Not-So-Wordless Wednesday: The Last Bouquet


For this Not-So-Wordless Wednesday post, I thought I would share the words of others, words that could somehow capture my feelings as I stand in the garden clipping some of the final blooms.

“Sorrow and scarlet leaf,

Sad thoughts and sunny weather.

Ah me, this glory and this grief

Agree not well together.”

Thomas Parson, 1880, A Song for September

The last page in this summer's garden scrapbook.

“For summer there, bear in mind, is a loitering gossip, that only begins to talk of leaving when September rises to go.” – George Washington Cable

There is a definite chatter as I get to work, selecting what’s left among the flowers.  Looking at the leggy stems, some of them browned, and the leaves dusted with powdery mildew, I can definitely hear a chorus of pleasantries and goodbyes as the summer guests make their way to the garden gate.

 “A late summer garden has a tranquility found no other time of year.” – William Longgood

There is a definite somberness and calmness in the garden today.  Perhaps it’s because plants that I have nurtured for so long, some from seed started in February, are leaving after a full season of delivering what was promised — and paying my respects is the right thing to do.  Maybe it has to do with the color of the sunlight, warm and golden, fading from the brightness of July.  The shadows seem longer, and the colors more muted – and yet, it feels warm and glowing, especially as the sunlight hits the faintest change of color in the leaves overhead.  More likely, though, the overwhelming sense stems from a combination of the two — and a little imagination.

“Spring flowers are long since gone.  Summer’s bloom hangs limp on every terrace.  The gardener’s feet drag a bit on the dusty path and the hinge in his back is full of creaks.” – Louise Seymour Jones

Oh, yes, there’s a lot of dragging and creaking happening by this time of year.  I do feel the energy of summer leaving me — or maybe it’s just sympathy pains for the plants.  Gardeners, I think, develop a kind of symbiotic (or co-dependent) relationship with their charges.  When they sprout, I sprout.  When they bloom, I bloom.  And when they wither away, a piece of me goes with them also . . .

Until the process starts all over again.

 

 

These Squirrels Are Making Me Nuts


8:00 am: Swept clean.

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.

 

Bloomin’ Update 10: Autumn Joy


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.

Name That Garden


“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.”

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9/11 And A Summer Long Ago


USAF photo by Denise Gould

This is not the post that I was planning for today.  In fact, this is actually the post that I debated writing.

The truth is, I have a very difficult time with September 11.  There is a large part of me that actually dreads the date, that wishes we could remove it from the calendar.  And now, on the 10-year anniversary, that feeling has been doubled.  Just talking about September 11, no matter when, brings tears to my eyes — and so I do my best to avoid it.  I have stopped watching the news for the weekend.  I do not want to see memorial services.  I do not want to hear speeches.  I do not want to relive the day through newly released video footage.  Everything I need to know is in my mind.

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Not-So-Wordless Wednesday


 

Finding Peace & Harmony On Common Ground

 

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.

10 Reasons I Love Elephant Ears


Have you ever sat under an Elephant Ear leaf?  I’m not sure what made me even think to do this, other than my curiosity to see one of my favorite plants from a whole other perspective, but as I looked at the leaf’s underbelly, I reflected on all of the reasons that make me love Elephant Ears.

1. Well, there’s the simple fact that I can lay on the ground and look up at the leaf.  It’s a great place to take an afternoon nap, enjoy the shade, and look at the play of sunlight hitting the leaf’s upper surface.  From below, it glows, much like stained glass does when its illuminated.

2. The color.  Look carefully at an Elephant Ear leaf, top or bottom, and see the swirls of shades of green.  It looks as if it’s painted, and the greens always look refreshing.

3. They’re waterproof.  Each morning it’s a treat to see pearls of dew gathered in the folds of the leaves, or perhaps what’s left from an overnight rain.  When the morning light hits the beads, they look like drops of mercury or silver.  I often think that if I find myself on “Survivor,” I would roof my shelter with Elephant Ear leaves, or at least use one as an umbrella.

4. Size matters.  As the season progresses, leaves unfold larger and larger.  One leaf can measure 3 feet.  I have found that when I keep the plants in a pot, they remain stunted.  Plant them in the ground, and they let their presence be known.  Similarly, one large leaf placed in a vase can be just as dramatic in the house.

 

5. Taste of the tropics.  As a Zone 6 or 7 gardener, depending on the specifics of the Cold Hardiness map, I like to create a tropical feel in the yard.  Elephant Ears are more than able to create the illusion that my Long Island garden is in South Florida.

6. Easy care.  As much as I dislike fall clean-up, it’s necessary when it comes to Elephant Ears.  Right around the first frost, I’ll cut back the leaves, dig up the bulbs, and let them cure for a few days.  I’ll try to shake out much of the excess dirt.  The dug bulbs are then placed in paper bags and covered with peat moss.  Lately, I’ve also tried plastic bags, and this also seems to work, as long as I keep the bag open.  Either way, I place the bag in a cool, dry place, such as the cement bunker that is behind a bedroom closet and under the front steps.  In the spring, I’ll bring out the bulbs, pull off the dead roots and tops, plant them in pots with the tip just below the soil (maybe even peaking out slightly), place them in a sunny location, and give them lots of water.  Once they sprout, in the ground they go.  Elephant Ears are slow to start, but with water and heat and humidity, they take off. 

