For all the successes I have had with our new garden at Oldmeadow, there are parts of this space that defy any attempts to create beauty.  They are so awkward, so large, so weedy and so uninspiring that had I ten times the budget I am not certain I could solve them, unless that budget went so far as to allow the hire of a top landscape designer and his little magic pen.

A rare moment of beauty in the Driveway Bed, brought to you by Lycoris sqamigera and photographed at a VERY chosen angle by me. (Moral of story – never trust photographs to tell the entire truth.  See below)

But budgets here are used for superfluous things like light bulbs and college tuition, and so these inherited beds (there are two in particular that vex me) remain boring.

They remain vole-ridden, root-ridden and filled with Japanese stilt grass and shrubbery so indescribably dreary that I am lulled to sleep just staring at it.

Even mid-season attempts to tidy and neaten leave me dissatisfied. What does it matter if your magenta azaleas are pruned if you detest magenta azaleas?   What does it matter if your space-filling junipers are healthy if they represent an abdication of duty? Such things try the soul of an adventurous gardener.

My misery, in brief:

The Long Bed

This bed is a whopping 100×15 feet, and came with a mix of mite-infested azaleas, an overgrown forsythia and two American ash which have recently perished and await expensive removal.  At the time of purchase, the bed was heavily mulched which gave the impression of effortless control in the midst of chaotic nature.

I believed.  For a while.

Even weeded, the Long Bed is a study in shabby.

Not weeded, it is the stuff of which nightmares are made.

The Driveway Bed

The bed that really haunts me is an awkwardly shaped area of approximately 20x15ft that is regrettably ringed by a low stone wall, making demolition and re-design morally challenging.  The voles have an underground temple here, to which I offer the plump roots of my best hosta and my most favored stephanandra.

Yet another 60-foot naked ash sits waiting for money to rain down from the sky, and a twisted black cherry dumps web worms and stunted fruit on the driveway below.

It is here that the junipers thrive.

Ugly. Period. Black cherries litter the driveway, weeds spring up between ill-chosen plants in an awkwardly shaped space. In all – ugh.

Successes trump failures, or do they?

Yet all this would be fine.  I could live with turning my head away to stare beyond at the geometric patterns of miscanthus and canna down by the barn or to view the wild success of deep red ‘Moulin Rouge’ zinnia paired with ‘Bananarama’ lantana in the sunny beds that I have created.

The California Garden makes me smile every time I walk by.

After all, the new California Garden is coming along beautifully, ready for its first winter challenge, and the vegetable garden (now in its second season) is filling the house with vegetables and guilt, just as any respectable vegetable garden should.

The shadier beds near the house are constantly reminding me how happy I am to have shadier beds near the house, and consistently spill forth with a vigorous mix of hardy perennials and ferns, tropicals, and shrubs that make me grin.  The voles haven’t found these beds yet, or more likely, they have found them a bit too damp for their liking.

Nothing to see here folks.  Move on please.

And I could focus on these successes to the exclusion of all beds which pain me if it wasn’t for the fact that those beds of shame dominate the view from my office window.

To be squarely faced with one’s gardening ineptitude each morning is certainly humbling, but it takes a wicked ego to then sit down and pen words of horticultural advice whilst staring at it.

For that matter, those beds also dominate the view from the deck, and are thus a primary representation of the resident gardener’s actual aptitude in wrestling this land back from Mother Nature.

“If that’s the best you can do, just give it back to her.” I mutter to myself on my worst days, and then go on to imagine the snide asides from visiting gardeners underwhelmed by my design prowess.

(Though to be fair the list of gardening colleagues that deal in such petty viciousness is small compared to those that do not.)

Above all, I am shocked by my complete lack of motivation.  Is this the result of inheriting beds carved by other hands? Is there just too much area involved? Have I finally hit an age where undesirable aspects of house and garden are skipped instead of solved?  Is this why my parents’ home never changes?

In my defense I have tried. Before I understood the true scale of the deer and vole problem and the Sisyphusian aspect of pulling out stilt grass, I had dreams of a hosta kaleidoscope running through these beds, showcasing a rare beauty here and there.  It was last week that I finally realized this dream is dead – along with a three foot ‘Sun King’ Aralia cordata and a ‘Blafra’ Daphne  x transatlantica.

I’d love to show you the celery sticks of chewed hosta which dominate the back side of the Long Bed, but alas, the stiltgrass has covered them.  Maybe next spring. Ironically, you can just glimpse the beginning of more favored gardens in the sunny meadow beyond.

There you have it.  My Achilles heel.  Both of them in fact. I thought that, in the interests of transparency, you needed to know. However, when you visit, may I just ask that you look discretely away and ask me about the meadow project down by the barn instead.

This article reprinted with kind permission of The Frederick News Post

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The post Every Garden Has Its Weakness: Here’s Mine. appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

Usually, a couple of hours outside on my hands and knees is all it takes to get the wheels of the mind careening toward a publishable, if highly editable, product.  This week, it took ten minutes.

Ten minutes of repetitive grasping, pulling and tossing massive wads of reddening Japanese Stilt Grass (Microstegium vimineum) out of beds in a vain attempt to remove one twentieth of the seeds it was spilling.  At the end of six hours I practically ran for the laptop, roughly pushing aside sustenance and a recreational beverage just so I could effectively distill the essence of my vitriol.

Perhaps you are as yet unaware of this monster.  Five years ago I certainly was, but then I lived on the top of a hill in a sunnier situation.  Microstegium loves the rich soil of a floodplain, is well adapted to partial and deep shade, and flourishes along the banks of streams and rivers.  As such, it wants for nothing in my wooded stream valley.

This once-bed is besieged by microstegium – which is choking out the hosta and ferns and just starting to set seed heads.  A prime time to get out there and get it out.

It is a grass.  A soft flowing grass that can illicit soft flowing comments from visitors that have never been up to their gardener’s hocks in it.  “How lovely!  How green! How well it grows in shade!” they insist.

And…I weakly nod in agreement.  If my entire property consisted of hard-to-mow slopes or stream banks, I might not take issue.  As it is, I actually dabble in growing other plants. And that’s something that microstegium cannot allow. At 2-3 feet tall, it roots at each node, creeping throughout beds already rife with seedlings.  It’s tough to compete.

It is of course an invasive weed.  It is of course, from east Asia.  And like ailanthus, Japanese beetles, brown marmorated stink bugs and Hello Kitty, there is very little we can do at this point but pray for a natural predator.

It is thought that the first seeds were brought to the United States in shipping containers containing fine china. Anyone who has created three foot stacks of the stuff only to fall, exhausted, onto one of them can attest to its fine cushioning properties and remarkable resiliency, but it does surprise me that this annual weed was first identified in Tennessee rather than the porcelain-hungry suburbs of Connecticut. Nearly a century later it’s in 26 states – many residents of which strongly prefer Dixie to Mikasa, but who will nonetheless pay a hefty price for the dinnerware choices of others.

A morning’s worth of weeding microstegium and garlic mustard ends with a huge pile that I could conceivably use to ship fine bone china back to China.

Microstegium seeds last up to five years in the soil, possibly more – each plant contributing as many as 1,000 seeds per cycle. Be warned: If you’re lucky enough to have little in your garden right now, those are the kind of numbers that keep you up at night if you let it get established.

In our climate, you will see germination in mid-May as soil temperatures warm, but germination conditions will continue well into July, so spending 72 hours weeding a large bed over Independence weekend is not only futile but farcical.

The gardener’s mission is two-fold: Keep it OUT of established beds and slowly eradicate it from other areas where it has taken over – working towards a point where odd seedlings are easily removed.

So.  How do we do that?

Thick mulching:  Laying down cardboard and topping it with up to four inches of coarse mulch will prevent seeds from germinating.  But you must keep on top of it and not allow neighboring stands to seed into decomposing mulch.

Dense planting:    Deer have little taste for it, which is ironic, as they have a great taste for hosta, whose large leaves do an excellent job of smothering out seedlings.  When my dog does his duty, the hosta grow lush and the microstegium wait it out in the soil seed bank.  Geranium macrorrhizum, Begonia grandis, rhodos, hydrangea and others do a similar job.

Herbicide: A pre-emergent such as Preen can allow you to weed a section and keep it weed free, even if you aren’t able to weed and mulch the rest before it sets seed.  For those who prefer a Scorch and Burn approach, it is responsive to glyphosate  (as is the surrounding landscape), but this will not affect the seeds in the soil.

Hand pulling: As weeding goes, it’s one of the easiest, particularly when tall; but timing is everything.  If you weed early and neglect to mulch, you will weed again.  This is fine if you’re young. Otherwise, wait until mid or late August (just before it sets seed) to pull it out. New seedlings won’t have enough time to set new seed before the frost kills them.  Then, get that mulch down and start waiting out the seed bank timer, weeding as soon as you see a stray offender.

More information and ID photos are available through the websites of the USDA and the National Park Service.  If you’re starting to see more of this invasive weed, act swiftly before you’ve got a problem on your hands.  – MW

This article reprinted with the permission of The Frederick News Post

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The post Portrait of a Weed: Japanese Stilt Grass appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

Many believe wholeheartedly that the time to plan your garden is in the depths of winter. Perhaps this is true in terms of the minutiae; but after years of implementing the overreach that winter weather inspires in the bedraggled, I cannot recommend it.  No, the time to plan next year’s garden is now, before the current garden has left us and while the gardener remains firmly chained to its demands.

It is all well and good to plan a new bed while the seeds of crabgrass and plantain lie perfectly dormant in dead looking sod.  You are being reasonable, you think. Till it, edge it, plant it, enjoy it.  What could possibly go wrong? The soil will smell so good – so life-giving after a winter cooped up with scale-infested ficus.

Come March the deed is joyfully done (along with three deeds more) and then, everything unravels as beds of the previous year’s wise winter thoughts call for immediate assistance.   Chaos reigns. The chastising begins.  It’s only June 10^th.

No, I say again.  Plan now.  Only now do you still feel the true weight of your workload, and only now can you make sensible decisions that involve adding to it.

For example, for over five weeks now I have kept a weeping nootka cypress sitting balled and burlapped in a seven gallon pot – all for lack of a decently dug hole.  Each morning I throw yet another bucket of water on it, mumble embarrassed, empty words of promise and apology, and skulk away to easier jobs.  The woman who performs this ritual every morning is not the same woman who will consider ordering sixteen chionanthus to line the drive next year. I have thus made a stern note in my journal to be read in January.

A friend writes me yesterday to remind me of the plant swap next weekend.  I reply asking if I can bring my entire garden and let the woodland and meadow take back what is rightfully theirs.  Are these the words of a woman on top of her workload?

And I could go on.

This is the mind and body you want planning next year’s horticultural feats.  There is little point in creation if the maintenance is beyond your ability to cope.  I liken it to preparing for a Christmas party with three little children underfoot.  By the time you have artfully arranged the cocktail area, they have gnawed on the buffet candles and grabbed white tablecloths with grubby hands.  Mother Nature is just as cruel and she never takes a nap during the growing season.

Opening your curtains to scenes like this one on the first day of Spring (2015) will inspire reactionary, overreaching plans in a gardener’s mind. Stick with what you planned in autumn.

There are also practical reasons for beginning the planning process now.  For the most part herbaceous perennials and deciduous shrubs are in leaf, and spacing considerations cannot be ignored or glossed over.  You have a good feel for the walkability and flow of the garden (particularly in the early evening with a recreational beverage in hand), and see where a specimen shrub might make a strong impact, or where the limbing up of a small tree might create a new space for a bistro table and chairs.

Additionally, we are at the end of our struggles with the vegetable garden and our processing of the harvest, which gives us immediate, relevant insight as to our needs for next year. Perhaps it is obvious now that you only need four tomato plants instead of sixteen. In February you will dream of fresh salsa and start sixteen if you haven’t given it thought in October.  With the bed space you can plant a cutting garden instead, or leave it as a nursery bed for new plants and tender starts.

Did you plan one bed too many last year? Consider using it as a cutting garden bed or a nursery bed for small starts and tender cuttings.

Who knows? Next year may also be the year for an ambitious building project: a greenhouse, a potting shed, a retaining wall or raised beds.  Figuring out where they might fit in the landscape – to enhance, not dominate – are thoughts for the autumn gardener.

All this to say, it’s time to have a pre-season meeting between yourself and your garden and make notes of the discussion.  If you have time you can take advantage of the weather and implement some planting projects now, and then shift neatly into auto-pilot next January.

Take a walk.

Bring your journal.

Be stern with yourself.

The delights of the new season are only delightful until they tarnish the delights of the old. Creativity by all means, but creativity with reality in mind.  Don’t let winter sway your feelings on the matter.

