it is our new elsa sass peony, grown from a root that was gifted to me last fall.
we planted it carefully, following every instruction, with the eyes of the root system facing up, in exactly the right depth of soil. it was all new to us and we were eager to learn how to properly care for this amazing flower. i placed painted rocks at the site of this root and an amalia olson we also planted. and then we waited. and through fall and into cold winter and then, finally, spring, we waited.
and then, in later april, the maroon sprouts appeared. there were a plethora over by where our one other peony is – the one with hot pink blooms, a transplant from a friend’s garden that zealously grows each spring. and there were a couple tiny sprouts by our painted rocks, indicators of at least the possibility of a little success. i took photographs and was pretty excited.
these are small plants this year, only a few stems. yet they each had a couple buds – tightly wound – promises of blooms. and so we kept a watchful eye and carefully placed fencing to prop them up – these fragile stems against the spring storms.
the pink peonies exploded into being. their scent wafted through our backyard and into the open windows of our house. it is an amazing display of color, a celebration of flower!, a double peony orchestral reminder of beauty.
and then, ever so slowly, the elsa sass opened to the sun. the white bloom – like a cup of petals – in slow motion, responding to a few warmer, sunnier midwest days.
i would have been absolutely content if this bloom had simply stayed exactly like this. i was taken by its sheer beauty, its purity, overwhelmed by its sweet fragrance.
maybe it’s the state of the world, the tenuousness of our land. maybe it’s an inventory of time – both that which has gone by and that which is ahead of us. maybe it’s simply presence – the moments gazing at something so beautiful you can hardly believe its perfection. in any case – for whatever the reason – i was obsessed with this stunning flower.
this one blossomed peony – this one bud that slowly unwound its way into the world – was a light for me. it filled me up. it reminded me to breathe. and – in the most-amazing way – this tiny cup of petals lay bare the lesson to hold gently all within me.
“if you would know strength and patience, welcome the company of trees.” (hal borland)
it was the first tree i have ever bought.
i know plenty of people who buy trees, spend lavishly on shrubs, bushes, flowers, on landscaping, have much knowledge about plants and flowers and such. but i – well, we – are neophytes in the gardening category.
my sweet momma loved plants, including outdoor plants around our house back on long island. but they were simple heritage plants – hostas and daylilies, hydrangea, four o’clocks. all easy to cultivate – and easy to transplant cuttings from friends. i don’t remember spending any of my growing-up years browsing nurseries with my parents while they tried to decide which new plants to purchase, with no regard to price tag. there was the occasional vegetable garden out back where the round above-ground pool had been and maybe a new houseplant or two but propagating by division was my momma’s way and, with a garden full of nostalgia-type plants, she instilled in me an appreciation for the simplest, for the less-is-more on-a-shoestring approach.
in my own planting through the years i have found that i have mimicked my momma’s style. cuttings from friends, transplanting excess from others’ gardens into my own, it has been gardening-on-a-budget. my purple iris, my lavender garden were from the gardens of dear friends. though stunning, they did not sustain long-term as my neighbor planted snow-on-the-mountain on the other side of the fence and it completely smothered my more delicate garden. our wild geranium came from the beautiful garden of a dear friend out east. our hostas and our daylilies and ferns spent some time rolling down third avenue in a wheelbarrow when another friend was paring down her over-producing garden. we did purchase the first of our ornamental grasses, but now they not only sustain but are capable of filling in many gaps in our garden by their own – or our – cultivating. we annually, now, purchase a few flowers in tiny packs from flats for pots – though the woman who bought five gorgeous big plants at $16.99 each in front of us did made me a little bit envious. each year, now, as you already know, we are also planting herbs on our potting stand – there is joy in stepping outside with snippers while cooking. all in all, there is minimal purchasing going on – which lines right up with minimal knowledge. what we do know is that we really love our gardens, simple as they are.
