There is a certain sadness when I look about the waning October garden. So many blooms have faded and turned to seed; so many leaves have dulled.
And then there are the red hot flowers, looking a bit out of place and overly made-up amid the first flush of autumn’s golds and yellows and rusts.
Celosia — a few plants from last summer reseeded themselves for this year’s garden. Surprise!
And that’s when my imagination takes hold.
I’m a fraud. A fake. A pretender. And the proof is in the potting shed.
Yes, this is my jewel of a potting shed – the one that takes center stage in many of my photos, the place where I find peace in the middle of winter as I start my seeds, the backyard structure that allows me to believe that I have a Martha (no need for last names here) existence.
Clearly, though, nothing could be further from the truth.
I came to the realization long ago that I am not, no matter how hard I try, Martha-esque. I get dirty when I garden. I have a tendency to use every pot in the kitchen when I cook (although I now know to clean as I go). And I have been known to step on the prongs of a rake, sending the handle swinging up into the side of my head — on more than one occasion. But it’s the condition of this shed that really says, “You, sir, are no Martha.”
Black-Eyed Susan.
It seems fitting that after an interesting amd intense couple of days, I have to extend my thanks to a few people.
First up is Cheri, a WordPress editor, who selected my previous post about 9/11 to be Freshly Pressed. That means that my blog, for a few days, was one of the featured sites on WordPress — and the response, as you can imagine, was overwhelming.
That brings me to the other people I would like to thank. You. All of you. All 2,400+ readers and the 200+ who chose to follow this site. I cannot even begin to explain how much your comments and likes meant — and how absolutely moving your comments were. I’ve had the chance to “meet” people from all over the world, to read of their memories, and to visit other amazing blogs.
And now that the rush has fallen off, it’s time to get back into the garden. The September garden is an interesting place. Some plants are worn out and tired, while others appear to be putting on quite a show — like a fireworks finale. I’m not sure if the hint of cooler weather is rejuvenating their energy, or if they somehow know their end is near.
One thing is certain, though. All of the plants — and this gardener, as well — are ready for a chance to re-energize for the next growing season.
So, without further delay, here is a stroll through the garden and a look at the blooms from the closing days of summer.
Hi, August. It’s me.
Listen, I’m not going to beat around the bush on this one. I’m just going to dive in and let you know . . .
It’s over between us. I know I waited until the end of your days to tell you this, but I was really hoping you and I could have worked things out – maybe come to some sort of agreement on the nature of our relationship. That seems to be out of the question now.
Each year, I hope to look forward to your arrival, but you are very skilled at trying my patience – and as quickly as my expectations rise, you find every opportunity to walk all over them.
Take my impatiens. Please. When I first saw that they weren’t thriving, that their stems were barren of leaves, I blamed myself (not enough water). Then I blamed the slugs (they had to be munching all night). And then I learned about the fungus. Maybe you didn’t create the fungus, but your heat, humidity, and rain games certainly didn’t help.
Dear Home & Garden Centers:
I have come to the conclusion that you are deliberately misleading the plant-buying public for your own profit by selling plants while not fully disclosing the plant’s specific needs and growing conditions.
I first became suspicious of your tactic years ago, when I purchased a beautiful climbing vine that was covered with deep pink trumpet flowers. The plastic tag said Mandevilla, and when I asked the salesperson if this can grow on Long Island, he said yes. Although I was suspicious, it wasn’t a complete lie. This tropical beauty did grow on Long Island — until the first frost. Then, it was kaput.
Imagine my surprise this year, when I saw countless Zone 6 and 7 shoppers picking up pots of Croton, pictured above. I had only seen the plant in South Florida — because it is native to the tropics. Actually, it’s one of my favorite plants in South Florida — the leaves come in a variety of shapes, from flat to crinkly, wide to elongated, and the colors are brilliant hues of greens and reds and golds. With autumnal colors like that, it’s no wonder that so many northern gardeners stocked up on the plant, punching up their fall flower displays.
What saddens me in all this is the amount of money that homeowners shelled out for a plant that really would only last until the first frost — which, in this area, could happen a day or a week after purchase. There’s no guarantee when frost will arrive, just know that it will — and when it does, your tropical treat will be a droopy disaster.
Equally frustrating is the amount of money the garden centers pull in by selling tropical plants at the end of the growing season. I really cannot blame the gardening public. For starters, they may not have any knowledge of the plant. It’s the garden centers, though, which not only count on the consumers’ impulses but also have their expert salesperson guide the novice gardener into making the purchase.
