At Last

Every season has its peak, a few magical days when everything in the garden is working in harmony. Two weeks ago, just as we put the house on the market, the ornamental gardens luckily reached their zenith. Every plant was in bloom at the same time and looking glorious, and I will be forever grateful to them for that. I like to think they were what sold the house--well, them and the kitchen. I'm pretty sure that this week is the high point for the productive garden because everything's coming up vegetables.

Baby squash 'Tatuma' nestled in thyme and flower bedecked

For the first time in my gardening life in Florida, I have finally gotten my bean yields high enough to start putting them up for winter. The three varieties I planted are all producing at the same time now, though the 'Tiger's Eye' and 'Contender' are a little behind 'Kentucky Wonder.' Turfman and I conducted a very scientific taste test, and he declared 'Tiger's Eye' and 'Kentucky Wonder' to be the best. I couldn't taste much of a difference.

'Contender,' the lone 'Tiger's Eye,' and 'Kentucky Wonder'

I'm watching all of my peppers with much anticipation. Every time I see the Greek Pepperoncini peppers, my mouth waters at the thought of them adorning my salads. My great hope is that I can get enough of every variety to have a canned jar of each to take with us to our new home.

Pepperoncini

Cherry Bell Peppers

Jalapeños coming on

I also have tomatoes and cucumbers and corn getting ready, and the four pineapples are coming along nicely. With this much success in the garden, I've been greedily turning my eyes to the fig tree, checking the fruit every morning and hoping that they will ripen before we move. I simply want one jar of fig preserves. Just one. But in case that doesn't happen, I did take a cutting of the fig tree, and it's already sprouted. Now if we could just find a home for it in Georgia...

A Sense of Proportion

If you are coming to today's post hoping to read about an individual who has learned self-control and exhibits that trait at every turn, I can assure you that you will be heartily disappointed. From the moment I learned that we might be relocating, I thought about my garden and what I might attempt to bring along with me to the new house. Initially, I was quite proud of myself. After all, I could dig up the boxwoods, but I decided to show some restraint and just take cuttings in the hopes that I could raise new plants. I took 18 cuttings. This may seem like a lot to anyone who has not tried cuttings before, but the possibility of failure is rather high, so it's always good to cut more than you think you'll need.

Boxwoods in waiting

I had been watching these cuttings, desperately hoping that they would all take, and then I suddenly started imagining a knot garden. This made me think I should take more cuttings. I haven't done it yet, but considering how little restraint I've been showing in the rest of the garden, I can't imagine it's too far down the road. 

I suggested to Turfman that I would only dig up about 10 plants and that there would be no holes in the garden. I've been able to achieve the latter part of that suggestion but not the former. I've only covered the front yard so far, and I'm already over 12. I'm beginning to worry a bit.  

Plants in hiding

As I said, there are no signs that any plants have been lifted, but just to be sure I don't raise anyone's ire, I've been keeping them in a neighbor's backyard. Happily, I have visitation rights, so I go over every day to water and encourage them.

It's all moving so quickly, and soon I'll either run out of pots or car space. But at least I'll have some of the best parts of the garden here join me at our new house, which will go a long way in making that house feel like home.

Do I Dare Disturb the Universe?

"That is not what I meant at all;
that is not it, at all."

-T. S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

In 1971, fully fed up with playing James Bond, Sean Connery said that he would never play 007 again. In 1985, Connery returned to the role in the aptly titled film "Never Say Never Again."

I vividly recall my frequent protestations that, after so many moves up and down I-75, Orlando would become our final home. After we had almost completed a massive renovation of our latest house, one of my sisters-in-law walked into every room exclaiming that we would make so much money if we moved.  I told her that wasn't something we were remotely concerned about. "We will never move again," I said. "This is it, the final resting place."

I am now starring in my own, self-made version of "Never Say Never Again." I'm eating my words. Fine. I won't delay the announcement any longer, keep you in suspense. 

We are moving back to Atlanta. 

I am over the moon about returning to the place I consider my home. I am less excited about leaving my garden behind. In my best daydreams, I imagine the eventual buyers of this house saying that they love the house and hate the garden and wish it could all disappear. Then would begin what I would refer to as "The Big Dig." I imagine a U-Haul stuffed to the roof with plants. I've been saving plastic nursery pots for just such a possibility, but I must be patient and see how it all turns out.