that brings me to trees. i cannot remember my parents purchasing trees while i was growing up. we lived in a wooded area and just enjoyed the trees with which we were gifted naturally. though as i write that i recall a dogwood tree out front to the left of the driveway. i wonder if that was a special tree that they bought…or maybe the mimosa tree out front with its beautiful pink fluff flowers….so maybe there was a tree or two….
i can, however, attest to the fact that i had never in my life purchased a tree to plant outdoors. not in new york, not in florida, not in new hampshire, not in wisconsin. neither has d. not in colorado, not in new mexico, not in california, not in texas, not in kentucky, not in washington, not in wisconsin. though we love trees, tree purchases have never survived the budget cuts. until breck.
outside the city market in breckenridge, colorado, the stand of trees had a big sign: “aspens – $9.99”.
$9.99??? for a tree??? one of our absolute favorite trees???
we purchased it before even checking to see if it would fit in littlebabyscion. and, because I’ve written about it before, you know the rest of the story. it’s now been almost 8 years since we brought breck home. we have held our breath, whispered quiet prayers, wrapped blankets around it, researched how to attain its best health. and through it all – living in a pot – and then a bigger pot – on the deck, disliking the shady fern garden into which we planted it – tucked next to the garage, and the big transplant to where it is now – it has not only patiently survived, but it has flourished. breck is now as tall as the side of the garage, as tall as the first story of the house. it seems happy and well-adjusted to its life in the ornamental grass garden, a spot for birds to linger, the object of our love.
maybe someday there will be a reason to buy another tree. we may have more space somewhere or more desire for shade or a wish for a stand of aspen or – the real factor – a bigger budget.
in the meanwhile, i feel incredibly content with our one tree purchase. breck is – obviously – ridiculously dear to us. it is a song of success in our simple backyard.
“trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky.” (kahlil gibran)
so many clay pots and assorted planters, i drew a sketch of them all and began to list what plants and herbs and flowers we wished to grow this summer, sorting plants to pots. and we began the dreamy conversation about stepping off the deck and snipping basil or parsley, making ann’s jalapeño poppers, gazing at colorful flowers scattered on deck’s edge or along our gardens of grasses.
we are not well-versed in plants. we are most-definitely not well-versed in growing things to eat. and we truly don’t know much about different annual flowers – so we depend on the tags at the nursery and research. a few days ago we were drawn to two tiny-bloom flowers, though we didn’t know anything about them. it was a heart thing.
last fall my sister-in-law sent me two peony roots. we carefully planted them – exactly as the directions stated – making sure that the “eyes” were facing up and the root wasn’t too deep into the soil. in the miracle that is spring, peony shoots have risen from the ground – and you would think we’ve given birth – our wonder, our level of excitement are off the charts. it is a joy to think of these new beauties – with gorgeous big white blooms – growing alongside two established peonies, many ornamental grasses, wild geranium, day lilies, hosta, and healthy weeds of many varieties.
we have much to learn…about all of it.
gardening, we see, is like the joys of being an artist. experimentation and not being able to determine an outcome ahead of time – both are important in the process. we give over to the mystery of it all. we know that it all is steeped in potential and we embrace it. it’s a giant responsibility – a gift of nurture we can give – to our artistry, to our garden.
it would be an easy segue to connect the dots of this kind of potential – this kind of responsibility – to the governing of this country. it would be easy to speak of the glorious mystery of our melting pot, the growth that is possible in the garden of humanity. it would be simple to believe that there should be wonder and great excitement in nurturing all the people of this country – whether or not they are different than those we know well – learning and growing together. it would be natural to depend on research and heart in moving forward all that we – in these United States – can be.
but no. i won’t go there. it all just seems so obvious.
a country – a first-world democracy exuding potential beyond belief.
why wouldn’t you tend that garden with great care and embracing respect and intelligent research and nurturing love?
why would you wish to crush or annihilate or suppress or obliterate all that potential?