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A little shifting of the pot ghetto yesterday revealed one too many plants happily rooted in the soil beyond their pots.

It is good soil certainly, and I do not blame them, but the discovery is an inconvenient one.  I have been quite content to believe that a healthy three foot dawn redwood was satisfied with one gallon of cheap potting soil for the last six months. To find it was quietly looking elsewhere is a slap on this gardener’s wrist. Holes will need to be dug today to placate drying roots, but where?

Perhaps if I arrange them differently they’ll look better.

Yes.  The raison d’etre of the Pot Ghetto. As answer to the eternal question, ‘Where indeed?’

After the un-earthing, I stood there for a while surveying this collection of pots, flats, five-gallon buckets and old dishpans filled with bog plants for which there is no bog, and considered the folly of it all – past and present.

A shameful pattern

Just two weeks ago I went to a plant swap with the firm resolve to bring home no more than one plant for every one I brought – seven in all. Or better yet, to sit on my hands and watch other weak-minded gardeners make fools of themselves.

Even my potting bench was full this season.

However (and there is sadly always a however), there were many leftover plants scratching like orphans at the window and I was encouraged by my wicked host to take more.  I did, and the number will not be revealed in this particular column – but I’ll share with you the shaming.

As the swap was conducted at a private home with a narrow circular driveway, we lined up our cars at the end of the day to grab the plants over which we’d just wrestled.  I knew the driver behind me – a Master Gardener whose garden I have visited and enjoyed, and a woman who had just shown an outrageous amount of self-control in the face of excellent plants going begging.

I helped her with her few treasures and then proceeded to block her in for about ten minutes as I ran back and forth throwing [yet more] pots into the back of my dusty Subaru.

Just when she thought she could finally release the handbrake and go, I would head back to my stash and return with another flat of something wonderful, or a cast-off fountain, or a garden cart of all things. On the ninth trip, all the while cringing to the very soles of my muddy boots, I realized there were other amused witnesses watching me with empty arms and wise eyes.

I mumbled something about having a lot of space to fill, wrenched my back in my haste to make the whole embarrassing spectacle come to an end, and drove home wondering what evil demon had invaded my body and once again smothered all pretense at resolve.

We always have a good reason

We know we want these plants. We know we won’t find them again a) at this price or b) in this season.  We know we’ll only be visiting [insert city name/famous garden/rare nursery] once this year. We also know (all too well) that we haven’t a staff – a kindly old gardener with a canvas apron who takes the pots from the car, tips his hat and says “Where do you want them ma’am?” (Preferably in a West Country accent.)

We weigh these things one against each other, make strong promises to ourselves and our spouses, and thirty shameful minutes later we’ve got Daphnes and amorphophallus getting cozy in the back seat.

Perhaps it’s because there are moments when it all works – when the 36 quarts of dwarf mondo grass you bought for a dollar each suddenly become the answer to ‘what to do with the walkway under the pergola.’ But for every story of successful plant hoarding, there is an equal and opposite story of guilt, of death by neglect, of unsightly clutter….of picking up that dawn redwood after six months and feeling the soil under your feet give slightly.

If you suffer from the same weakness, the only answer I can give you is one I occasionally utilize to rein in both my plant hoarding and my life-long Doritos craving: a total lack of access.

No access – no problem.

When one is not physically faced with one’s addiction (Lowe’s death racks, Big Bloomers Nursery in North Carolina, rare plant swaps and Cool Ranch flavor), one cannot partake. One cannot miserably fail.   This means never entering a big box store from any door other than the front entrance, always taking one’s husband to North Carolina with one, and never hitting the snack aisle in the grocery store. Believe me, it works – it kept both my fingers and my driveway clean last year.

But one must turn one’s back on so much.  So so much.

My personal nemesis: the death racks at Lowes (particularly at this time of year).

I have of course fallen off the wagon in both cases, but yesterday the rooted redwood told me that it’s time to address the plant hoarding.

Damn I’ll miss those winter sales.

These moments of clarity – however fleeting – can cut down on the clutter in our lives if we give them the attention they deserve.  And we are all the better for it. Guilt weighs just as heavy on the shoulders as Doritos weigh on the hips. – MW

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Now that the garden has gently shifted into architecture and mush, it’s time to reflect on the plants we grew this season and decide whether we’ll continue to grow them for seasons to come.

Whether sexy new introductions or old favorites, plants excite each one of us for totally different reasons and what lights up my world may only cast a weak CFL shadow on yours, so before I share my favorites from this year, I’ll also share the characteristics that make me sit up and take notice:

For ornamentals, it must thrive in the vagaries of my Mid-Atlantic Zone 7 climate which taketh away just as much as it giveth. The General Wow Factor (GWF), must be high, as evidenced by how often I find myself standing in front of it grinning. I’m looking for a strong foliage presence, whether for shape, color, texture or height; and if it flowers, a good balance between blooms and structure. Envy also plays a tiny role.  I’m not going to pretend I don’t relish the sound of “What is THAT?!?”

For edibles, the production vs. work ratio must be well-balanced and it should display well in the garden and on the plate – – but I value taste above all else.

Characteristics that don’t interest me:

1. How ridiculously rare it is.
2. How difficult it is to grow.
3. How it would be beautiful if it were grown somewhere else.

Thus, I give you my top performers this year in three categories: ornamental perennials & shrubs, ornamental annuals/half-hardy perennials, and edibles.  Next year I’ll try to convince my editor I need more copy space for bulbs & conifers. Most photos were taken in my garden, but every once and awhile I completely neglect to capture a beautiful plant on film and must rely on the photos of others.

Why am I using Latin names you ask, irritably? Because if I recommend sword fern, I want to make sure that you know I’m talking about Nephrolepis obliterata, not Polystichum munitum which both go by that name.  (It’s an old argument and I’m not giving up – Google will make it less painful for you and common names are used as well.)

Some are new introductions for 2018 (perk of being a garden columnist), some are old favorites, and some may have been completely forgotten by the trade (which is why we should always go to plant swaps).

However they got into my garden, they absolutely stood out once they were there.

Favorite ornamental perennials & shrubs

Hydrangea paniculata ‘Baby Lace®’ – I don’t take the job of recommending a new panicle hydrangea lightly.  There are many out there and if you can see the form of the plant through the ridiculously large clusters of blossom, you’re lucky.  The compact variety ‘Baby Lace’ strikes a terrific balance, and as a bonus, is a very strongly stemmed plant.  Better than ‘Little Lime’ in my opinion. Sun/pt. shade.

Hydrangea paniculata ‘Baby Lace’

Ligularia dentata ‘Othello’ – I grabbed three of these from Cavanos Perennials this spring, gave away two and two months later wished I hadn’t been so damned generous.  Large dark green leaves are underlain with silvery purple, and in late summer, bright yellow-orange blooms shoot up on four foot stems.  In a partially shaded, moist position, this is a plant that makes you look like a professional.  You can pass on ‘Desdemona’ – she’s as wispy and wet as her namesake. Pt. shade.

Ligularia dentata ‘Othello’ with autumn fern (Dryopteris erythrosora)

Selaginella braunii – A cool little non-fern that brings a new texture to my fernery with wide flat fronds shaped like arborvitae foliage.  Still standing strong in late November whilst all around is mush and madness. Pt. shade/shade.

Selaginella braunii with Pulmonaria ‘High Contrast’ – another great perennial. (Garden of Tammy Schmitt, VA)

Carex buchananii ‘Red Rooster’ – Before you rubbish the idea of having ‘brown grass’ in your garden, consider the contrasts to be had.  Besides, ‘Red Rooster’ is not brown – it’s a multi-hued kaleidoscope of burnished threads  – and it’s vertical.  Convinced?  I should think so. Sun.

Carex buchananii ‘Red Rooster’ (foreground) provides a terrific naturalistic contrast to this trough planted primarily with the greens and whites of gardenia, euonymus and other carex.

…and on its own in the summer garden. (Photo courtesy of Pan American Seed)

Helleborus x ericsmithii ‘Ice Breaker Max’  One is tempted to say “there is no other hellebore for me,” but one would be caught out in one’s lie by one’s garden. Nevertheless, ‘Ice Breaker Max’ is an incredible up-facing hybrid that is so generous with its pure white blooms and so long lasting that I want to stop gritting my teeth against the cold and whistle instead.  If you see it, trip the guy who’s holding it, tuck it under your arm and run.  Shade/Sun.

H. x ericsmithii ‘Ice Breaker Max’ – a beacon of light in January and February.

Callicarpa x ‘Pearl Glam®’  I have grown C. americana for many years, and it was wonderful to have this dark-foliaged cousin join the party last year.  This year, bigger, more upright, and definitely worth watching for future greatness. Sun.

Callicarpa ‘Pearl Glam’ (photo credit: Proven Winners)

Rosa hybrida ‘At Last®’ – Delicate true salmon color (I’m not talking about that bright orange farmed nonsense), incredibly long season, and a fragrance to boot. This landscape (or shrub) rose is aptly named ‘At Last’ – I loved it all season, but when it continued to bloom in fall against reddening ilex berries I was lost. Sun.

‘At Last’ landscape rose with Itea virginica ‘Henry’s Garnet’

Mahonia eurybracteata ‘Soft Caress’ & ‘Marvel’ – For those who have never warmed to the coarseness of M. aquifolium, these new introductions may have you rethinking the genus. ‘Soft Caress’ is airy and delicate beyond words, and requires a bit of shelter from wind. ‘Marvel’ is a slimmer, trimmer mahonia – steadfastly upright and bursting with blooms. Pt. shade.

M. eurybracteata ‘Soft Caress’

Ligustrum sinense ‘Sunshine’ – Not sure why this one surprised me (the hype has been fierce), but it did.  A fast growing burst of chartreuse foliage with a fine, touchable habit. GWF on this one very high, particularly when you remember that it’s sterile and won’t take over the garden. Great as a low hedge. Sun/pt.shade.

Stachys byzantina ‘Helene von Steine’ – I feel as if this lamb’s ear should have a bullet list of credentials after its name.  Weed-smothering. Sun or shade loving. Robust grower. Large, silvery grey foliage without the pain of heavy, awkward flowering stems. The list goes on but I mustn’t. Sun/shade.

‘Helene von Steine’ stachys is a great contrast to berrying shrubs – particularly red ones like this ‘Winter Red’ ilex

Favorite annuals & half-hardy perennials

Dahlia ‘Mystic Illusion’ – I’m a sucker for black foliage and yellow flowers on dahlias and this one was more vigorous than average and sported a rosy tinge to boot.  It also gave birth to an impressive amount of tubers so I’m all set for next year. Sun.

Dahlia ‘Mystic Illusion’ (photo credit: Proven Winners)

Nephrolepis obliterata – (sword or Kimberly queen fern) – Walk past the Boston ferns and head straight for this Australian sword fern.  They filled whiskey barrels without breaking a sweat this season and lasted through the frosts right up until the freeze.  I could have brought them inside, but after consulting with a skeptical friend who is better at this than I am, has a greenhouse, and has ‘been there, done that,’ I decided to shell out next spring for a barrel refill. Sun/pt. shade.

A container arrangement with Nephrolepis obliterata (Kimberly queen or sword fern)

Ensete ventricosum ‘Maurelii’ – Impact.  Period.  My three-year-old plant (now dug and stored in the garage) was 12 feet tall this year and even made non-gardeners pay attention. A red banana that just keeps getting better – and readily available at many garden centers. Sun/pt. shade.

‘Maurelii’ at the beginning of the season…

…and by the end.

Brugmansia arborea – There’s every chance that with a foot of mulch, this gobsmackingly beautiful angel’s trumpet might make it through the winter.  Even if it doesn’t, I’ll be growing it again.  And again. Sun.

Brugmansia arborea with Zinnia ‘Moulin Rouge’ and Yucca filamentosa ‘Color Guard’

Zinnia elegans ‘Moulin Rouge’ – A custom seed mix from Renee’s Garden Seeds that focuses on deep blue reds and large blooms.  I’ll be picking next year’s zinnias specifically to pair with this one. What a stunner. Sun.

‘Moulin Rouge’ zinnia with Ruellia brittoniana ‘Purple Showers’

Lantana ‘Luscious™ Bananarama™’ – So upright and vigorous it made me start adding lantana to the annuals list. Features a strong woody branching habit that you’d swear was hardy.  You’d be wrong. Sun.

‘Luscious Bananarama’ Lantana with zinnia (photo credit: Proven Winners)

Lomandra longifolia ‘Platinum Beauty™’ On the fence over whether this grass like perennial will successfully overwinter in my garden but not on the fence over how much it added to the garden this year. Giving one to a friend with a greenhouse as insurance. Hope I get it back. Sun.

