First, let me say that I loathe snow. My loathing is contingent upon the depth of said white stuff. The deeper it gets, the loathier I get. While the weather forecasters have reminded us of this year’s snow deficit, that is of little consolation to me.
I dislike dressing in layer upon layer just to go outside to get the mail. The cardiologist has given me strict orders to not even think of shoveling this marshmallow world. And here on Long Island, we are very often on the cusp of snow and water, which means that a snowy day results in a super-sized slushy. So, let me say that I will not powder this post with words like fluffy and blanket and sugar. This will not be an ode to snow.
That, at least, is my first reaction when I see snow. It isn’t until I really look at snow that I can embrace its wonder, how it blows and drifts and catches on branches. Snow, I think, makes me appreciate evergreens more than ever.
My window of awe is a brief one, and this is my moment to enjoy winter white.
Like a good postcard, this one is arriving to you after I made it home. Joe and I spent the past week in Ft. Lauderdale, FL, where we plan to retire in the near future. We purchased a small home there almost 20 years ago. In fact, we made one payment and a low pressure system became Hurricane Andrew. We also removed all of the shade trees and replaced them with palms. Since then, the house has been rented and we return several times a year to do yard work. Yard work? That’s a vacation? For us – and probably for most gardeners who have little patience for winter’s dreariness – this is a vacation: the chance to feel the sun, to play in the dirt, and to see all shades of green.
There was some extra fun this time in Florida since I had the chance to play with my Christmas gift, a Canon SX40HS digital camera. Armed with my new toy, I found every excuse under the Florida sun to snap some garden and vacation photos. Would you expect anything different from a boy and his new gadget?
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 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.
As October comes to a close, an early nor’easter has turned fall into FALL. As rain pours down, as snow blankets us with a slushy mush, as ice pellets sting our face, and as howling wind tears the leaves from their branches, here a few photos of the colors, the debris, and the faded glory of autumn.
Let the raking begin.
The pink of Autumn Joy has aged and deepened to a dark, dusty rose.
Pee Gee Hydrangea is now parchment-colored.
This bee is probably wishing it had a blanket as it naps on Blanket Flower.
The Maple is on fire.
I'm not sure of the name of this plant, but the leaves are a bright spot in the garden -- until the temperatures really drop an the leaves droop. But with warmth, they rebound.
Liatris "punks" have turned from purple to brown.
Mums and Black Mondo Grass.
Lacecap Hydrangea is a shadow of its summer color.
Maple leaves nestled against a stone wall.
The buds for next spring's blooms are set on the northern growing Magnolia. Something to look forward to!
It’s 8:00 am, and I have swept the walk to my door for the buh-zillionth time, thanks to the squirrels who are ransacking my oak tree for acorns.
They’re also not the neatest nor efficient of eaters. As I sweep, I notice there’s a lot of waste. Mixed in with shards of shells are whole acorns — perfect for tucking away into the nether regions of your cheeks. So I wonder, just what are the squirrels getting so squirrely about?
First, there is the coming winter. There is a belief that you can predict what sort of winter you will have by observing the nuttiness of the squirrel population. It’s as if they are our very own Farmers’ Almanac. If that’s the case, then we are in for an Arctic blast of snow, ice, and below-freezing temperatures — and judging by the acorn debris that is littering my walkway, we may never thaw out. Either that, or my yard will be buried
24 hours later: Not so much.
in an avalanche of acorn shells — Long Island’s very own Pompeii.
Second, I’m concerned about the frenzy. This particular squirrel colony is in hyperactive mode, running and racing up and down trunks, onto branches, nibbling here, nibbling there. The squirrels are not just eating acorns; they are stockpiling them like a cult of the-world-is-ending believers. If they are like this now, what will they be like in December 2012, the notorious date when the Aztecs predicted the world would really end. There may not be enough nuts to satisfy their craving.
Third, and I am completely serious here, I think the squirrels have declared war on us. This nut stuff is just the opening volley. At this time of year, I cannot even stand and have a conversation with my neighbor on the walkway. If I do, I will be
Debris field.
pelted by not only debris, but whole acorns, as well. In fact, I think they are intentionally hurling these whole acorns at me.