In the meantime, I essentially will be the assuming the role of "Acting Gardener" here, tending to it with as much affection as always, but recognizing that I am ultimately doing it for someone else. Still,  I'm walking around with a bit of a proprietorial eye, considering which plants I can take with me without seeming a thief. The next few weeks (and potentially months) should get pretty interesting, so stay tuned.  

In the meantime, here's a photographic recap of what has unfurled in the garden during the last week. 

Gloriosa superbum in full glory (she's going with me)

Clematis 'Jackmanii' (who must stay, sadly)

The side garden plants are jostling for attention

Nothing Major to Report

I have a weekly phone conversation with my dad in which I secretly fret that I really have nothing of importance to report about the week that has passed or the week that is to come. What can I possibly say of value? What will keep him entertained on the other end of the line?

To be perfectly honest, those who know me well know that I likely could relate some story about a mishap that has occurred during the week. I'm notoriously accident-prone. As I type this, I'm still suffering while using the tip of my left index finger, which I nearly clipped off with my secateurs (you know, hand pruners) two weeks ago. The injury came at the end of 30 minutes of sharpening and lovingly cleaning this, my most necessary garden tool. For whatever reason, I thought I would ensure that no rough spots remained on the blade after my sharpening and cleaning efforts by rapidly squeezing the secateurs closed and listening for any grinding of metal. I can't tell you how the tip of my finger got in the way. I do have a vivid recollection of what happened once I realized that I had nearly severed the pad from the rest of my finger, but I shall spare you the details.

I could tell these stories to my dad, sure. But even those kinds of things, when they're a regular part of my existence, become a little mundane. And so it is with the garden this week.

I have, at present, no plant diseases to report. No bugs. No fungi attacking. No breathtaking buds or blooms. No incredible triumphs. No construction projects.

I just have a happy garden. And though the relative quiet of my garden could seem a little boring in the way of news, the simple fact that I'm not in the midst of some crisis or rapturous unfurling is strange and welcome news for me.

So I shall quietly leave you with a few photos of the past week and a wish that you all have a week with nothing major to report.

Carrot harvest

Hiding among the green beans

Future fig

Defying the Odds

In the last week, I've spotted no less than five separate green Anole lizards in my backyard. I wondered if they were an omen of sorts, and then some strange things started happening in the garden.

Those of you who are regular visitors to the blog may recall that I wallowed in gardening self-pity last week. The beans, the beans had gotten me down. I had identified their apparent killer as bean leaf mosaic virus. The websites suggested it was fatal. I was instructed, in no uncertain terms, to pull out all of the plants and burn them.

I am known for being a little defiant.

I decided--since I didn't really know what I was doing--to leave the plants in so that I might learn something from their decline. I have to admit this week that I have learned absolutely nothing, largely because they seem to have recovered, which means I misidentified their ailment and basically have no idea what I'm doing. The leaves are flattening out; flowers are blooming, and I've even found some beans.

Leaves are recovering

This made me think of so many other plants in the garden that once seemed certain to die. There was the Japanese maple that worked so hard but was always knocked back by the heat and sun (even though I bought that specific one because the nursery claimed it was ideal for the heat of Florida). I dug it up last fall and moved it to a more shaded spot. Turfman was worried the move would kill it. I was too, but I told him, "Who cares? If I don't kill it, the Florida heat will. This is it's last chance." Here's how it looks today.

A flush of color in the shade

I recently heard a pretty learned gardener say that Gloriosa superbum only does well in its first year, so there's no real reason to leave it in the ground for another season. Well, I lifted mine and protected it over the winter because that's what I thought I was supposed to do. I had replanted it just a day before the gardener had made her proclamation. Then I thought my work was for nothing. (This is what I planted in memory of Wolfie.) It's actually doing better this year than it did last.

6 blooms ready to burst open

I study horticulture more than you can imagine. I am trying to become an expert. I'm forever frustrated by how slow the process is. And for all I know about what I'm doing, I have little idea of what I'm doing. It's all an experiment. Sometimes the experiment works. Sometimes it doesn't. But it sure is incredible to see things thrive after they've been proclaimed a total loss. 