That’s a lot of brown matter, as well as green matter — financial and organic. It’s also a waste. And it’s irresponsible. And it teeters awfully close to being a scam. But, hey, that’s business. Right?
From now on, I will speak up when I see a shopper wasting his or her money on a plant that has no chance of surviving because of the climate. The buyer and the gardener should certainly be aware, but so should the home and garden center — we gardeners know your game and we know how to plant seeds.
Sincerely,
Nitty Gritty Dirt Man
A cloud fell from the sky last night. I’m not sure when it actually happened, since it was crystal clear when I went to sleep. This morning, when I looked out of the window, I had to wonder, “Am I dreaming?”
Fog has a way of playing games with you. That might be why I love it so much. Ordinary objects become fuzzy. Landscapes become otherworldly. With imagination, I can be anywhere: my backyard or a Transylvanian woods. Like snow, fog seems to muffle sound and makes you feel as if you’re the only person alive. As I went exploring, I could hear the random drip of melting ice crystals, their misty evaporation rising into the air. And as the sun warmed the atmosphere, the fog left and everything — including me — returned to it’s usual state of being.
I hope these photos offer a glimpse of the gauzy wonder that was a Sunday morning fog in late November.
I’m not sure of the accuracy of this depiction of the first Thanksgiving, but it is the inspiration for this Not-So-Wordless Wednesday post. While there may be a lot happening in the image, I’m not sure if it fully captures all that occurred during that first Thanksgiving. Many of those lessons seem to have been lost over the centuries, crowded out by thoughts of food shopping and preparation, football, and Black Friday, which, in my opinion, is one of most vile displays of human behavior — so much so that my Mayflower ancestor, William Brewster, would cringe.
Apparently, we could all use a bit of that first Thanksgiving.
I may be the gardener of the house, but Joe also has his landscape love. One of his greatest loves is palm trees. His absolute fave is Cocos nucifera, the coconut palm. If it were up to him, coconut palms would be growing everywhere. We often joke that he would be to coconut palms what Johnny Appleseed was to apples — only he would be called Joey Coconuts, which does sound a little — alright, a lot — like a character from “The Sopranos.”
Sadly, coconut palms will not grow in our Zone. Nor will most other palms found around the world. So what’s a palm lover to do? About 7 years ago, we purchased a windmill palm, Trachycarpus fortunei to be exact, from Stokes Tropicals. Originally grown in China, the windmill is one of the hardiest of palms, able to tolerate a fairly severe freeze and a light winter snow cover.
But this is Long Island, and winters are unpredictable. Sometimes mild, but in recent years — cold, snowy, and frozen. Although the palm receives full sun, there are steps that we must take — or rather Joe must take, with my assistance — to ensure winter survival.
I always thought I knew my garden, knew all of its ins and outs. I have learned otherwise since starting this blog. Now, I find myself looking at the garden more deeply, always thinking of the next post. In fact, post obsession occupies most of my daily thoughts since I promised myself that I would post twice a week. Could I possibly write that much, especially at this time of year when so much of the garden is leaving or already gone?
That was the thought I had the other day when I pulled into the driveway, the posting question planted firmly in the forefront of my brain. It had been a rainy, gray day — and as I sat in my car, I looked about and I was stunned. My garden had been transformed into a shimmering display of rubies and amber, garnet and topaz. The next day, the sun came out, and when I looked about again, I discovered that my rainy day vision had not been a dream.
Red and Gold, part 1.
Weeping Dogwood.
Beneath the outer leaves of the Weeping Dogwood, other leaves were making the change.
It's a wonder what a little frost will do to Hosta.
Azalea.
The Climbing Hydrangea has never bloomed. Just leaves.
Japanese Maple
Euonymus "Burning Bush" is on fire.
Red and Gold, Part 2
It’s time for me to open up and reveal something about myself. I must confess, now that I’m about to write out the words, I’m feeling a little self-concious. But there is no turning back now. Accept me or reject me, the choice is yours.
I never really knew this was an issue for me. I embraced my circumstances as something natural. It wasn’t until I read about it in a book that I wondered, “Am I really that different? Are there others out there who are like me?” So, I’ll take a deep breath and come out of the proverbial closet. I experience nature both ways. I am bi-zonal.
Nitty Gritty Dirt Man 