7. They bleed.  I learned this the hard way during my first fall clean-up of Elephant Ears.  After cutting the stalks, I noticed that my clothes became stained with a rusty red color.  I then noticed the ends of the stalks with the same color.  The stains are permanent, which means that I now have work clothes specifically for Elephant Ear cutting, and they are stained with memories of previous prunings.

8. They multiply.  I started with a single bulb, and now I have enough to fill one bed, and more to intersperse with hydrangeas that have not reached full height.  In fact, I was so overwhelmed with babies, that I brought the extras to work and shared some Elephant Ear love.

9. They’re fun.  The leaves almost bounce in the wind.  I will often walk by them and tap each leaf like a drum to make them bounce.  Besides, visitors will always smile when they see them, especially the larger leaves.

10. Have you ever seen a new leaf?  They emerge from the stalk of an older leaf, like a tightly wound sword.  And then they open, like a sail unfurling.  The larger the leaf, the greater the opening.

 That’s it for now.  Happy Gardening!

Bloomin’ Update 9: Hydrangeas Hate Hurricanes


It’s the day before Hurricane Irene is forecasted to slam into Long Island.  I took advantage of the calm before the storm to give my plants a little pep talk.  I wanted to prepare them for what Jim Cantore and the folks at the Weather Channel said we could expect.  I wanted to encourage them to stand strong against the wind and the rain, that we would get through this together, and to rest easy that sunny skies will return.  I was especially impressed with the Hydrangeas, all of which put on an outstanding show this summer.  That’s why they were featured so heavily in many of the “Bloomin’ Update” posts.

Hydrangeas are my favorite flowering shrub.  I love the fullness of their blooms, the variety of their colors, the look and the feel they bring to the  landscape, and the length of time they hold onto the stem until their glory fades away.  Now, in the waning days of summer with a hurricane breathing down our necks, I offer you a  last look at some of my Hydrangeas, their vibrant colors now antiqued and slightly withered.  We should all be fortunate enough to age this gracefully.

I know this post is about Hydrangeas, and this is a Zinnia -- but with Hurricane Irene on its way, there wasn't enough time to argue with a flower that wanted a moment in the spotlight.

 
For anyone dealing with the hurricane, please stay safe.  Like I told my plants, we’ll get through this together and sunny skies are around the corner.  At least that’s what Jim Cantore keeps saying.

Bloomin’ Update 8: Summer Finale


At this stage of the summer, I feel as if I am as exhausted as the plants in the yard.  In fact, I am hard-pressed to find blooms that have not already been photographed and posted in previous “Bloomin’ Updates.”  But the task was not completely impossible, thanks to some friends, some surprises, and some guests.

This Pineapple Lily was given to me by friends, Catherine & Robert, when they arrived for dinner. I had never heard of a pineapple lily, but after reading up on it, I learned that they are from South Africa and require little care. In my cold hardiness zone, however, I will have to bring it indoors for the winter, and then restart the growing in the spring. I'll keep you posted on this new project.

 

Last year, I planted a bed of Celosia "China Town." This year, I was treated to this surprise, self-sown, and very proud of its hot red stem. Yes, I could have weeded this out, but if a seed has managed to live against all odds, then it deserves the chance to live its full cycle. That being said, I think I'll plant them again next year. A full bed of red leaves, red flowers, and red stems truly looked gorgeous.

 
 

I know this is technically not a bloom, but try explaining that to this guy. This spider creates a web each night. Joe and I tried to get a photo, so between my camera flashing and Joe's holding a flashlight, this is what we captured. The spider and the web seem to sparkle.

 

Never mind Broadway's "Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark," this spider is probably telling us to turn off the light.

 
 

We turned off the light, and surprised ourselves with this photo. Actually, I'm okay with spiders, as long as they keep their webs away from where I have to walk. There's nothing like walking to the car and going face-first into a web.

A Boy & His Bug: It’s Like A Little Prayer


Now, don't start changing my station.

I admit.  I’ve been a little out of sorts lately, and it’s more than it being August and all.  It’s just — well — summer is almost over and I have yet to see my Praying Mantis.  Until today!

This morning, Joe and I packed up the truck with tools and a ladder to help my niece and her fiance repair their wood deck.  When we arrived at their house, and unloaded the truck, I opened up the ladder — and there he/she was.  My Praying Mantis, in all of his jointed glory.

My niece’s fiance was impressed; he hadn’t seen a Praying Mantis in a long time.  What’s a Mantis maniac to do?  Hand over my Praying Mantis as a house-warming gift?  Or, take my big-eyed beauty back home?  Hmmmm, I pondered.  Perhaps I needed to make like a Mantis and pray.  What would Jesus do?  What would a gardener do?  What would Jesus do if He hadn’t seen His Praying Mantis in His garden for a long time?

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