Ficus tikoua – This fig been a fun addition to my California Garden this year, but the jury is out as to whether it will be root hardy. (It’s evergreen in Z9-11.)  Planted a rooted cutting in May and in two months I had a ground hugging, rock embellishing, large-leafed crawler that looked as if I’d placed its thick brown stems precisely where I wanted them.  Let’s hope all those rocks and grit encourage it to keep breathing – I’ll keep you posted. Sun.

Lomandra longifolia ‘Platinum Beauty’ & Ficus tikoua

Ocimum kilimandscharicum × basilicum ‘Dark Opal’ – This incredible African blue basil was still growing beautifully after a couple frosts.  The hard freeze finally knocked it down.  A bushy, sterile hybrid that will not stop blooming, yet the foliage is just tremendous. Sun.

‘Dark Opal’ African Blue Basil (bottom rt). ‘Siam Queen’ Thai basil (bottom left) is almost weedy in comparison.

Xanthosoma aurea ‘Lime Zinger’ – The two foot long chartreuse leaves had me speechless, but that’s a good thing cause I’m running a little high on word count this week. General Wow Factor 10++ Sun/pt. shade.

Xanthosoma aurea ‘Lime Zinger’

Favorite edibles

Tomato ‘Oh Happy Day’ – This tomato tops the edibles list for strength, health & vigor – and the taste is a great balance of acid and sweet.  It’s rare to find all of that in one tomato, and I predict that this new Burpee intro could give Better Boy a run for his money in the future.  If you see seeds or plants, grab them and try it for yourself.

‘Oh Happy Day’

Tomato ‘Midnight Snack’ – An AAS (All-America Selection) Winner for 2017, this is one of the most beautiful and tasty snacking tomatoes I have ever grown.  Lasted right up until the end of the season where some of my other cherry-type tomatoes had given up the ghost.  Highly recommended.

‘Midnight Snack’ tomato

Pepper ‘Take Two Director’s Cut’ – New for 2018, this Burpee introduction is a terrific, prolific combo of two tasty snack peppers – ‘Lemon Dream’ and ‘Tangerine Dream.’ Fun for containers.  Oddly enough I never shot photos of this lovely plant, but Burpee was kind enough to oblige with a pic of crunchy, beautiful results.

Take Two Director’s Cut Peppers (photo courtesy of Burpee®)

Beans ‘Magic Beanstalk’ – An heirloom scarlet runner that proved its worth by reseeding itself in my garden this year.  If you cut the beans into inch long segments you can throw them into everything from stir fries to casseroles.  It’s always a bonus when a vegetable is incredibly ornamental as well as delicious – and ‘Magic Beanstalk’ is all that AND vigorous.

‘Magic Beanstalk’ scarlet runner bean

Cucumber ‘Chelsea Prize’ – You buy them wrapped in plastic – grow them yourself instead.  Long and straight, crunchy and great with or without peel.  Add a bit of oil and vinegar and you have an instant salad. Another favorite from Renee’s Garden Seeds, for which, surprisingly, I must beg photos.  This year I grew another slicing cuke –  ‘Suyo Long’ – but in the end preferred the smooth skin and uniformity of ‘Chelsea Prize.’

‘Chelsea Prize’ cucumber (photo credit: Renee’s Garden Seeds)

Lettuce ‘Garden Babies’ – The true twelve-dollar-salad butterhead with a quick maturity.  I have loved and will always love. Whether planted in the garden itself or in containers, it grows vigorously and beautifully with yummy crisp hearts and tender leaves.  However, be warned: actually picking this piece of art is difficult when you know it’s going to leave a gap in your picture-perfect potager!

‘Garden Babies’ butterhead lettuce from Renee’s Seeds

Bushel & Berry™ ‘Peach Sorbet’ – A compact blueberry with lots of berries and exquisite fall color in shades of salmon and red.  My favorite so far of the Bushel & Berry line of compact fruiting shrubs. Keeping containers moist can be a challenge, but absolutely necessary for blueberries.  Consider ceramic or plastic containers over terracotta for more moisture retention.

‘Peach Sorbet’ from Bushel & Berry™ growing in a patio planter. (Photo credit: Bushel & Berry™)

Winter Squash ‘Climbing Honey Nut’ – A mini variety from Renee’s Garden Seeds with lots of baby butternuts perfect for two single servings.  They store very well and can spend a couple weeks decorating an autumn table before you actually eat them – bonus!

‘Climbing Honey Nut’ butternut squash

Summer Squash ‘Gold Rush’ – An old AAS Winner that wins every year in my garden. It has a beautiful waxy cast to it that it almost looks fake, but the texture is firm and the taste is excellent.

‘Gold Rush’ summer squash

Have your own list?  I’d love to hear a few of your favorites below.

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Reprinted with the kind permission of The Frederick News Post

The post End of season wrap up: My favorite plants of 2017 appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

Well, that’s December over with.  I say this with a great deal of regret, as December is my resting month in the garden and it is always too short. Last night I happened across a differing opinion in an early essay* by British celebrity gardener and writer Monty Don. He sharpened his tongue against the ‘clumsy life’ of December – a state of neither here nor there – and was glad, on his garden’s behalf, to see the back of it.

I attribute such enthusiasm for the end of the calendar year to the hallucinogenic effects of the Gulf Stream – the ocean current that, along with other despicably unfair meteorological phenomena, protects the UK and its inhabitants from the harsher realities of winter in latitudes above 50°N.

Culturally, such weather also makes gardening compulsory for adults over 30 and allows words such as ‘celebrity’ and ‘gardener’ to be used together in a sentence without confusion. This doesn’t tend to happen in Irkutsk.

Back in the Mid-Atlantic United States (where this doesn’t happen either), this garden writer would prefer to sharpen her tongue upon a more deserving month.  January doesn’t hand you a mug of holiday glühwein while you peruse contemptuously clever essays in your favorite yellow chair, nor does it permit ‘do-overs’ when the thermostat fails your barn-housed collection of succulents.

It is a physically and mentally punishing month – particularly for those of us raised on milder winters in far-off places. The excitement of what Don termed the “jollity-blip of Christmas” is firmly in the rear-view mirror, and gifted chocolate boxes have been emptied of all but their papery husks and rejected bits of fruity fondant.   Exit Jolly Elf. Enter Screaming Banshee.

The situation is grim, certainly, but it’s not Minnesota-grim and there is work to be done.  Tackling this work is what gets me through the long days of January (that paradoxically end in the late afternoon). Once one has girded one’s loins and various other extremities against the bite of northeast winds, it is a month of brush clearing, bonfire building, structure repairing, garden planning and constant monitoring.

Of these, my greatest satisfaction is found in editing and clearing large areas of opportunistic ailanthus, barberry, wine berry, honeysuckle and multiflora rose that proliferate along the edges of the woodland and in areas that I would see cultivated.  Though I chafe against the cold weather, it is the tool by which these wildly impenetrable giants are reduced to naked or semi-naked states.

Clearing brush right now allows me to showcase trees like this redbud (and many other saplings) for the spring show.

What might have taken hours during the growing season is now the work of a moment. It is easy to see the stems to be cut – the long vines that snake through other, wanted shrubs – the individual canes to be pulled roughly out of frozen ground.  Once again, the bonfire pile builds and we make headway against the encroaching green (not to mention against an extra ten pounds gifted by the holiday season).

This very physical work makes January bearable and I cannot recommend it enough.  Call it an endorphin high or self-delusion, but I feel capable and strengthened after such battles. As a bonus, I end each day feeling as if I am running out of winter months.  An enviable – if bizarre – state of mind.

Meanwhile, on the “please-don’t-make-me” end of things, there is monitoring – my greatest weakness. To observe, one must move slowly, and the difficulty here should be obvious to most readers who poked their heads outside this morning only to have them coated in a thin layer of ice.  Where is my gin & tonic?  Where is that warm scent of vegetation and growth?  Where indeed my will to live?

Nowhere, it seems.  I must instead clench my teeth and pick a day for my rounds when the wind is relatively low and the temperatures have soared into the mid- 30’s.

Tree cages must be checked against over-familiar bucks. Camellias that stand against a sheltered north wall must be examined for adequate moisture. The leftover pots in summer’s pot ghetto must be kept upright and drainage holes cleared of leaves occasionally.  The chickens must be watched carefully – particularly those who inconveniently put off molting for colder months.  It’s a whole month full of monitoring ‘musts’ with a deadly ‘or else’ hanging above our heads.

But again, this isn’t Minnesota, and I find such comparisons comforting when I can’t feel my toes any longer.  Whatever outrageous numbers are flashing on my weather station each morning, they are flashing far more outrageously there. Even a few stolen Gulf Stream moments with Monty Don in a yellow chair can’t make that any better for them. – MW

* ‘Aconites and Snowdrops’ from his column in the Observer, January 12, 1997

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Reprinted with the kind permission of The Frederick News Post.

The post My Stiff Upper Lip Has Frozen In Place appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

If you look carefully, there are very few places teeming with more stories than an airport terminal. In more innocent days when such things were still allowed, I’d hang out occasionally at the international arrivals gate watching people reconnect after time apart. The idea that I should have so much free time on my hands to watch complete strangers in their more intimate moments astounds me now, but there it is.

On my way to the land of milk and honey…or at least, wine and cheese.

These days, finding myself at an airport means finding a plug before someone else does in order to file an article on time or wistfully watching toddlers with overlarge backpacks following their harried parents.

But this is not about airports, nor is it about transforming grueling journeys into nostalgia with a good pair of rose colored glasses.

It’s about winter. And our issues with same. And I just happen to be sitting in an airport trying to get away from all of mine. Shortly I’ll be winging my way back to parents, siblings, edible nephews and nieces, and an early February temperature that is liable to put the California ski industry into Chapter 11 once and for all.

Where’s Winter?

There, in that land of milk and honey, winter is conspicuously absent this year. Hillsides of rosemary are carpeted in bloom – lemons hang ripe and heavy in patio pots. Even as I type, my sister is carefully watching her bursting beehives for signs of swarming. She is also carefully watching her well for signs of failure; but then, I have to think this is just what rural Californians do in between pitchers of sangria on four-season decks.

Spring color a month early.

There is a vinegar-tinge to my words certainly, but you and I, well-versed in the ways of ice and wind know why. Before I left for the airport this morning, winter and I had a quiet walk together in the garden and I did not come away from that conversation feeling cheerful. This has been a tough season with some extended cold snaps, and with weeks still to go, it could get even tougher.

Last weekend when an audience member at a Maryland Horticultural Society seminar asked me brightly if I conducted tours through my garden, I nearly spat out my coffee. I don’t even want to tour my garden at the moment.

Where’s Winter? Camped out at my place.

Frankly, it looks like a war zone. Thanks to the ash borer, we’ve just had another round of bank account cripplers taken down, and the mess is indescribable. Even setting aside the real work of log splitting and brush burning for a moment, I’ll be picking up bushels of brittle six-inch sticks for the next three years and my back aches thinking about it.

Meanwhile, back in real life….

Recently planted zone-pushers for which I had sandy soil and high hopes are all in various stages of rot or death by desiccation. The evergreen bones planted in this four-year old garden are still tiny – and look more like afterthoughts than specimens of great interest. Meanwhile, the chickens are scratching at the root balls of everything else. Certainly I could pen them up, but if something is actually taking pleasure in the garden right now, it seems a pity to spoil it.

With such worries and inadequacies hanging over my Mid-Atlantic head, it is easy to sit in an airport and fantasize over the sangria-infused life of the Californian gardener, but the realities are very different, and I must reluctantly admit to them.

Paradise or purgatory?

Not a hundred yards from a pot of those infamous patio lemons, my sister and her husband are feverishly clearing brush in a vain attempt to retain their home insurance for another year. The once great state of California is no longer so much the land of milk and honey as the land of fire and mud, and the insurance companies are fleeing by the hundreds.

Last year, this lemon and the canyon views off my sister’s deck were within one wind change of being blackened. Others weren’t so lucky. Wildfires are a constant threat in this part of the world.

There is always the threat of wells running dry, and my snarkiness aside, no amount of sangria can make that any better. There are simply a lot of people competing for a finite amount of resources. The ones that actually have land and wells to keep them up at night are the lucky ones.

In a casual conversation with a fellow traveler heading home to San Rafael this morning, she admitted to paying rent of $4000 for a two bedroom apartment with ‘amenities.’ “Pool?” I asked, trying to wrap my head around what she’d just said. “No, no pool.” “Community garden area?” I tried again. She shook her head no. She had a patio though and wanted to grow things.

I rummaged around, gave her a copy of my book and only just stopped myself from giving her the name of my realtor. Go East, young woman! Go east and find a town without a Whole Foods!

