Bloomin’ Update 16: Ageless & Evergreen


White Pine

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.

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Bloomin’ Update 15: Greetings from South Florida


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?

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Bloomin’ Update 13: A Walk In The Clouds


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.

 
 

 
 
 

Not-So-Wordless Wednesday: That’s A Wrap


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.

 

 

Bloomin’ Update 12: Bedazzled & Be-blogged


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

 

 

Bloomin’ Update 11: Legends of the Fall


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!

 
 
 
 

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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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!