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Gardeners and their Gardens

The shopping season is in full swing here. Like so many of you, I have been immersed in finding perfect gift choices – mainly though, for the grandkids. I’ve spent hours upon hours combing through all sorts of catalogs and websites and stores trying to come up with gifts that they not only like, but will also spark their imagination, curiosity and creativity long past Christmas morning. More than once, I’ve wished I could find  lists of great ideas all in one place!

I overestimated the number of spring-blooming bulbs I could plant this year. (Well, to be totally honest how many bulbs my husband could plant for me.) We planted what we could, gave away some and put the rest in a box to “deal with later.” Stumbling across them yesterday, I decided that this was the perfect opportunity to learn how to successfully force bulbs into bloom so that I can enjoy bursts of color and fragrance in the dead of winter. 

While cliff golden rods and rough blazing stars are vying for attention in my front garden, my third, and unexpectedly new fall favorite, quietly fills a shady corner of my backyard with tall stems covered in soft rose-purple flowers. At a first, quick glance, the plants could be snapdragons revived after the heat of summer or digitalis giving one last burst of color, but a closer look reveals an entirely different plant, rose turtlehead, or more precisely Chelone oblique.   It’s a plant whose blossoms bring to mind dozens of small turtles raising their heads to see if anyone is looking for them and whose name recalls a long-ago story. 

I love bright yellow flowers in a fall garden. Against a vivid blue autumn sky, they give off an incredibly cheerful vibe, marking a positive, happy end to another growing season. It’s like they revive my enthusiasm at a time when it’s so much easier to avoid fall gardening tasks. This year, Cliff Goldenrod has been my spark of sun and burst of energy in the fall landscape.

I know I’m in the minority, but I’m just not a fan of mums anymore. They're great for huge swaths of  temporary color especially in commercial properties, but I'll pass in my own front yard.  I think it’s simply a case of being tired of being tired of planting essentially the same plant year after year, only in a different color or size. I've also noticed that I am veering away from the precise, formal plantings that are typical of beds of mums. Instead, I am beginning to prefer a much more casual, natural look with its unusual twists and its unexpected delights. 

The transition between summer and fall is, for me, a bittersweet time of year. The summer flowers are fading, leaving only seed heads and dried stalks. The tomatoes and cucumbers are struggling, but, on the bright side, my hummingbird feeders are busier than ever, as my tiny visitors prepare to begin their 500 plus mile journey to Central America, where they will spend the winter months.

The next two months are the prime time for those of us here in the Midwest to plant spring blooming bulbs. The scorching heat is beginning to diminish, leaving the soil warm but workable. Light bursts of rainfall are predicted, giving enough moisture to prompt root growth. And, if you’ve visited any of the big box stores lately, you’ll see that their shelves are beginning to be filled with box after box of spring flowering bulbs ready to be planted  –  everything from tiny snowdrops to huge alliums. Most of all though, dozens of varieties of daffodils and gorgeous tulips are available.

With the wretchedly hot weather cooling down just a bit, I’ve finally been able to enjoy being outdoors again. In fact, my back deck has become the go-to place for an iced cold glass of lemonade, a pre-dinner snack and a good book. While it’s always been a relaxing space, this year it has become even more inviting because of the sound of gently flowing water and the soft, sweet fragrance of the moonflowers that have climbed to the top of the deck.