Garden Bloggers' Bloom Day 2016

It seems that I've been out of the loop for quite a while about the significance of 15 April to garden bloggers. Just this morning, I discovered that it is the day on which bloggers like myself walk around and photograph what's blooming in their gardens.

So for today, I shall be rather short-winded and leave you with a selection of photos of what's happening here on the farm. I'll leave enough hopefully to make up for the years that I've missed out on such a wonderful celebration.

I love seeing my burgundy Iris in spring

In the Wolfie garden, the Saxifraga have been adding color
for a while.

The Clematis 'Bourbon' seems quite happy.

I planted this Lonicera last year, but
this is its first bloom. Worth the wait!

In the "Trough Garden" quite a few things are blooming.

The first of the Gaura 'Lindheimeri' are peeking through.

The purple Verbena is spreading across most of the upper
Trough Garden. Scabiosa and Armeria add to the palette.

On the post behind the garden, Clematis
'Giselle' puts on her annual show.

Giselle's close-up

And 'Giselle' lit by the sun

Finally, I leave you with Clematis 'Rebecca'
in her new home with the David Austin rose
'Graham Thomas' in the foreground.

I hope to send more regular dispatches from the farm soon, but perhaps these will tide you over until then.

The Life Underground

In the depths of winter, I finally learned that within

me there lay an invincible summer.

                                                                                                       --Albert Camus   

Even when I was a little kid, I loved stories. I loved having stories read to me, and I loved being able to read them myself. I still recall a Sunday at church when an adult approached me, handed me a book, and said, "I was at the bookstore this week, and when I saw this, I thought of you." I remember turning to my mom afterwards, feeling a little troubled by the exchange, and asking, "Why would she think of me in a bookstore?" My mom laughed softly, patted my head, and told me that everyone knew that I loved to read.

One of my favorite stories was of Pablo the penguin, who hated the cold. At the time, I could not explain why I had such an affinity for Pablo. My only experience of the world was limited to Ohio. I didn't fully comprehend that there were warmer places in winter, but there was something about his desire to escape his icy world and head somewhere warm that resonated with me. Now it all makes so much sense. I really only like winter for a month or two. Once we reach the beginning of March and I'm still wearing layers of clothing to take the dogs for a walk, I feel a combination of resentment and despair infiltrating the edges of my consciousness. All I want to do is escape. 

But when I go into the garden these days and crouch down among the decaying leaves of fall, I find that there is a warmth coming from the soil. I marvel at what must be happening just below the surface. It must be a flurry of activity to produce the little nubs of Hosta leaves-in-waiting that poke their heads out of the tight network of roots.

The Hosta is preparing to unfurl its leaves

The Cyclamen tubers that my mom and I planted in late December and fretted over from that moment on are now producing the familiar heart-shaped leaves, proving that all of our fears were unnecessary.  We simply didn't have enough faith in the energy they had stored, but now I can see that all will be fine.

The first of the Cyclamen appears

The 'New Dawn' rose, which grew over eight feet in its first year, is sporting its first fresh leaves of the season. It's now reaching through the upper beams of the pergola, and I'm tying it in, hoping that it will scramble across the top and provide some shade this year. 

It's a 'New Dawn' in the garden

The 'Painted Lady' ferns, which had retreated into the clay over the winter, are beginning to creep out and unroll their fronds, stretching out into the warm light before the crepe myrtles leaf out and plunge them into shade.

The ferns actually seem to be multiplying

And scattered across the property are the real harbingers of spring, the daffodils. Their sunny heads assure me that the cold will soon be escorted out. There's no need for me to take the perilous trip that Pablo made. The signs of warmer weather are all around us, and little unseen things are hard at work, making ready for the season to come. 

Seed Starting Season Begins!

Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up 

where no seed has been, I have great faith in a seed.

Convince me that you have a seed there, 

and I am prepared to expect wonders.

                                                    

                                                 --Henry David Thoreau

It's the beginning of the magic season again here at the garden, and I'm full of relief and excitement. I can't say how many times I have opened the refrigerator, seen the plastic container filled with seed packets, and felt my heart flutter. In fact, my heart and mind have waged a mighty battle over the last couple of months. One so desperately wanted to get the seed starting modules out and stuff them with homemade seed starting mix, but the other knew that the time wasn't right. I'd squeeze my eyes shut and quickly close the door again, feeling a little breathless.