You see, the green Anole lizard is native to Florida and is being wiped out by the brown lizard. They are incredibly rare, almost lost themselves. But they've been running around my garden this week, and everything is turning over a new leaf. If they are an omen, it seems they are a very good one.

Hello, friend

Encouragement Required

I'm sure that some of my former students would recall my advice for what to do when the nagging voices in their heads started to tell them that they couldn't accomplish something, especially that they couldn't write. I told them to tell that voice in no uncertain terms to SHUT UP. Today is one of those days that I have to take my own advice.

When we lived in Michigan, I may have become a little emboldened by my successes in the vegetable garden. I put food on our table and reserves in our freezer. In short, every time I went into the garden, I felt pretty magnificent. Not so in Florida, and it is taking every molecule of self-control I have not to go on a full-blown rant.

My Kentucky Wonder pole beans were initially a wonder, indeed. They were scrambling up the arches I had built and looking fabulous. This weekend, though, I began to notice that the leaves were looking a little strange. I researched the problem, and I'm pretty sure that they have bean leaf mosaic virus.

The sick leaves

Now, I believe most disappointments in life are an opportunity to learn something useful. So my first thought (after "you are a horrible gardener" and "another season down the drain") was what this new problem is trying to tell me about my soil. But so far as I can find in my research, it's not telling me anything about my soil. It's telling me that I have aphids (but I haven't seen any) or that the seeds had the virus. Then again, if I look a little further down the rows, I see that my pepper plants are suffering a similar crinkling, which would suggest that they, too, have a virus.

I'm beginning to think that when I constructed this garden, it merely served as a massive billboard to all forms of pestilence and disease that said, "Here lives a hopeful gardener. Come, suck every drop of that hopeful sap out of her."

I recall watching an episode of the BBC series "The Edible Garden" with Alys Fowler. She was feeling bruised about a catastrophic tomato failure the year before as a result of blight. She was nervous. She decided to give it a go again, even building measures to safeguard her crop. It all got hit with blight again, and she bitterly proclaimed that she would never try to grow tomatoes again unless someone could assure her that they had created a blight-resistant variety. I understand her heartbreak. I put all of my energy into beans and peppers for this season, and it looks like it will be for nothing.

So I've decided to gaze on my side garden and lick my wounds for a while. Neighbors may hear me yelling "SHUT UP!" over and over again and wonder if I've gone over the deep end. The personal pep talks are necessary at present, though, so I'll have to risk it.

At least my New Dawn rose provides some hope

The side garden is in bloom

Intoxication

I cannot tell a lie. I've been inhaling quite a bit lately, and I feel pretty giddy from it. But it's really not my fault. The days here have been reasonably mild and a little breezy, so we've been keeping the windows and doors open. Growing on the wall of the house that forms one side of the Secret Garden is jasmine, and it is in full, glorious, intoxicating bloom. Just the slightest breeze carries that incredible scent wafting through the house. Turfman and I have been spending the weekend inhaling deeply and crying, "Oh, do you smell that?!" It's absolutely divine.

The wall of perfume

This is when the garden begins its full thrust of growth. It's a time of frenzied activity for the gardener, too. I have to keep up with the work to make sure the growth continues. I constructed my first compost tea brewer yesterday, and it's now bubbling away, hopefully making a magic elixir that I can spray on everything in the garden, including the turf. I'm determined to keep everything as healthy as possible this year, so I'm staying on top of weeds and keeping the compost moist and turned.

Plants that had retreated over the winter are now making themselves known again. What was previously a bare patch of earth is now getting filled in by plants that will jostle each other for room in the coming months. The weeping peach tree just opened its first flowers of the year over the weekend. It's hard to remember or imagine what that space in the garden will look like when the tree is in full leaf, so that's something else to look forward to.

First peach flower of the year

I find myself leaning out the windows as soon as I get up in the morning, checking to see what new things are happening in the garden. I'm a bit like a kid on Christmas morning every morning these days.  The presents just keep coming.

Don Juan is putting on a show

But it's time for me to get back in the garden this morning. My fingernails have been clean for several hours, and they're itching for some dirt to be stuffed under them again.