Winter in rural Northern Virginia gifts me with many issues, but not one of them is a $4000 bill in my mailbox every month for the luxury of two bedrooms and a manicured common area. Four thousand bucks can buy a lot of sangria – and that stuff goes down just as well on a Virginian deck as it does on a Californian one.

Reprinted with the kind permission of The Frederick News Post

The post East Coast / West Coast: We’ve All Got Our Issues appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

About two years ago in the early winter months, I spied three pileated woodpeckers on an ash tree outside my office window and immediately felt like an Audubon rock star.  These are large, colorful birds – the sight of which gives the amateur birder a feeling of accomplishment. The sight of three sent this ignoramus into rapture.

An adult pileated woodpecker. (c) bthompson2001 www.fotosearch.com

Both were attacking the bark of the tree a little roughly for my liking, but I figured that they were unlikely to bite the hand that fed them and kill the tree in their enthusiasm.

What I didn’t know at the time was the tree was riddled with the dreaded Emerald Ash Borer and living on borrowed time.  The woodpeckers were merely opportunists – looking for ash borer larvae in pupal chambers underneath the outer bark and taking off whacking great rectangular sections in their quest.

Pileated woodpeckers are nothing if not thorough.

Emerald Ash Borer: Killer of Trees

I’d been given pamphlets over the years on Emerald Ash Borer, responsible for the deaths of tens of millions of ash trees on the East Coast & sections of the Midwest over the last fifteen years,  but like all pamphlets that don’t apply to you until they do, I discarded it.  Besides, I still felt a twinge of annoyance every time I thought of having to buy overpriced firewood at overpriced campgrounds over the last few summers instead of bringing our own.  How bad could this bug really be?

An adult Emerald Ash Borer (photo credit: Pennsylvania Department of Conservation and Natural Resources – Forestry , Bugwood.org)

Well, it turns out Karma bites.  This bug is very bad.

One short year later, that ash tree was dead, completely naked from the waist up and the woodpeckers had started on the one behind it.  Simultaneously, the rest of the massive ash trees that make up a good deal of the woodlands around us were being methodically killed, undressed and discarded.  There’s an original Netflix series there somewhere, but good taste (and no doubt my editor) prevent me from suggesting it.

Up until that point, I don’t think we realized just how many ash trees we had. Now we could pick them out just on the strength of their underwear.  Suddenly our house was surrounded by dead or dying trees and the health of our roof and/or bank account looked very bleak. The option of expensive treatment, whilst conceivable for a solitary prized ash on a small lot, was out of the question on a ten-acre woodland heavily infested by the pest.

Emerald Ash Borer: Taker of Cash

So five weeks ago we sold our bodies to science and had four trees near the house professionally removed.  And, as our bodies didn’t fetch quite as much as they might have when we were 25, we left one worrying tree for my husband’s chainsaw – one that was leaning away from the house. He put it on the 27-page Oldmeadow To-Do List to be done just as soon as the wood and debris of the others could be cleared.

A lot of trees. A lot of work. A lot of money.

And as we sat listening to the howling of the March 2^nd Nor’easter at 6.30 in the morning, sipping our coffee and congratulating ourselves on our proactive approach to home preservation, the damn thing threw five of its massive branches straight through the ceiling and deck.

It’s interesting and a bit shaming to reflect upon the things that go through one’s mind when something unexpected and dangerous happens.  Ever the shepherd of his flock, my husband shouted for the children in upstairs bedrooms as he grabbed my arm and bodily pulled me out of the living room.

I however concentrated on not spilling my coffee in the turmoil of being so pulled. Later, I assured my children that I loved them just as much as their father, but coffee is hell to shift from upholstery.

Emerald Ash Borer: Smasher of Things

Almost artistic, but for the mess at ground level.

The mess was truly ridiculous.  Sheetrock, shingles and insulation littered every surface, and sticking through the cathedral ceiling were three unexplainably attractive ash branches – adding a touch of installation art to an otherwise vast sea of white.

Outside, the deck had been pummeled – railings torn, furniture smashed, and the promise of early spring garden parties smashed right along with it.

The chimney was cracked and tiny pieces of lichen-covered ash branches covered every square inch of decking. An hour later the power went out and we were left to clean up in cold and darkness – the only running water running in the creek nearby.

On the plus side, kindling for the fire was plentiful and conveniently located.

Over the next four days I came to understand why women died by the time they were 45 in 1850.  And perhaps not only died, but died with a smile on their heavily creased faces – bone-thankful for a rest.

I also came to understand how they made it as long as they did – buoyed up by the generosity and spirit of small communities pulling together in times of crisis.

At this time of year, things normally look pretty grim. The dead ash took things from ‘grim’ to ‘depressing’ in three seconds.

The deck in happier days.

Emerald Ash Borer: Connector of Friends

To stare at such a mess is to come face to face with just how little you are and how tiny your back feels.  Our friends didn’t let us stay in that dark place long.  Figuratively or literally.  Hot showers were offered, meals given, and that greatest of all things tendered and delivered: physical labor.

They came out in droves. The remains of the wicked tree were felled. Truckloads of firewood were cut, split, loaded, unloaded and a bonfire was made of the rest. Chairs were unfolded. Beers were consumed.  Jokes were made.

At the end of the last evening my husband and I stood alone before the smoldering remains of those ninety-foot ash trees and I quoted Gerald Manley Hopkins as we watched the blue-bleak embers fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion. I don’t think he was listening – his thoughts were firmly elsewhere.

Perhaps with those trees, perhaps with our friends, perhaps with the work yet to do.

Or, perhaps with that tiny shimmering insect merely following its bliss and making such a mess of things.

For up-to-date information on The Emerald Ash Borer, its current spread, and how to deal with this destructive insect on your property, please visit The Emerald Ash Borer Information Network or University of Maryland Extension Service.

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Reprinted with the kind permission of The Frederick News Post

The post Ashes to Ashes: The Legacy of The Emerald Ash Borer appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

Not satisfied with feeling overwhelmed with spring cleaning, spring wardrobe changeover, spring home repairs and spring holiday plans, I thought it might be clever to go outside last week, pick up a trowel and increase my anxiety in the spring garden.

Beginning the process means a shift in priorities and a horrifying realization of everything that has to be done….right now. It’s easy to get weighed down quickly – it certainly happened to me around 6:00 last night.

Perhaps this year however, we can avoid exhausting ourselves before we’ve even begun. Put your mental list-building aside for a moment and remember why we are about to sacrifice ourselves upon the altar of the garden.

Why are you gardening?

If you’re trying to keep up with the Joneses, I can’t help you. The season ahead promises to be a supremely unhappy one for you and for those with whom you live. If you are gardening because your mother did and you should too, well…ditto I’m afraid.

If however, you are startled by the silly joy you feel in seeing the bleeding heart return after a long winter, or you went into the feed store to buy dog food and came out with a flat of foxgloves – completely forgetting the feed in your excitement at finding four-inch pots for $3.99 (guilty) – then you are gardening for the pure love of it.

Like parenting, marriage, a rewarding career or any other thing worth doing that we love, gardening takes a great deal of work; but as Robert Frost once said (and I am ever-fond of quoting), our vocation should be our avocation. That is, our work should be our joy.

Overwhelmed by the garden? Stop and rewind.

With that in mind, I have been thinking this morning about something my daughter does when she is feeling overwhelmed by a mathematical word problem. “Stop and rewind.” she proclaims, with closed eyes and a deep breath. Soon, she has sorted the extraneous words from the important, drawn a diagram of what is needed and come out smiling and successful.

What is important in our gardening scenario is the joy of working the earth, first and foremost. Then we must prioritize the jobs that are time sensitive and have the courage to let go of the ‘extraneous’ – the projects that will bog us down when we are feeling besieged.

Narcissus ‘Tête-à-Tête’

‘Round here that means pulling chickweed and bittercress out of the cultivated beds before they go to seed, transplanting a Green Giant arborvitae before it takes over the front porch, planting a couple of replacement Sky Pencil hollies, transplanting tomatoes and peppers to my community garden plots and keeping my ever-more-massive pot ghetto watered.

Everything else gets mowed.

I have projects that, should I dwell upon the thought of them for too long in the late morning, my blood would thin and my eyes would dim. To do so is foolish. You and I can only do so much in the garden and it has to be enough – otherwise there’s no point in doing it.

It seems inconceivable that one can lose one’s joy during the lusty, lovely month of May, but many a man and woman have – pinned between a to-do list and a spring which gathers momentum with every passing day.

So when you’ve finished with the priority jobs, think carefully before you spring into another one right away. It might be just fine. Your energy might be high and your motivation higher. But then, it might just be better to sit back on your heels for a while and drink in the spring.

The post In The Frenzy of Spring, Remember The ‘Why’ appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

Great gardeners and optimists know that a dead plant represents an opportunity to grow something new. But what of a dead tree? What of five? So much opportunity at one time can cloud a mind already weakened by the fumes of a chainsaw.

It’s probably best then to stifle knee-jerk reactions – particularly the one which argues for immediate replacement. Eye for eye, tree for tree, shade for shade, problems with problems.

Not that I’d replant ash trees in a land ravaged by borer of course. But metasequoia…the luscious thought had occurred.  I’d play up the lodge aspect of the house with a bit of associated redwood, satisfy long-held yearnings for a small grove of this favorite of trees, and score a few points in certain circles.

The thought was indeed luscious; but as I stood contemplating it again this morning, I was struck by another, greater, thought – a sudden awareness of sky.

Sky is good.  Stars are even better.  Why obstruct a new view to the heavens for a redwood thrill? And there is the little matter of the new roof. Or to be more accurate, the new roof twenty years from now, deep in the shadow of more roof-destroying trees.  Yes, a luscious, terrible idea, but fun for a mental fiddle on a Sunday afternoon.

So, smaller trees perhaps. Dogwoods and redbuds are the obvious choice in an Eastern setting, but then so are serviceberry, scarlet buckeye, or white fringetree,  And what of the evergreen touch of an American holly or a well-behaved Southern magnolia?  Do such things even exist?

Right then, no trees at all.  Maybe this is the time instead to encourage those plants that got their start as understory shrubs and will now benefit from increased light levels: the rhododendron, azalea, pieris, boxwood, forsythia and hydrangea. Perhaps one should add even more.

Again, the mind clouds.

I share these thoughts with you because we all have doubts when designing our gardens, and working around something that once was, but is no longer, is one of the most challenging. I am in the thick of it right now.

The difficulty is getting used to the space as it now presents itself – not as something missing something else.  In this case it is not as if what was was particularly stunning or even attractive, but the absence of it is overwhelming.

Frankly, there’s a whole lot of opportunity to screw up.

>>To plant a grove of metasequoia fifteen yards from a new roof simply because you love them and remember the feeling of coniferous forests from your childhood.

>>To plant a random selection of small trees because they’re small and that’s all the rage and won’t so-and-so be impressed.

>>To encourage smaller shrubs because they’re there, no matter that their existence currently bores the pants off you.

Yes. A tremendous opportunity to make some tremendous mistakes.

Perhaps then, a better question to be asked of oneself is, “Do I need to do anything at all right now.”  And the answer?

Almost certainly no.

Reaction is not a basis for gardening.  Inspiration is.  Inspiration cannot be forced, and thankfully I don’t have a homeowner paying me by the minute to force some.  It’s my garden and I’m going to wait.

What’s more, I’m going to wait until

…the roof is replaced

…the deck is rebuilt

…the ceiling is repainted

…the trees are split and stacked

…the world is warmer

…the mind is clearer

And suddenly – perhaps surprisingly – I am inspired.

It may happen in the garden of another.  It may happen as I slurp my soup over the pages of a new book.  It might just happen as I fall asleep at night, dreaming of something else entirely.  But I have no doubt that it will, eventually, happen.

And that, my gardening friends, is an opportunity worth waiting for.

The post The Patience to Wait appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

We all believe (as Garden Geeks) that the minds we have at twenty-four will stay supple and fit, able to remember a thousand genera and ten thousand named species at a moment’s notice – not that we have much call to provide such information at a moment’s notice (at that age) unless we’re lucky enough to be interning at Chanticleer or Great Dixter.

It’s a bit of a shock to wake up years later and find you can’t remember what you had for dinner the night before.

We think we’ll remember, but as the plant palette grows, it’s easy to forget specific species & cultivars (Hostetler garden, The Plains, VA)

I exaggerate perhaps just a little, but in short, life gets complicated and the ten percent of our brains that we actually use are quickly filled with information we heartily wish we didn’t know.  1040As replace Form EZs.  Soon you know what ‘escrow’ means.  Once you’ve passed that electrifying milestone, you very quickly learn what caulk does, how to apply it, and how to make a vulgar joke whilst ostensibly discussing home improvement.

