is leave lots of room for personal interpretation. I have seen way too many shades and hues of green trying to pass for what my brain wants to perceive as "chartreuse". You see, the precise exact perfect personal chartreuse registers some magical extremely specific little nook in my brain. I find myself actually repulsed by some things, always man-made, that often call themselves "chartreuse", but to me are really somebody else's interpretation of chartreuse. Pantone parades out a marvelous array of new names every year to describe their range of yellow-greens. Benjamin Moore pays talented people a lot of money to rename and reinvent their pallet of yellow-greens. regularly. Roget's has almost one hundred words to elaborate on "green". This gives me a clue that (a), there ARE infinite shades of green, and (b), the human eye and brain interprets these greens very personally indeed.
Back to the subject of my reflections: my chartreuse... my spring visual awakening... my garden. Today the weather is doing what it does around here this month, clashing back and forth, twisting and turning, uncommitted so far whether to wake up or continue to slumber (much as I do myself in the early hours of the morning). Last night it was in the low 30's, right now it is windy, rainy for a while, then a snow flurry will furiously pass through, then depart with nary a trace. This we must endure for a few more weeks, dashing outside to pull a few weeds, toss the compost on the veggie garden, or prune the last of the old hellebore leaves when the goddess of Spring peeks out of her coverlets. What sustains me when literally being outdoors is just too cold or muddy, is the sight of ... yes of course ... chartreuse.
 |
| cuppressus 'Wilma Goldcrest' and tsuga canadensis 'Everett's Gold' |
The plants bred to be "aurea" really fulfill their purpose right now. As brilliant as they are in the depth of winter, or against the backdrop of dark pines or laurels, they now buddy up with the emerging leaves and flowers of hellebore, corylopsis spicata, the new growth on cupressus 'Wilma Goldcrest', the stems of cornus sericea, 'winter fire' (truly flamelike...with red and yellow, heating up the woodland terrace bed). A hardy fuchsia in the Long Bed never went down in the mild winter this year. It has cheered me every day when I stand in the living room window gazing at the view.
 |
| Japanese forest grass, oregano and berberis, all 'aurea' |
I suppose, eventually, my climbing roses will festoon the potting shed, but painting the whole thing chartreuse was a stoke of genius. There's no doubt my purpose was not to camouflage the utility shed...it was to make a statement...and indeed it does...cheerfully, brightly, homogeneously and usefully, out there...both a backdrop for the soon to leaf out viburnum plicatum and royal purple irises in May, and the brilliant fall foliages of my acer palmatum collection in the fall.
What fun, chartreuse! And every one of its permutations!
Thursday, February 16, 2012
I can smell spring
Oh, the ecstasy of inhaling an elusive, delicate, marvelous scent that I can't quite place (or the familiarity of it makes me smile)...not wanting to stop inhaling for fear of losing the ephemeral waft of pleasure that barely fills my nose, but I want it to go on and on...this is the moment in the garden (or walking down the street, or driving in the car, or wandering through a seemingly still sleeping nursery or public garden) when my consciousness fairly erupts in joy...yes! Spring is near!
Something weird happened this winter. Portland has a jillion microclimates, so some parts of the area did have freezes and snow and ice storms and floods, but where I garden, a low elevation semi urban area between slightly rolling hills, it was incredibly mild compared to the last several years...no significant deep freezes, no snow cover whatsoever, even very few frosts. It was quite dry in December and January, as well. So despite the mildness of winter, we are all commenting that the early flowers seem sleepy. Surely some plants did not reach the chill factor they need to produce a robust entrance to the season.
So my daily trek, rain or shine for my olfactory fix in my own garden has so far been disappointing. I'm getting impatient. The osmanthus bloomed way back in November. The viburnum 'New Dawn' has few buds and no blossoms. The daffodils and hyacinths are barely out of the ground. The buds on the prunus mume 'Kanko Bai' and the corylopsis spicata delight me, but alas have no scent. I have rejected sarcocca, the flowers being insignificant in size, but I must rethink this...they are after all blooming elsewhere here, perhaps a pot to two near the patio door? I stand in the cut flower department of New Seasons, inhaling. The salespersons ask me if they can help...they can't...I just need to smell their flowers. I've visited the Bishop's Garden at Elk Rock for my spring moment there to inhale the witch hazels and wintersweet and viburnum and edgeworthia...but even there, spring scents have been muted. I will go to the big Yard Garden and Patio show this weekend at the convention center and revel in the scents "booted up" for the show to preview our coming events in the garden. I will make lists of candidates to add to my early spring garden to avoid this vacuous moment next year.
I can smell Spring...but it has yet to fill my nose.
Something weird happened this winter. Portland has a jillion microclimates, so some parts of the area did have freezes and snow and ice storms and floods, but where I garden, a low elevation semi urban area between slightly rolling hills, it was incredibly mild compared to the last several years...no significant deep freezes, no snow cover whatsoever, even very few frosts. It was quite dry in December and January, as well. So despite the mildness of winter, we are all commenting that the early flowers seem sleepy. Surely some plants did not reach the chill factor they need to produce a robust entrance to the season.
So my daily trek, rain or shine for my olfactory fix in my own garden has so far been disappointing. I'm getting impatient. The osmanthus bloomed way back in November. The viburnum 'New Dawn' has few buds and no blossoms. The daffodils and hyacinths are barely out of the ground. The buds on the prunus mume 'Kanko Bai' and the corylopsis spicata delight me, but alas have no scent. I have rejected sarcocca, the flowers being insignificant in size, but I must rethink this...they are after all blooming elsewhere here, perhaps a pot to two near the patio door? I stand in the cut flower department of New Seasons, inhaling. The salespersons ask me if they can help...they can't...I just need to smell their flowers. I've visited the Bishop's Garden at Elk Rock for my spring moment there to inhale the witch hazels and wintersweet and viburnum and edgeworthia...but even there, spring scents have been muted. I will go to the big Yard Garden and Patio show this weekend at the convention center and revel in the scents "booted up" for the show to preview our coming events in the garden. I will make lists of candidates to add to my early spring garden to avoid this vacuous moment next year.
I can smell Spring...but it has yet to fill my nose.
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