Two weeks ago, though, the battle ended. The seeds came out of their cold storage, and the containers took a bath. 

The modules are taking a bubble bath

On a sunny Saturday afternoon, mom and I carried the trays out to the patio and began the process of seed starting. I'll be adding new seeds to trays in waves as we inch closer to the warm weather.

Trays awaiting their seed assignments
(Get it? Seed assignments?)

In the meantime, I'm watching over my little seedlings with much anticipation, watering them gently with my turkey baster. Such a tiny little thing a seed is, but it sure packs in a whole lot of hope. 

Echinops (that's Globe Thistle) reaching for the light

The Garden Under Cover (and Under Water)

We've had a very strange winter here. I had plans for the pond pier during the normally dry winter months. The pond had receded enough for me to add more support posts and both widen and extend the platform. A few days before Christmas, though, the rains came. They came so heavily one night that everyone--to include houseguests--was awakened in the midst of a deep winter's sleep. We were able to see off the guests with no trouble, but on Christmas Eve, after three days of heavy rain, we endured another deluge. When the rains let up a little, out we trudged in our Wellies to survey the damage.

View of the pond from the house

The pond was nearly out of its banks on the long driveway side, and we could see that it had flooded the entire canal system (in place for pond overflows) beyond the bridge. But we weren't prepared for what we found once we got to the bridge.

Once a tiny drainage ditch, now a raging river

Once a driveway, now another raging river
and a lake beyond

We were able to leave the property for Christmas Eve services, but only after I decided that no one would mind if I showed up to church in my garden Wellies. We planned to have the driveway rebuilt a couple days after Christmas, but the never-ending rain delayed the project until after the New Year, which made for a long stretch of very bumpy rides.

The vegetable garden fared rather well in the midst of all of this, likely because it is perched on a hill. The raised beds drained pretty well, and I could still harvest lettuce, kale, radishes, and sugar snaps. For the first time ever, I was also prepared for cold weather, having made poly tunnels for the especially cold nights. 

Season extenders groaning under the weight of rain

The poly tunnels kept us in good veg until the middle of this month when a heavy rain late one night flattened the plastic. Then frigid temperatures moved in quickly and froze all of the rain trapped in the beds. We had ice dams in the garden. The kale, radishes, and cabbages survived, but everything else was lost. I still think the poly tunnels are fantastic, but they need a few adjustments. Since the experiment so well this year, I'm confident that they'll give us great harvests next winter when we no longer have to deal with El Niño. 

But I really can't wait for the warmer weather. These fingers are itching to get dirty again.

The Payoff for Effort

What I am pointing out is that unless you are at home

in the metaphor, unless you have had your proper poetical

education in the metaphor, you are not safe anywhere.

--Robert Frost, "Education by Poetry"      

I often refer to Robert Frost's comments on metaphor at the beginning of each semester. I feel it only fair to warn my students that I regularly speak in metaphors. I use them to help me convey significant, sometimes difficult ideas. But really, my motivation in deploying them is rather more selfish. I simply like playing with metaphors and seeing how far they will take me. They almost always break down, just as Frost said they would, but the ride is always fun for as long as it lasts.

As I crouched in the garden with my camera today, photographing the first blooms of the Japanese anemones, I felt a metaphor asserting itself in my mind. It is one that I will have to sit with for a while in order to fully understand its import.

I have wanted Japanese anemones from the moment I first saw a white variety growing in the garden of the Historic Kenmore Plantation in Fredericksburg, Virginia a few years ago. Their seemingly fragile flowering heads, held aloft by  arching stems, swayed on the September breeze. I was hooked. When I found anemones for sale at Mill Pond Gardens this summer, it only seemed appropriate that they should come home with me. They were not in flower, but with a name like 'Lucky Charm,' their color was insignificant. Standing in front of a table full of them, I looked up their general growing requirements. When I saw that they performed best in shade, their future was confirmed. They were destined for the garden I've named for my beloved Wolfie.

As is my habit, I gently placed them in the holes I had dug when I arrived home, enveloped them in lovely cow manure, and gave them a good drink. The plan was to keep them well-watered for the first two weeks and then let them get on with their new lives. After that initial period, however, they showed persistent signs of stress, a condition that only seemed to be alleviated by frequent watering, sometimes as much as two times a day. 