Details crowd out details.  Your children force you to recall aspects of your calculus education you were happy to forget the moment you passed the test, and your accountant forces you to recall aspects of your personal finance class you never knew in the first place.

You have an accountant.  You have to remember where her office is.

The next thing you know you’re standing with a friend in your garden discussing the ridiculous plot twists of The Walking Dead over eight interminable but not-to-be-missed years, and when she asks the name of the glorious tree under which you both stand, your mouth opens and nothing comes out.

A planting record is incredibly important, but does you little good outside when you’re wondering where plants finally ended up.

Never mind that you researched, sought and secured it just six years before.

Which brings me, just as interminably, to plant labeling. We say it’s for our visitors, but it’s really for us.

There are several schools of thought about labeling one’s plants – let’s discuss them.

THE BAD PLAN

Don’t label. Try to remember.  That’s it.  Try to remember a specific Japanese maple in a grove of other Japanese maples with Japanese names…in (hint) Japanese – particularly when you’re walking your guests around with a glass of wine and speaking garbled English at best.

THE NOT-SO-GREAT PLAN

Keep a detailed record of all purchases and plantings in a journal far away from the actual purchases and plantings.  You know, somewhere you won’t be able to see it when your friend asks you what tree that is and you’re forced to start discussing The Walking Dead again.

THE NO BETTER PLAN

Tear off a piece of seed packet, original paper plant label or potting shed paper towel and half bury it in the hole with the plant.  Use whatever comes to hand to mark it – pencil, stick, lipgloss, charcoal bricket etc.…  I’m sure you’ll remember what you were scribbling when you gaze at the pulpy mess in four weeks’ time.

THE BETTER PLAN

Keep a stash of labels in your pockets with a sharpie.  When you plant, plant a label too.  When your chickens and/or curious children pull up the entirety of all labels in the garden because they were white and interesting, have a nervous breakdown and spend the rest of the evening with the above garden journal and a flashlight.

THE BEST PLAN

Spend money.

Yes.  It has come to that.  I’m going to tell you to spend money.

However, speaking as one who would rather do without than not be able to make do, I feel I am exceptionally qualified to tell you that it’s worth it.  My progression:

Fifteen years ago I thought I’d just remember.

Ten years ago I got a journal.

Seven years ago I broke down and left paper hints that also broke down…in five days.

Two years ago, though it hurt, I spent real money and bought packets of white, never used, labels.  That was good, but the guinea hens were worse than the chickens and the children combined.

One year ago, I spent further real money and bought aluminum tags that could be pressure engraved with a pen and attached to a tree or woody shrub.

It was a start.

Added to the confusion is the ridiculous amount of names that any one plant, shrub or tree has these days. Between trademarks, plant series and the actual botanical name, you’re a genius if you remember it all without a prompt.

Today, I’m ordering a Brother P-touch D600, 50 12-inch stainless steel Kincaid labels and I’m not looking back.  Not everything needs a label, and no doubt I’ll act as Scrooge, parsimoniously doling them out based on plant life expectancy and status (blatant plantism), but at least I’ll be doling them out. As the garden matures, I may even think about introducing a bit of technology to my trees with cool, digitally interactive labels from PlantsMap.

Quite simply, I’ve been to too many first class gardens, looked at too many first class plants and almost wept when the plant for which I lusted was not only labeled, but clearly labelled. The most recent garden, that of Bill and Linda Pinkham (of former Smithfield Nurseries fame), is a perfect example of how labels don’t necessarily have to distract from the display.  Placed discretely and (most importantly) used regularly they provide a guide for your visitors and a fabulous aide memoire for you.

Cons? Money, obviously.  And I know that Chanticleer Gardens in Wayne, PA (which does not label plants) has a few thoughts upon the matter too. They have painted a canvas with flora, knocked you over the head with creative artistry, and they don’t want you to get caught up in the minutiae while you’re reeling.  However, by the time you come to, there are plant lists and bustling interns to help you find what you seek.

If I ever get an intern, she won’t have time to look at you, much less talk to you.  I’m going with a label maker.

The post The Case for Plant Labeling appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

‘One must be cruel to be kind’ is a hackneyed phrase that must have originated in a garden setting.

Where else do men and women of good conscience perpetuate extreme acts of violence without a moment’s thought or consideration of that conscience?

Once the deed is done – be it dismemberment or execution – ‘tis done. We rest easy in the knowledge that were our actions to be scrutinized by our fellow gardeners, we would emerge triumphantly vindicated – perhaps even admired. The end almost always justifies the means.

Yet there exists a soft heart locked away in even the most hardened of horticulturists; and at this time of year, that lock is jiggled to the point of breaking by sweet determination, the promise of beauty, and, that Achilles heel of all gardeners, something for free.

In short, by volunteer seedlings.

In my Instagram feed a few weeks ago, the noted British food writer and Observer columnist, Nigel Slater, forgot about that night’s dinner to snap a shot of an ivy-leafed toadflax flowering gently in a crack in his stone doorstep. “How could anyone not love something so sweet, delicate and determined?” he penned (or rather, thumb-typed between courses).

How indeed? Though I loved the sentiment and might have shared it in this case, experience still prods me to offer the following three-step progression in answer:

Step One: The Early Years

The beginner gardener is usually so overwhelmed by the natural cycle playing out in his garden beds (instead of his garden books) that volunteer seedlings not only go untouched, but are coddled.  If they grow with any measure of vigor, they are adored.

It matters not that the purchased plant ten inches away will suffer – losing nutrients and moisture at best, foliage and flower at worst. The Universe has spoken! Life cannot be stopped!

Hmmm….Black Beauty grew near there last year….it could be…. But what about the succulents?

As the season progresses, he will have underestimated the size and determination of this volunteer (and no doubt its fellow invaders) to such an extent that the shape and flow of the garden will now be affected.  Where once stood a bed of healthy leeks, now there is larkspur.  Where once there grew rare beans, now exist thousands of common cherry tomatoes.

Once the beginner lifts the scales from his eyes after a bean-less dinner in mid-July, it is far too late. The garden bed is irrevocably committed to the invader and large voids will result from any type of defensive violence.  And yet, large voids are unavoidable, for these crafty volunteers are mostly annuals with one life ambition – to seed and to die.

Death will not be pretty, and after the carcass has been cleared, the remnants of the spring’s actual garden plan emerge, bent and broken and festering with resentment. The beginner resigns himself, makes an attempt to tidy that which cannot be tidied, and makes a mental note to be crueler next year.

He will repeat the exercise for several years at least. We are at our most vulnerable in the spring months and it takes a harder heart to progress to Step Two.

Verbascum thapsus is a gorgeous volunteer when it blooms. Before it blooms? It takes up a great deal of space, suffocates all nearby and almost always seeds itself in the front of the bed.

Step Two: Hope Over Experience

Having once lived the idealism of  previous decades (and bearing the sunspots to prove it), this gardener may be less enthusiastic, but he is not unmoved by a pretty face.  There are other options, he decides. He has the experience and skill to implement them, and does so.

He transplants a few – knowing little of eventual color, size and vigor.

He gives away a few – absolving himself of guilt and granting it unto others.

Thus does he add to his workload and burden his friends.  And yet he still suffers some measure of chaos.  He may have graduated to pulling out tomatoes when he sees them, but he still has weak moments which are craftily exploited.

Cleome blocks his path to the water barrels and snags his clothes, but he smiles at its tenacity, and endures its barbs. Wild violets push themselves deeper into fragile mortared joints, but he selects the unusual ones, feels justified, and hopes for the best.

Perhaps he has been trying for years to grow poppies, and when the stars align, he is so overwhelmed by the act of germination he cannot bring himself to thin even a leaf.  Skinny, undersized plants result – plants that may have thrived had but their competitors’ lives been ended by a thumb and forefinger.

Larkspur and poppies are hard to thin and the heart must be hardened. Without thinning, they will all be sparse and weedy.

He will continue to let his heart bleed for several more years, seldom applying fall wisdom to spring decisions.  Indeed, many of his fellow gardeners will remain here for the rest of their careers – gambling on those rare seasons that sweet Serendipity scatters only a few of her tastier crumbs.

Cultivating callousness, cynicism and ruthless conviction is the only way forward.

Step Three: Experience Over Hope

And so we come to the horny-handed sons and daughters of the soil.  The cruel.  The pitiless. The envied.

A rock wall is the perfect pairing for this volunteer brunnera – but only one.

This beady-eyed inquisitor approaches each volunteer as guilty until proven innocent.  Will it add to, not detract from, the overall plan? Will it play well with others?  Will it stay true to the bloodlines of its parents?  Will it be kind to all structural features? Will it refuse special treatment such as staking or feeding? And lastly – perhaps most importantly – will it die quietly and with dignity?

Very few can answer yes to all six questions.

Thus, the thumb and forefingers of experienced gardeners are callused and arthritic from a lifetime of laudable cruelty.

If those fingers are attached to a gardener blessed with creativity and vision, the resulting garden – whether formal or cottagey, is deceptively unconstrained and vibrant.

There will be volunteers that squeak through – the doorstep toadflax, the convenient bit of parsley – but they do so with the experienced gardener’s eye fixed squarely upon them.  They will live out their usefulness and be relegated to the compost pile before issues are created.

Period.

How can anyone not love something so sweet, delicate and determined?

From the tiniest seeds spring some of our biggest struggles.  One must be cruel to be kind.

The post A Gardener’s Progression of Cruelty: Volunteer Seedlings appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

Last night my husband and I were awoken by yet another storm pounding on what currently passes for a roof around here.  After a few minutes of staring at the ceiling thinking about the gutters, the bridge, the foundation, the tarped roof, the barn, the trees and the newly sand-mortared patio amongst other night terrors, he mumbled “Do you remember when we used to love thunderstorms?”

Yes, indeed I do. And I’m pretty sure we were renting at the time.  In those days, the rasping of a tree scraping against the roof meant nothing more than a spooky sound. Gutters were ignored if you couldn’t reach them with a six foot ladder. A torrent of water rushing down the street didn’t make me run to the hardware store for sandbags, but to my desk to pen a few lines on the awe-inspiring power of Nature.

I think we even had an ill-advised party on the deck during a hurricane warning once.  It turned out quite well. We served iced Hurricanes in celebration of our adolescent stupidity.

Boy I miss those days.

Storms play a different role in my life now.  To be nestled deep in a cool stream valley might be fabulous in a humid climate 360 days of the year, but there are usually 3-5 that convince you you’re living in a remote section of the African bush, minus the elephants and civil uprisings.  And certainly I have had more than one moment when I helplessly watched water running from all directions toward the river and thought of Farah in Out of Africa telling Karen, “This water must go home to Mombasa.”

The Chesapeake Bay wants its water back just as badly.

And this is why Land Cruisers work just as well in Lovettsville as they do in Africa.

Here, preparations for storms this season have been inadequate, as they are almost always thought of during the storms, and not before, in the way that the word ‘preparations’ might suggest.  I may have a fully stocked liquor cabinet and a pantry that would make a Walking Dead survivor weep, but are my gutters cleaned of leaves and muck? The sound of water hitting the pavement six inches shy of the water barrel at three in the morning clearly answers that question in the negative.

But storms give us the opportunity to assess our property’s weaknesses, and in stronger moments, correct them.  And we have had a few stronger moments in our last five years here at Oldmeadow.

There may still be water standing in that meadow, but it is no longer standing in the chicken coop, thanks to a better grading system.  We’ve taken down eleven full-size house-shadowing trees to date. My husband has re-mortared the riverbank walls near the bridge and they are no longer falling into the river. The bridge will be next, for it must withstand the medieval battering ram of uprooted trees coming feet first down a raging river.

Yes that happened.

One of the first things we had to face was repairing the bank wall shearing off into the creek after several big storms.

And as it turns out my sharp four-inch bed edgings make surprisingly good aqueducts. At least for the first 120 feet, after which all becomes mush and mud and dreams of French drains (and a French exchange student to lay them).

No doubt after these weeks of water you are thinking similarly – unless of course you spent it having ill-advised deck parties with the Young, the Fresh and the Renting (also known as ‘The Envied’).  There were a terrible amount of gardens flattened, more than a few spring dream projects postponed indefinitely, and quite probably, a new ‘normal’ established on gravel roads throughout several counties.

But it is my sincere hope that you were able to take the opportunity to assess what you can change and pray for the serenity to accept that which you can’t.  Sometimes the fixes aren’t easy – or even possible.  Try as I might I just cannot move this lovely stream valley high on the top of a hill with city maintained streets.  But I can install a metal drain that will prevent two yards of roadbase from flowing down my driveway and covering my daylilies.