You think I’m kidding. Just listen to the sound of a whole acorn falling from the tree and hitting the roof of your car parked on the driveway. It’s like the acorn shot heard ’round the world — and I find it difficult to believe that the velocity is the result of gravity alone. There has to be some squirrel strength behind that acorn. Perhaps the squirrel soldiers have fashioned a sling shot in the upper branches of the tree. Then, “Ready. Aim. Fire.” And each time they hit me or the car, I swear I can hear them giggling.
What to do with my furry frenemies? Trap them and release them to another location? Nah. That only encourages replacements to take up their positions. Cut down the oak tree? Absolutely not. I
Come on, Squirrels. How about a day off?
love the tree more than I dislike the squirrels. For, now I will have to be contented with a broom and a hard hat — and if the neighbors think I’m the nut case . . . Well, we’ll just see who’ll be laughing when the squirrels chase us up into the trees.
In the meantime, a friend found an abandoned baby squirrel and is now rehabilitating it. In addition to sweeping the walkway, I offered to gather acorns to feed this foster squirrel. I must be nuts.
My plan was to have a post featuring the blooms of the waning days of summer. With camera in hand, I captured bees tending to their chores on a day that felt more like July than September. If you could see their bee faces, I’m sure they were aglow with autumn joy.
Then, in a matter of hours, a cold front roared through. The clouds thickened and darkened, the wind grew stronger, and fat drops of rain splattered everything. And all the while, the temperature plummeted — so much so, that by sunset, it felt like late October. When I looked out of a window, I saw the last canna bloom (was that a shiver?) glowing. I again grabbed the camera, this time to capture the canna’s last stand — and I was blown away by the vividness of color.
I wondered what other flowers and plants would look like surrounded by chilled darkness and then the glare of a flash. I was limited in my selection because of the time of year, but I did (surprisingly) capture a noisy cricket in the ivy that climbs up the maple tree. He’s resting on the large leaf at the bottom of the photo.
Now the Zinnias, a little battered and chewed up, but still holding on to their color.
This Blanket Flower is probably wishing that it had a blanket.
A few of the old standbys: a faded Hydrangea (take that Madonna!), Liriope spikes, Coleus “Tartan,” and a Caladium close-up.
The Sunflower Sisters, one streaked with orange, the second like a faded version of the first, and the third looking more like celestial eclipse.
Finally, another glimpse of “Autumn Joy” Sedum. The bees were probably in a state of suspended animation at this hour and temperature.
My late-night expedition into the garden was a wonderful way to close-out summer. (Note to self: Next year, don’t wait until the end of summer for a nighttime photo shoot.) Looking back on this growing season, it was exciting to enter the blogging world and to share my life and garden with you. I appreciate greatly all of the comments and encouragement. Now, it’s time for cleaning up, digging and storing tender bulbs, protecting terracotta pots, and the never-ending raking — in other words, the joys of autumn.
“Hello, and welcome to Name That Garden. The rules are simple. I will post a photo or two or three of a garden, and you have to guess where that garden is located. Margo, tell us what the people are playing for?”
“Well, Nitty Gritty, they’re certainly not playing for a car. But they will be playing for the fun and surprise of it!”
“That’s swell, Margo. Now, are you ready to play, everyone? Here is our first photo.”
“If you guessed C, then you are correct. This display is part of a local gas station that is located on a heavy-traffic intersection. Not only is it great to see a business doing its best to make the neighborhood look nicer, the waterfall is a welcome distraction as you sit in your car waiting for the light to change.”
“If you’d like to continue playing, click the ‘Continue Reading’ link below.”
I’ve noticed that many bloggers post a “Wordless Wednesday” each week. Try as I might to follow the rules of widweek alliteration, I cannot not use words.
A few posts ago, I wrote about a community garden, The Common Ground, in Sayville, NY, because it is home to a labyrinth garden and truly represents what a community garden can and should be.
Recently, I had the pleasure of returning to The Common Ground, this time to see another, more musical side of a community garden. Our friend plays saxophone with the Atlantic Wind Symphony, the oldest fully professional concert band on Long Island. This photo is the view from my lawn chair. It was a beautiful night, much needed after an earthquake and a hurricane. The band entertained the crowd with marches, standards, show tunes, and popular music. For me, the highpoint was a military set, with a song from each of the branches. Before the set began, the conductor asked veterans from each of the branches to stand up when their particular song began. To see these men and women, of all ages, stand for their branch and be recognized was quite emotional.
And that is the beauty of a community garden — the simple idea of feeling connected not only to the land but to people, to a commuity.
Nitty Gritty Dirt Man 