After a month of coping with their demands, I became a little ambivalent about these plants that I had dreamed of incorporating into my garden. They were fussy. They required too much work. I was, as Alan Titchmarsh would say, "running around like a scalded cat" to keep them happy. The emotions associated with this period ran the gamut. First there was concern, then worry, then frustration, the beginning of righteous indignation, and ultimately resignation. But I continued watering them. The question nagging at me for those few months was "Are they really worth all of this effort?"

Then the first bud appeared last week, and suddenly, despair gave way to hope.  

The first, slightly damaged, 'Lucky Charm' flower

One little flower changed everything. To the right of it was another flower-in-waiting. 

The plants still require a lot more attention than I am usually willing to give, so we are at a significant moment in their story here. Their form is the most magnificent I've ever seen in a flower. I can't explain why. But there they are, those perfect flowers, the result of incredible dedication on my part. Only two flowers have appeared on one plant, though I've planted three. Their production is incredibly insignificant, it would seem, but I still marvel at them and find myself confounded by that overwhelming question: What value is there in giving so much input for such a minimal (though breathtakingly beautiful) output?

And that is where I leave the question to you, dear readers. Take the metaphor as you wish.

Restoration

The world is too much with us: late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.

                                               --William Wordsworth

                                              

I did something today that I haven't done in far too long. I took a moment for myself.

During the walk with the dogs this morning, I tried something new, an experiment that most people would find a little strange. I closed my eyes. I let the dogs lead me. They proved themselves completely worthy of my trust. Their skills were confirmed when they started pulling me in a diagonal line, guiding me across the road just as I have done for them on countless walks and just at the same point (okay, I peeked to be sure). Leaving the leadership to them afforded me a different perspective. I listened to the frogs and the crickets sing in the still morning, felt the soft, cool breeze. I noted the complete lack of traffic noise. I heard the cadence of my shoes hitting the pavement, the syncopation of the girls' tags jingling softly as they pranced. It was an amazing experience that I wanted to last as long as possible. Of course, I appropriately opened my eyes as soon as we reached the main road again. They may know where they're headed, but they're dogs, after all. I couldn't trust that Tippy would look both ways, and Zoey is distracted by pretty much everything and could drag me to my death.

As our walk neared its conclusion and we reached the head of the driveway, making the turn toward the side steps of the house, I noticed how the morning light made my Artemisia glow. I'm quite awestruck by them. They started life inside the house this spring as seeds in a little planting module, and now they tower over me. One (when not toppling over, as seen in the photo) is over 6 feet tall. They are beautiful in full daylight, but there's something about the low light of dawn or dusk that makes the white panicles shine. All I could think about was getting into the house and grabbing my camera. For once in a great while, I had no thoughts of getting to work on time or the myriad issues that would vie for my attention once I got there. I thought only of the light, the flowers, and my camera.

The world looks different through the camera lens. It forces me to stop and absorb every element of the scene in front of me. I've spent too much time away from the garden, from my writing, from my camera, and ultimately from myself. But today, in the quietness of morning, my garden restored me, plainly and simply, just as it has so many times before, and I don't intend to allow distractions to take that peace away from me again.

Do something that is solely for yourself. Seriously, the world can wait for you.

Accounting for My Time

I've been away for a while. I reassured myself that no one would really miss my dispatches from the garden, and so I stopped sending them for a while. If you have missed them, please do let me know.

In all honesty, I've simply been wallowing in summer. Mornings are spent walking the dogs, meditating, doing yoga, and tending to the veg patch. That last bit often determines what will happen for the rest of each morning, but in the last month it mostly has demanded that I spend time in the kitchen preserving the harvests. My skin should be magnificent by now after all of the inadvertent facials I've received from the hot water bath canner. I worried a few times that I may end up pickled myself. It's been an amazing time of poring over home preservation cookbooks and mixing up all sorts of aromatic elixirs to pour over the fruits of my labor. I think I have quite a lot to show for it.

So without further delay, let me attempt to account for my time away. Hopefully you can forgive me when you've seen what I have been doing.

A nicely mixed harvest

My first successfully grown watermelon (this is Sugar Baby)

Tomato chutney and Honeyed Bread & Butter
cucumber pickles

One of many treats now in the pantry

Tomato sauce to see us through winter

How's that for a panorama?