It will take time and I’ll try to have patience.

Slowly, slowly. Or as they say in Swahili, polepole.  Water will have its way.

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A version of this article first appeared in The Frederick News Post and is reprinted here with kind permission.

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The post Weeks of Water appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

There are very few plants that make you look like a great gardener as well as a healthy stand of ferns.  Ironically, this has little to do with the resident gardener and everything to do with proper placement, but if you don’t know that when you visit my garden, I won’t be the one to bring it up.

Certainly a similar case could be made for hosta – but as the genus is fairly common (no matter how uncommon the cultivar), and they can adapt to awkward garden situations better than most ferns, they don’t tend to spark as much interest with visitors.

Many is the time I have tried to draw the gaze of friends to gorgeous hostas such as ‘War Paint’ or ‘Praying Hands’ only to realize that they are too mesmerized by the ostrich fern backdrop to pay attention.  Deer have the same issue, only in reverse – ferns are rarely nibbled.

I spend a lot of time looking at my ferns in mid-June specifically to avoid looking at other parts of my garden.  The color flush of early woodland perennials and spring bulbs is over; the tropicals are re-installed but yet to shift into high gear; the vegetable garden seems to be producing cages and stakes, not vegetables; and my garden ornaments need a mature garden to soften and absorb them.

Yet most ferns are fully unfurled and sporting fresh, youthful foliage.  This is their moment – before the true heat, before the drought we will no doubt endure; before, in short, the summer. They are lush, add texture, block out weeds, and impart a gentle coolness and primeval atmosphere to the shadier parts of the garden.

Along the 50 foot bank that borders my driveway, I have slowly been selectively weeding all things not fern and hosta. The result is a mix of sensitive, wood and Christmas fern, and a bank that is well protected from erosion.

Are ferns just for shade?  To answer that question you must consider your definition of ‘shade,’ for there are many levels and it’s fairly probable that you have one of them even if you consider your garden sunny.  If you’ve got four walls to your house, you’ve got a north wall and a place to site a few ferns.

It’s true that you don’t want to plant a fern in twelve hours of scorching sun, but there are many such as autumn fern (Dryopteris erythrosora)  that will live in full morning sun and some afternoon heat as long as moisture is adequate and soil is rich. Experiment.

Are ferns just for moist areas?  Not necessarily.  Some, such as Japanese beech fern  (Cyrtomium falcatum) can cope with average to drier soils just as long as our Mid-Atlantic precipitation does what it’s supposed to do each summer.

Do they all need rich soil?  Ferns do their best in fat, humusy soil that is rich in organic matter, but sometimes you don’t want them to do their best. It has been several years since I took a few thuggish ostrich ferns out of a friend’s garden to start my own.  To this day he will look at my [now] 6,528 plants and yet ask me wistfully if I’d like to come back to his garden and pull more. A leaner soil can be a life saver.

Looking for crazy contrast? Plunge pots of your favorite sanseveria, philodendron or dracaena houseplants in the middle of a stand of Japanese painted fern. In the winter, the houseplants come back into the house.

I grow many species of ferns and have killed many more, but for those who don’t feel the need to push any boundaries or who don’t yet have a fern addiction, let’s focus on just a few easy and readily available ones to add a new texture to your garden this year.

Ostrich fern (Matteuccia struthiopteris)

A beautiful native thug that epitomizes the jurassic experience at 36-48” tall.  Dies to the ground with a hard freeze but leaves brown fertile fronds to remind you where to start digging them up next spring. Spring fiddleheads are very edible sauteed like asparagus and you needn’t have any guilt about eating your landscape – when happy they grow thickly.  When really happy they grow everywhere.

One of my favorite ways of using ostrich ferns is by letting them hide the legs or structure of other things in the garden – such as my well head, or this [very ugly] pot filled with iron flowers. And yes, I’ve been asked what the flowers are. More than once.

Autumn fern (Dryopteris erythrosora)

A stunning evergreen fern whose new spring fronds are a little later to emerge, but do so in two foot tones of burnt orange.  Later in the season they’ll morph to green and stay beautifully intact through Thanksgiving, Christmas and beyond.

Autumn fern unfurls in bright orange, and keeps that color for several weeks.

Sensitive fern (Onoclea sensibilis)

One of my favorite native ferns due to the unusual structure of the fronds.  Sensitive fern will never grow as quickly as ostrich fern, but don’t get lackadaisical and take your eyes off them.  Very sensitive to frost but they’ll leave you with sterile beaded fronds for December craft projects.

I love sensitive fern and am lucky to have it growing wild at Oldmeadow.

Cinnamon fern (Osmunda cinnamomeum)

Unlike many ferns, cinnamon ferns send up gorgeous cinnamon-colored fertile fronds before the sterile green fronds completely emerge.  This tall, regal fern native to Missouri is so photo worthy there are probably Instagram groups dedicated to it. If not, there should be.

Cinnamon fern flouts tradition and unfurls its fertile brown fronds before the sterile green ones. The result is contrast, contrast, glorious contrast.

Japanese painted fern (Athyrium nipponicum ‘Pictum’)

I’m including this one because so many people I know love it.  I don’t happen to be one of them, but I do grow it – and ironically, very well.  Low growing purple and silver fronds seem outerworldly, which is particularly difficult if you’re trying to successfully pair them with something on this planet.   I prefer the wispier, taller hybrid ‘Ghost.’

The fronds of Japanese painted fern are almost reptilian. A huge favorite with many.

Try to gain a bit of familiarity with the botanical names of the ferns you love.  This is one group of plants where a common name often refers to more than one plant, depending on region.  When you’ve grown the above and started to feel confident – here are a few more of my favorites: Arachnoides standishii, Arachnoides simplicior ‘Variegata,’ Athyrium felix-femina ‘Lady in Red’ and ‘Victoriae,’ Polystichum polyblepharum and the not-a-fern-but-sure-looks-like-one Selanginella braunii.

If you’re a fern lover already, I’m going to bet I’ve left out your favorite – but no doubt you’ll let me know.

The post June – A Month for Ferns appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

I spent a quiet afternoon two weeks ago working in a small garden outside my guest room windows.  The room is built into a sloping bank and partially surrounded by a deck, and therefore the garden is not only visible on an intimate level from below, but from a larger, birds-eye view above – a challenging prospect.

For the most part, I have filled it with sensitive and ostrich ferns, dicentra, Iris tectorum, bronze and standard petisites and several Hydrangea serratas.  A fatsia also battles the winters there and more often than not, comes out with most of its dignity intact.

But the aim is not to block these windows; and these plants – many of them thugs – are seasonally wrestled with in order to provide a gateway to the woods and field beyond. An introduction of sorts.

From the deck it is abundance.  The ferns blend, the petisites looms, the dicentra prays it won’t be asphyxiated. There’s a landscape light or two  (in trendier speak, the area has been ‘nightscaped’) and I threw in a bird bath last summer for good measure.

From the other side of the guest room-glass however, the scene is very different. One’s perspective contracts, and becomes almost that of a small creature at ground level.  It is not the vast, smothering heads of petisities that he sees, but a forest of reddish-green stalks topped with umbrella-esque hats.  The jumbled lush that is a stand of ostrich fern from above becomes a study of their shuttlecock form and an awareness of new crowns, unfurling with both delicacy and vigor.  Ants make nests against the stone foundation and each evening spiders spin tiny webs between the branches of the hydrangea.

All this is visible below, and invisible above.

And thus we come to the meat of it – what I was really working on outside that window last week, and what I sadly feel I must defend in my position as gardener who regularly uses Latin, propagates her own shrubs and knows what do with coir.

I was building Toad Hall.

It began as a broken pot in my last garden many years ago.  An expensive broken pot I might add, but broken clean in half and therefore even harder to discard.  I did not.  Instead I tucked both halves under the feet of a climbing hydrangea on the north side of the house, and for the benefit of my children who were both young and still listening to stories at bedtime, wrote ‘Toad Hall’ in large capitals with a sharpie on one of the sections.  One half would have been a house, I said.  But two?  That’s a stately home.

They would check occasionally for Mr. Toad and any friends he had, but alas, toads did not visit Toad Hall, most probably due to Mr. Dog who frequented that area and had no fear of sticking his nose into dark places where it did not belong.  At this point I could still hold my head high in the face of garden visitors who assumed that broken pots provided habitat and terracotta was chic.

That’s a hand cut moss roof you know. That’s got to count for something.

Thus we went along for a year – me feeling ecologically sensitive and the children perpetually disappointed – until I was wandering one Mother’s Day at a nursery.

I saw the little statue early in my walk: a cement rendition of two toads playing chess, one intent on the game at hand, one languidly sitting back, arms and legs crossed.

It instinctively made me smile as I thought of it sitting in front of Toad Hall, and I just as instinctively stopped myself.  It crossed a line that I wasn’t prepared to cross and one that I certainly wasn’t prepared to let others see that I crossed if I indeed chose to cross it.

I continued to wander, half-heartedly picked up a salvia and a new succulent, but could not take my mind of that ridiculous little statue.  I had, up to this point, considered myself young and still fairly vibrant.  Fairly vibrant people do not buy kitsch I said to myself.  Formerly vibrant people do. You shall not have that statue.

Friends, I bought the statue and began my transition into middle age.

Several years and nine pairs of [where are my] reading glasses later, I had a choice to make sparked by our move. Leave the moss covered pots and their cement inhabitants for the incoming young couple and their offspring, or take them with us and set a very bad precedent for my new garden.

He was a film producer and she was an English professor – I had no doubt that they sipped macchiatos each morning as they read The New Yorker.  I took my kitsch with me and it sat in the potting shed waiting for another moment of weakness in the life of the resident gardener.

That moment occurred one afternoon as I was making the bed in the guest room and watched a toad hop by directly outside the window.  On my run to the potting shed with the wheelbarrow, I pleaded with the serious gardener who had just created a pergola walk to showcase allium and was taking great pains to incorporate rare ephemerals in a sunken woodland.

“Uh…not in your world.”

“The children will love it.”

“They’re at work.”

“It’s providing habitat.”

“Good, then you won’t be needing the statue.”

“You won’t be able to see it from above.”

“But you’ll damn sure see it from the guest room. You put plant people in there – are you insane?”

Ashamed and proud at the same time.

The fact that I am writing this article – as a direct challenge by a friend and colleague from the American Horticultural Society – should give you a shrewd idea of how that conversation ended.

Not only did I install Mr. Toad and his chess opponent outside that window, I cut a moss roof for Toad Hall and gave them a ceramic mushroom umbrella.  It was at this time that I realized they weren’t playing chess at all – they were playing checkers.

Oh the shame of it.

Since that day, there have been bottle trees and copper mushrooms.  I have lost all credibility in the eyes of my colleagues and even an in-depth article on the finer points of propagating hardwood cuttings could not save my reputation at this point. It is a slippery slope surely, but I will point out that there have never been fairies.

That, at least, should count for something.

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The post In Defense of Bad Taste: The Story of Toad Hall appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

Muttering to oneself in the garden must have been at an all-time high this week.

Quite apart from the fact that it is July and there is mandatory muttering to be done after the expensive party that is spring, having to endure day after day of high heat and cloudless skies is enough to coax ripe words out of even the most puritan amongst us.

The water barrels are dry and so are the margins of banana leaves, but self-seeding drought tolerants like this Verbascum thapsus draw attention away from crispier views. Note to self: grow more.

I am no Puritan. The early morning air has turned cobalt blue with my swearing.

Top of the list of things to swear about – my last rain barrel has been drained, and this in the youngest part of the garden that does not have running water yet boasts its sunniest exposure.

As I watched the last drops hit the bottom of the can this morning, I contemplated tomorrow.  Until we can expect a sizeable volume of the wet stuff, I will be schlepping water from the creek à la Little House on The Prairie, and the muttering will no doubt be amplified.

There are other options of course, had I the stomach for them. I have a pump.  I have a tank.  I have a creek. What I do not have is the time or energy to battle heat stroke as I level an elevated area behind the barn and built cement footers for said tank.  Such things are saved for 70 degree days with low humidity and chance of tool-wielding friends.

So I will schlep.  And swear. And, according to my personalized morning’s farm report on Agrible.com, the sky (and the air) will be blue for some time.

No doubt this confession will have the most righteous amongst you clicking your tongues.

Shouldn’t I have drought tolerant darlings in places such as these?  Shouldn’t I be taking heed from authors such as Beth Chatto and Piet Oudouf and planting only those which will thrive in fast-draining, alluvial soils?  Shouldn’t I be constantly amending with organic material to act as sponge for all available moisture?

