nce upon a time, in a garden somewhere between here and there, peony blossoms remained tightly wrapped in anticipation of their debut at the grand ball. Even the servant ants worked tirelessly and feverishly to ensure that each fold, each petal, was proper and elegant.
Tulip.
“My name is Allison MacKenzie. Where I was born, time was told not by the clock or the calendar, but by the seasons. Summer was carefree contentment. Autumn was that bittersweet time of regret for moments that had ended and things that were yet undone. And then winter fell, with a cold mantle of caution and chill, it nipped our noses and our arrogance and made us move closer to the warm stoves of memory and desire. Spring was promise. But there was a fifth season, of love. And only the wise or the lucky ones new where to find it.”
This is the opening monologue from the film Peyton Place. It’s here because a few weeks ago a reader, Camille, commented on an earlier post entitled Autumn In Peyton Place. She had been searching for the verse and could I help her. I popped in the DVD and took some dictation.
But after I read over the words, it occurred to me that if only seasons could be so easy and uncomplicated that their description could fit into a single — albeit melodramatic — paragraph. If only . . .
Because lately, it seems, seasons are not so neat and tidy. This spring, for example, has been one of the coolest — make that coldest — and dampest ones that I can remember. Even this Memorial Day weekend, the unofficial start of summer, had snow falling in upstate New York.
For many gardeners, the reasons for gardening come down to stimulating and satisfying our own senses: the scent of a summer rose, the feel of a freshly mowed lawn under your toes, the sound of morning songbirds, the taste of a homegrown tomato, or the sight of the saturated color of the season’s first peony bloom.
But are our senses the only ones being stirred in the garden? According to a remarkable video and an equally remarkable book, the answer is “no.” Our senses, it seems, are in good company with the senses of our plants.
“If love is sweet as a flower, then my mother is that sweet flower of love.”
Stevie Wonder
Mother’s Day and flowers, flowers and Mother’s Day — the two are so intertwined that it’s nearly impossible to separate them. For most of my life, the day was a chance to give flats or flowering shrubs. It’s also the day that symbolizes the absolute safe time of year to get things in the ground. So for this day, here are a few photos of the azaleas, lilacs, and columbine blooming now and a few words for Mothers everywhere — including my own.
I remember the day I first learned about the birds and the bees, which — surprise — really had nothing to do with birds and bees.
I was watching an afternoon rerun of “Marcus Welby, M.D.” with my mother, and the episode focused on a patient with an STD, only it was called VD at the time. My father walked in at that moment and asked if I knew what that meant.
“Um, yeah?” I said, unsure if the question mark at the end of my response gave me an air of authority or uncertainty.
And then came my father’s response, “Let’s go for a drive.” Uncertainty it was.
When my friend Maria presented me with a small bag of Muscari bulbs as a gift years ago, I had no idea that that would be the start of a beautiful relationship. My first thought was, “How cute. Grape hyacinths — even the name sounds petite and demure.” Nothing, though, could be farther from the truth.
A year ago, April temperatures were warm. This year, it’s been cool — especially the overnight temps, which have approached the freezing mark. As a result, my patience to get my hands dirty and to get my tropicals into the ground has grown thin. My solution? An experiment.
Since I did not start any seeds in the potting shed this winter, it’s quite empty. My plan is to plant the Elephant Ears and Canna in pots, place the pots in the potting shed, and then let the heat get their juices flowing. And that’s the purpose for this repost — I’ll be doing exactly as I spelled out a year ago. Happy gardening.
Attractive, aren’t they?
The last time I saw my Elephant Ears, they were clipped back, packed into peat moss, and stored in a cement bunker. With the very warm April temperatures, I couldn’t resist opening up their winter palace. But unlike Geraldo Rivera and Al Capone’s vault, I found my treasure.
It’s official, and now that the rollercoaster that was this week is over, I can share this bit of news with all of you. In the midst of the madness, I celebrated my 50th birthday. Yes, I am now a half-century old.
I think I’m supposed to feel different because friends and colleagues keep asking me, “How do you feel?” Is 50 supposed to feel different than 49? Am I supposed to be sad? Contemplative? Excited?
What I can say, having survived a head injury, the result of a car accident, and then 13 coronary stents, is, “I’m very happy to be here.” Is that enough? Should there be more? According to celebrities who reach an insert-age-here milestone and then write a book and go on talk shows to shout how wonderful it is to be said age, I should be glowing — but the only thing that appears to be glowing is the fifty shades of gray in my hair.
I am so distracted these days, and spring is to blame. There’s the smell of freshness on the breeze, the chirps and calls of birds in the morning, and the daily display of fifty shades of green. All I want to do is work in the yard: clean the beds, rake the lawn, bring out the terracotta pottery, inhale deeply — but I do have a day job that demands much of my time and a post to write.
Writing, though, is near impossible. Spring stimulates all of my senses, and each time I step outside, I am overwhelmed with words, feelings, and adjectives. Rather than write them down, they swirl inside my head as I become lost in the intoxicating world that is spring.
And so, I surrender to those who have already placed their words on paper, words that illustrate the beauty of the gardener’s most magical season.
Nitty Gritty Dirt Man 