The answer to all three is that I am.  But my garden is young, and shrubs and trees (and perennials for that matter) need time in which to establish their root systems – particularly in poorer soils. Annual vegetables are dependent on annually-made roots and extended periods of heat and drought after a new spring normal of soaking, every-day rain, are tough to shake off.

Plus, I am weak, and I cannot resist a bit of tropical madness every now and then.  Protected by thick, fleshy rhizomes, the cannas will roll with the punches a fair bit – but the bananas are starting to phone it in. And, as they cannot help but be flamboyant in whatever they do – be it thrive or dive – they’re starting to bring down the mood out there.

I have no doubt you are feeling similarly (perhaps minus the creek and the barrels and the tropical nonsense). It’s tough to get motivated when temperatures are high and only the air retains moisture. But nevertheless I must plead with you to put your head down and tend to your plants – or at least pay attention to what is happening out there in order to learn from it.

And, as no one wants advice shouted down from an ivory tower à la Vita Sackville-West (though I believe hers was taupe), it is best to temper the bad news with one’s own struggles.

If we have taken the time to plant them, we should take the time to tend to them until such time as we actively choose to be done with them.  So, be wise and get out there early, when the dew gives you hope that moisture still lives in our universe.

What do I mean by actively choosing to be done?  It is the difference between ignoring your garden and letting plants die and watching your garden and letting plants die.

As I said, my garden is young, and I have more than one shrub handing me a Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free Card right now. But I am observing them. Carefully. As they mature, and I give them less and less, I am interested in how they will behave in conditions such as this, sitting as they are on the edge of the Grand Perhaps.  Is it dormancy or death that beckons?  If after two years of tending, they do not have the resources to cope with baseline conditions, I will let them die or give them away.

If you have established shrubs and perennials that cannot take the rough with the smooth, year after year…if you are forced to help them limp through, never thriving…it is time to re-think your planting schemes and find replacements that will happily (or at least, begrudgingly) accept those conditions.

But that’s the point – you need to be active in your decision making process, not passive.

With no additional water, the monarda/miscanthus/cannas of this bed are doing beautifully.

That’s a lot of italicization.  But I have a point to make. Welcome the tough times out there.  Mutter by all means, but remember that these temperature extremes will help us to build better gardens. It’s time to carefully observe what your plants are doing in response to stress, take a few notes, and make some decisions.

The post Are You Observing? Or Are You Ignoring? appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

“Plant for foliage!” is a term you have probably heard a great deal over the last few years.  But then you’ve probably also heard “Plant for pollinators!” and more than likely you’ve heard both slogans here (though I do try and stay away from the excessive use of exclamation marks in my proselytizing). But if you’ve got a small to average-sized garden, you’re probably trying to figure out how you can do both things at once, or even if you should.

Let me answer the second part of that question first.

I feel very strongly that you should do whatever you want to do in your own garden (after all, that’s the premise of my book).

It’s your garden. Not mine, not your mother’s and not Martha Stewart’s.  If you were to put me in charge of your garden, I’d throw out all your gnomes, remove the scabby leylands and dig up anything magenta. If you put Martha in charge, she’d throw you out and hire a designer.

But I ask you – is that a way to live?  Under the thumb of someone else? Even somebody with taste as good as mine? My husband would tell you that this is not an enviable place to be.  No, better you garden your piece of paradise in the ways that bring you joy – even if those ways involve using the GN-word.

So this brings us to the first part of the question:  Can you have a pollinator-friendly garden that wows with foliage at the same time?  Going a bit further, must you only plant natives these days, or can you enjoy the pleasures of exotic plants?  Can you tell anyone about it if you do?

No flowers in the early spring, but the Black Swallowtails love the ligularia flowers in the summer. (Ligularia dentata ‘Othello’ with autumn fern (Dryopteris erythrosora))

The answer(s)?  In my opinion, absolutely.

There are plenty of strong foliage plants that sport beautiful flowers – rodgersia, ligularia, hosta, canna, begonia, cyclamen, weigela, and hydrangea (to name just a few) and a host of foliage plants – such as grasses – that provide habitat for pollinators and other forms of wildlife.

And as for mixing exotics and natives?  Well, my canna and monarda were doing things together in the barn garden this year that made my heart skip (not to mention the hearts of neighboring hummingbirds).

But there are those who might not feel similarly, and thus I will amend my answer.

Absolutely. As long as you aren’t too zealously committed to whatever you’re supposed to be zealously committed to at the moment; and if you have the inner strength to be peaceful with your own choices even in the face of dissenting opinion.

Zealots are rarely happy people. If your mantra is ‘pollinators or perish,’ you’re going to feel guilty adding plants that add a lot of panache to the garden, but nothing in the pollen or nectar department, such as the hardy banana, Musa basjoo.

Thus you must avert your gaze from the obviously eye-catching specimen in the garden of a friend (and refuse her offer of a pup) in order to keep the inner-flame alive. That can’t feel good. After all, it seriously would have set off the Rudbeckia maxima you just planted.

Conversely, if you have fully rid yourself of the time-heavy constraints of flower gardening, or feel yourself ‘above all that flower nonsense’ as you magically pair ‘Silver Lining’ Pyracantha with a plum colored ninebark, you may not wish for a single bloom to spoil your dramatic foliage-first garden.

Therefore, wandering a friend’s meadow and contemplating the addition of a bit of bee-laded veronicastrum to go with all that fine foliage of yours is right out.

That’s gotta chafe a little bit too.  Think what it would have done against that ninebark.

We are rarely happy when we think of a garden in terms of absolutes.

Years ago a fellow tour-goer and I stood in front of a stunning display of ‘Andrea Atkinson’ Japanese anemones in a September garden and contemplated the remarkable amount of insects coming and going amongst the hundreds of pure white blooms.  At a time when the fall colors of surrounding trees and shrubs had begun to materialize yet many other perennials were in decline, the scene was memorable.

Equally memorable were my companion’s words.

“How very beautiful.” she said quietly, and I agreed, just as softly.    But less than five seconds later, her tone sharpened. “What a pity they aren’t native.” she said and turned on her heel – no doubt to fawn over the mildewed monarda foliage laying flattened on the other end of the garden.

I stood amazed.  But this type of thinking is not unusual.  Only a few weeks ago I was wandering through a public garden with a group, and was troubled to hear one of them look out on a meadow and woodland teeming with life and abundance in its many forms, yet express how angry it made her feel to spy invasive plants in the mix.

This is the second time I have heard this sentiment in the same type of setting.  I am certainly not overjoyed to see honeysuckle and multiflora rose taking over areas that I have previously cleared of them, but to feel anger is beyond me.

When I take a walk through the woods there is only one thing I feel angry about – the person before me who has littered the way with trash.  Spying a stand of Hemerocallis fulva in full bloom doesn’t quite provoke the same reaction.

Can’t quite access the fury on this one. 

I am more often than not humbled by the resiliency of plant life on this planet – particularly when I am in a highly urbanized environment and observe something like Johnson grass re-greening an abused, compacted and abandoned lot.  Invasive plants are, for all their faults, living organisms with the same agenda as the plants we cosset and curate – they just happen to be better at it.

Sometimes we’re not necessarily this ideologically committed, but loud voices around us make us feel we should be. We think we have to plant certain things because that’s what everyone else is doing or what we are currently being told to do.  We don’t want to stand against the current, nor do we want to be called names, and it’s easier to go with the flow.

Be brave.  Take time to do your research; but be brave. And be yourself in your own garden regardless of the latest trends. The late New York Times columnist Allen Lacy made no bones about the fact that he had no desire to plant for winter interest, despite the shaming words of great gardeners before him – or indeed, great gardeners of his day.

“As for winter itself” he said early on in his epistolary book with Nancy Goodwin, “I dislike it, and the longer it goes on, the more I dislike it.” For those of you who have read A Year in Our Gardens, or know a little bit about the splendor that is Nancy Goodwin’s garden at Montrose from late October throughout the wicked windy months of winter, you can appreciate how bold a statement this was.

But Goodwin was not harsh with him, nor dismissive.  In her own effusive way, she instead described acres of snowdrops and cyclamen, and told him of the joy she felt in doing a Christmas day walk around Montrose every year to tally the many species blooming.  Her aim was to persuade, not chastise.  There was no zealotry there. It had its effect on Lacy, who touted the splendors of winters at Montrose in his writing throughout his later years.

I feel similarly persuaded when I tour the garden of a friend in Braddock Heights who has put together a rich assortment of some of our best native plants and presents it with a gentle smile and a desire to educate (as well as a few seedlings!).  Her example is inspiring.  I’m not saying I’ll give up my cannas, but I’m definitely putting in a scarlet buckeye next year.

If you’re a thoughtful gardener with a steward’s heart, you are more likely than not doing some wonderful things out there and people are watching you. Persuasion, not coercion is the key.  Fanatically mouthing catchphrases will not make us better gardeners or stewards of this beautiful Earth. But gentle example in our own gardens and for other gardeners will.

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Reprinted with kind permission from the Frederick News Post

The post Let’s Lose The Zealotry & Plant for Joy appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

There are no adventures quite as adventurous as reclaiming the garden after a long absence abroad – and during the height of the growing season no less. From bewilderment to bloodshed to tears, it has been an interesting week.  Moreover, there are still miles to go before I sleep, and the winter is not drawing in fast enough to negate the need for effort.

Boosted by the rainy season and hot temperatures, ensete and canna prop up large sections of the garden.

Let’s begin squarely with the bewilderment, for it is a mighty blow and not all of us get up and keep walking. Certainly jet lag and a bottle of red wine to oneself at 11am (I do not apologize – it  was five o’clock in Rouen at the time) made the experience more bearable, but it was nonetheless a bit of a gut punch and it came in three rounds.

First there was the growth – the relentless, vigorous growth.  Even those plants that I actually encourage to grow shocked me with their new improved sizes.  The crab grass covered the groundcovers. The stilt grass covered the shrubs. To keep anyone from feeling left out, the bind weed covered everything else – and all presented thus in their final ripening, where a single touch from the gardener can throw seeds far and wide.

The allium walk underneath the pergola became a native tree nursery in my absence.

Further sections of the garden masqueraded as respectable tree nurseries for robust seedlings that could have sold for ready cash if the resident gardener had stopped her swearing and potted them up.

She didn’t.

Second there was the ravaging.  The raping and pillaging of flora by fauna.  Caterpillars left a six foot rosemary-leafed willow naked and trembling.  The tomatoes were picked bare.  Ever left a succulent ninebark un-sprayed and un-netted in deer country? Best not to, as it turns out.  Fingers crossed that coppicing is a thing with that genus.

Third there was the remembering. Perhaps the cruelest punch of all.

Walking as I have been through the gardens of others far, far away from my own, the tendency is to remember home and hearth, green and grass in a fond, rosy light.  Ideas flow from the right brain in a child-like rush and obstacles are diminished.  The green genius of others – the sheer force of will evident in their gardens – imparts an exaggerated idea of one’s own abilities, and one falls a-bed at night with these lovely mad thoughts swimming through an inspired mind. A flooded stepping stone pathway…a false wooden door in a green bank…a quiet pond filled with bilingual Toulouse geese. All is possible.

Anything is possible.

Or not.

I had forgotten so many things.  How heavy rocks are, for one.  How wood rots against green, wet banks for another.  How geese attack small children irrespective of the language they speak.  The coming back down to earth – to one’s own reality – is all part of the remembering.

A flooded pathway at Jardin Agapanthe in Normandy sparked a few ideas…

And if one was clever enough to travel abroad without a decent cell phone service (guilty as charged), the [re]learning curve is even steeper. When the connection to one’s own weather and environmental constraints is severed, reality simply becomes what you imagine it to be.  Biblical floods may have bathed my home and property for the five weeks of my absence, but I was too busy wallowing in unseasonably dry conditions in a warm Great Britain and France to give it much thought beyond “Hope the bridge holds.”

The wet, sodden mess I came home to took ‘bewilderment’ to an entirely different level.

Of course I had to meet this chaos with a stout heart and I did – and I am – but not without the bloodshed and tears I mentioned earlier. Tears because, hey, I was jetlagged, and it really was a lot of wine.  Bloodshed because, once established, a living, growing thing will not give up its life force without a fight. By God there will be blood.

Visualize for a moment: Spent cleome stems puncturing callus-free hands.  Pyracantha covered in bindweed. The razor-sharp edges of miscanthus. Optunia paddles against white ankles. Carpet roses carpeted in stiltweed. A rooster that needed worming.

In hindsight that last one should have waited for next week and a calmer disposition, but I was determined.

Somehow though, the more bloodletting, the more ruthless I got; and this, coupled with a fresh perspective has opened up new space in established beds. I have removed a couple of roses that I never liked (they will remain nameless in case you do) and taken out strawberry patches that never did well.  Perhaps more importantly, I have removed several ‘guilt plants’ – the plants that gardeners keep because we think we should, not because we love them.

Pergola garden restored.

I note with pleasure that the beds filled with shrubs, trees, cardboard and four inches of hardwood mulch are much as I left them and the rain and heat has breathed superhuman strength into my tropical accents – Musa basjoo, numerous canna and colocasia species, and my once rag-tag collection of Abyssinian bananas (Ensete ventricosum ‘Maurelii’). ‘Black Stem’ colocasia actually surprised me with creamy yellow blooms – a first for this gardener. Standing at the end of the wet and wild season this garden has endured, I am thankful for these tropical accents.

There is still much to be done, both at my desk as I go through reams of notes and photos and try to make sense of them, and outside, as I assess the successes and failings of my landscape in the absence of the resident gardener.  But the true challenge is not the work ahead – it is being kind to myself as I do it.

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Reprinted with the kind permission of The Frederick News Post

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Fresh from an exhaustive three weeks driving 1800 miles to tour British gardens and their associated tea rooms, I am full of ideas and inspiration for next year’s planting schemes. The British know how to do it. The hype is real.

But what exactly is that ‘it’ comprised of? Cottagey color? Architectural hedging? Jam covered scones and cups of milky sweet tea sipped in salvia scented patios?

Or are they just dazzling us with their accents and that gentle Gulf Stream?

The herbaceous border at Waterperry Gardens, Oxfordshire

To answer that question for myself, I’ve combed through thousands of photos, dozens of wow moments, and a ratty notebook that smells vaguely of real ale to boil ‘it’ down to ten garden concepts I have seen illustrated throughout the United Kingdom – both when I lived and worked there and during subsequent trips over the last fifteen years.

These ideas are not exclusively British by any means, nor did many of them have their genesis on that little island.  But the underlying cultural embrace of horticulture in Great Britain means you see more of these elements at the same time in public and private spaces.

Each point certainly bears exploring in more depth, and thus we’ll plan on delving a little deeper over the winter months ahead as we consider how to approach our spring gardens.

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1 – Experimentation energizes a garden.

In a land steeped in conventional gardening practices and the love of tradition, you’d think the British would be the last ones to push boundaries.  Yet many of the greatest gardens are doing just that.  Whether they use color, form, texture or movement, they’re changing things up and bringing energy back into old spaces.  Sometimes it works and sometimes it fails – but treating the garden like a vibrant, living experiment is guaranteed to inject excitement into your day-to-day chores.

An excellent example of successful experimentation is the Exotic Garden at Great Dixter in Sussex, which replaced the traditional rose garden many years ago and is now one of Dixter’s most popular gardens.

2 – Revolutionary design is always possible.

When experimentation works, new movements are created. Robinson’s naturalism, James’ mixed border, Chatto’s right plant, right place, Auldof’s Dutch wave to name just a few of the most popular. Don’t cheat yourself by thinking everything that is worth doing has been done already.  That type of thinking is what stopped you from buying shares of Netflix and Amazon and retiring early to a little garden just south of San Gimignano.

Wildside Garden and Nursery in Devon is an eye-opening example of how using land forming on a large scale can create various micro climates and growing conditions within the same garden space – a truly revolutionary garden.

3 – Right plant. Right place.

What is the point of growing something that merely survives and never thrives?  Spindly, undernourished plants result, and the effect is dissatisfying.  Over fifty years ago, Beth Chatto asked herself this question and inspired a whole new movement of gardening in the UK – putting the right plant in the right place. Taking time to consider the natural growing conditions of a plant could mean you never grow it, but for every plant you cannot grow, there are ten that you can.  Find them and your garden will be glorious – and healthy.

The dry Gravel Garden at The Beth Chatto Garden in East Anglica.

4 – Structure is critical.

Sometimes we get so caught up balancing the thrill of immediate gratification with the inconvenience of budgetary constraints that we neglect the big picture.  The big picture is structure, aka bones or form, and the good news is that you can create it with grasses, with conifers, with broad-leafed evergreens, and yes, with larger ticket items like walls, patios and fences.

Squint your eyes for a minute and imagine this cottage & garden as a cottage & field BEFORE it was the garden it is today (The White Garden, Sissinghurst, Sussex). Now consider how adding structural elements could transform YOUR blank canvas.

Structure creates depth and perspective.  Structure directs the eye and sometimes fools the senses.  Structure exists when the leaves fall.  Structure rewards the clever gardener with a feeling of solidity and time.  Make it a priority in your planning and your garden will be infinitely enhanced.

5 – Connecting the house to the garden creates a cohesive sense of place.

It is hard to think of a British garden without thinking about the home it surrounds.  The British are masters of seamlessly connecting inside and outside living spaces which in turn inspires a life centered around the pleasures of the garden.

The iconic container garden at the front entrance to Great Dixter is a beautiful example of allowing the garden to meld seamlessly with the house it surrounds.

Don’t have a 15^th century half-timbered home and feeling a little bitter?  Well, neither do most people in the UK, and yet you see very modest homes draped in roses, or sporting a conservatory, and becoming as integral to the garden as the plants themselves.

6 – Ordinary people can make extraordinary gardens.

This serene retreat in Andover was not created by a horticulturist or designer, but by a chiropodist.

On my last night in the UK, a friend and I walked down a lane in her village to her mother’s garden to water plants while she was away.  Tucked between a corn field and a house to each side, her tiny garden made the most of its space and beautifully meshed the intimacy of a private space with the expansiveness of country views.  I neglected my share of the watering just to stare out over the field and watch the sun set from the windows of a small summer house.

Was her mother a horticulturist I asked?  ‘No, she just loves plants and goes to all the gardens and shows.” said my friend proudly.

You don’t need a certification to create something beautiful.  By all means study your heart out – go to the shows, attend the lectures, take a class or two, but don’t let the idea that you ‘aren’t an expert’ stop you from creating an extraordinary garden. The British don’t.

7 – Gardens connect us with our past and our future.

It’s one of the best reasons for growing one. Some public British gardens are a testament to the past – like the Lost Gardens of Helligan in Cornwall.  Others, such as the Gardens at Blenheim Palace incorporate ancient trees to link past, present and future.  But many private gardens have that same sense of timelessness – aware that  working around treasured features instead of removing them, and planting with an eye toward the next generation evokes a spirit of constancy even in the midst of change.

My edible nephew under an ancient oak at Blenheim Palace.

8 – Gardens and dining go together.

I am a lover of formal dining rooms and have the place-settings to prove it, but in my mind there is no better way to enjoy a meal than in the garden.

The British feel similarly, and consequently most people with a garden or patio have a table and chairs set out to enjoy meals al fresco (even if those meals only happen once a month due to British weather).  When you visit a public garden you are almost guaranteed to find a tea room or refreshment tent, and it is a rare garden indeed that doesn’t subscribe to the notion that tea and coffee always taste better served in china cups.

A simple table set up next to the garden does not need to reflect the latest trends, or even match. It’s about the food & drink, good friends & family, and the pleasures being surrounded by the beauty of the garden.

9 – Incorporating plants within the cultural collective makes life more beautiful.

When searching for a pint without a specific recommendation, I have to admit to always heading for the pub with the most flowers. A shallow criteria certainly, but it rarely steers me wrong.

Having spent a fair amount of time arguing with the council in my last town over the need for horticultural beautification and management, I can confidently say that we don’t put the same priority on using plants to enhance our day to day lives the way that the British do.

We can blame government budgets, but private businesses are just as guilty of not giving plants the chance to enhance facades; or worse, planting poorly, maintaining abysmally and then allowing a dead Alberta spruce to grace the front steps for six months.

Whether it’s a median planter filled with native grasses or a pub covered in pelargoniums, the British get this right.  I wish we’d accept that challenge on a national level and raise them a hanging basket or two.

10 – Using Latin doesn’t make you a snob
– or a geek.

The answer to: “What is that plant?” isn’t straightforward when you’re using English common names and you step outside your county, state, or country.  My mare’s tail may be your horse’s tail; your love grass may be my cleavers.  If you’re speaking to someone who doesn’t speak English, the situation gets infinitely trickier.

The British gardening media doesn’t expect everyone to know the botanical names for every plant, but will use them interchangeably with common ones.  So do many everyday gardeners. This leads to a greater cultural understanding and acceptance – and the ability to talk Garden with a visiting friend from the Czech Republic without having to switch to politics.

I’m excited to announce that next May, I’ll be working with Carex Tours to lead a small group through many of the great gardens of Britain, ending with an exciting day at the Chelsea Flower Show.  Interested in joining us?  Join the mailing list for the 2019 schedule at Carex Tours.

A version of this article was originally printed in The Frederick News Post and is used here with kind permission.

The post What Can We Learn From British Gardens? appeared first on Small Town Gardener.

Well, we’re square in the middle of the autumn season. I hope you’re enjoying your garden right now and not thinking too much about the end of it.  These last little drops of fall are to be savored – after all, they are what we will remember when the January banshees start to scream.

As miscanthus plumes ripen and the last of the chrysanthemums brown and fade, you may be tempted to do a bit of wacky-wacky out there to get on top of your fall workload.  But that may not be the best idea.  Let’s explore our options in terms of a pro and con list – the way I like to look at a lot of options in life.

The Total Clean-Up:

What you do:
Exhaust yourself.

How you do it:
Cut back perennials and annuals, rake all leaves and compost, remove all debris, stack cages, trellises and stakes, mulch heavily, feel smug.

Photo credit: Kelly Fowler

Pros:
The garden looks as tidy as a military base, without the Panda Express.

Clean up is reduced in the spring when you are busy with planting.

Some pest and disease problems are alleviated with the removal of debris.

There is less habitat for winter-destructive voles.

Aggressive fall seeders are dead-headed.

Your neighbors love you.

Winter weight gain begins in January, not November.

Cons:
Exhaustion

Less habitat for wildlife, beneficial insects and pollinators.

Winter interest is drastically reduced.  ‘Neat’ doesn’t necessarily mean ‘interesting.’

Without marking, you won’t be able to tell where many of your herbaceous plants are located.

A heads down/jobs done approach that can keep you from enjoying the season.

And then there’s the school of Let It Be:

What you do:   
Nothing

How you do it:     
However you like.  I prefer a glass of Zinfandel and a wicker chair.

Pros:       
A lot more time on your hands.

A beautiful winter scene as frost carpets the rise and fall of the previous season’s garden each morning.

Possible compositions of poetry as a result of the above.

Over-wintering places for pollinating insects and wildlife.

The ability to see where you have planted your herbaceous plants before you cut them back in spring.

Cons:    
A ‘country messy’ look that might bug you.

Non-beneficial bugs that might bug you.

Winter weight that’s definitely going to bug you.

More work in the spring. (There being no such thing as a free lunch.)

Your neighbors give you tight little smiles in the evenings.

You’ve got to weigh your options.  And more than likely, you’ll come up with a compromise.

I certainly do.

• I try to rake fallen leaves on lawns and driveways and use them to create big piles of leaf mold for next season, but I never remove them from my growing beds, preferring instead to leave a blanket in place for protection and eventual nutrients.

• I try to cut back some of my more aggressive seeders such as Pennisetum alopecuroides ‘Moudry,’ but leave the heads of golden rod, teasel and Echinacea for the birds.

• I try to mow the lawns one last time and edge the beds tightly, but leave the mowing of wilder areas of grass until the late winter.

• I try to remove my tomato and pepper cages and stack them, but wait to strip them of odd bits of vine until it is brittle and falling off in March.

• I try to sit on my deck in November with that glass of zinfandel and wonder what my neighbors are thinking.

Wicked. But satisfying.

Notice I specifically wrote ‘try’ in the above.  I cannot get to everything, and I certainly don’t want anyone thinking I can.  We attempt, we succeed, we fail, we start again next season.  Remember, clean-up is not the only item on the menu in the fall.  We’re planting, we’re digging tender plants and storing them, we’re organizing our garages, basements and potting sheds, we’re painting our daughter’s room even though she really didn’t need it and why of all colors, white?  Well, you get the picture.  Clean up is only one of the possible tasks for the busy gardener in autumn.

The tweaks you make to your plan depend on who you are, what you wish to see in your garden, and whether you live under the auspices of an HOA (It’s not so satisfying to get a wicked letter from the clipboard police).

Every garden is different – as is every gardener.  Keep an open mind about what must be done and what mustn’t be and you may find a better rhythm to your gardening life.

The post Clean It Up or Let It Be: The Fall Garden appeared first on Small Town Gardener.