“as we walk in fields of gold…” (gordon matthew sumner (sting) – fields of gold)
it is the grasses that thrive in our yard. the hostas have mostly yielded to the daylilies and the ferns have volunteered into a bigger garden out in the corner under the trees. the peonies hold their own – their blooms ever the sweetest. but the grasses – planted in our sandy soil near the lake – multiply and thrive.
were we to be dropped out of the galaxy into our yard, we would at least be able to identify the season – based on the ornamental grasses that grace our gardens. they are stalwart and enduring, coming back despite whatever is happening in our own universe, in the world. they are tuned to the sun and the moon and they set a high bar of appreciation for their renewal, their robust, their willowy feathered plumage, their verdant green in summer and this golden glow in fall.
we sit and gaze at these gardens of gold, particularly as dusk’s setting sun plays over them. we are smitten.
i am planting two new roots of peony, a generous gift from my sister-in-law. carefully we have decided where to place these tiny plant souls. they will flower in white blossoms, different blooms from each other. i will cluster them with one of our hot pink peonies – the one that hasn’t yet budded. and, hopefully, the grasses adjacent in the garden will keep an eye on these newcomers. we can gently plant, water and feed, be mindful of recommendations, but the garden will also tend itself and my sister-in-law has reassured me that peonies are so tough and hardy that they don’t necessarily need anything special. welcome words, as we are really neophytes at this.
there are many gardens with much more variety, that are more exquisite, more elegant, lavish, even opulent. yet, each time we come home – or finish our day on the deck or the patio – now that we have passed by the equinox and autumn is sweeping in on the departing wings of summer – i am grateful for these fields of gold in our yard. the steadfast spirit of these golden grasses aligns with us.
we planted in the spirit of ‘you will always harvest what you plant’. we trusted that – with water, weeding, solicitous care – we might harvest peppers. even without ever growing peppers before. even in our ignorance of the task at hand. the thing we leaned into was just that – that we would harvest what we planted.
if you plant joy, you will harvest joyful. if you plant despair, you will harvest the despairing. if you plant aid, you will harvest the empowered. if you plant lack, you will harvest the suffering. if you plant the embrace of the ideals of goodness and kindness, humankind will join hands. if you plant retribution and rage-filled revenge, you will stoke the fear and anger of vengeful enemies. it seems an easy equation, an easy conditional statement.
we are in a time of planting. what we plant now will have ramifications for all time to come. regardless of whether we will be here or not to witness the-time-to-come, it would seem our responsibility to plant virtue. for out of virtue, a future will flourish. out of virtue, a future will provide the opportunity of growth for all who follow. out of virtue, integrity will be cherished, valued, expected.
we have had three jalapeño peppers so far. i’ve saved two to make ann’s popper recipe. we have had a dozen red snack peppers. we’ve munched on them and included them in our salad. we have about two dozen red chili peppers on that plant so far. i’m not sure what we’ll do with those yet, though making red chili pepper flakes seems obvious. we’ve noted that we need take care and wear protective gloves when working with these peppers.
it’s interesting that we didn’t think about these red chilis ahead of time. we merely liked the look of the plant and bought it, bringing it home to transplant into a clay pot and place on our potting stand. but you harvest what you plant and they are wildly successful, these tiny hot peppers.
next year we will plant peppers again. but we will choose differently and with more forethought. we will plant more jalapeños, more snack peppers, maybe some bells, maybe some banana peppers. we likely won’t plant more red chilis – this harvest will be the last of that.
i would think that, for each of the things we plant, we have some due consideration, that we think of the application or wastefulness of the harvest, that we seriously mull over the heat of the fruit.
the first. these are the first peppers we have ever grown and we are sort of stunned by them. because they are really real-live peppers!!
when we purchased the plants, they were on clearance at lowe’s. we bought our basil and parsley plants there and, as we wandered around – a tiny bit late in the early summer planting season – a few pepper plants spoke to us. on our potting stand are three pepper pots – a jalapeño, a red chili and this snack red pepper. because we are budget-conscious, we worried about the cost of failing. but, in the end, we thought it was worth the risk…this first attempt at pepper-growing. plus it helped that there were a few buds on the plants by the time we purchased them; it made us think that maybe we stood at least a chance of being successful.
and now…here we are. there are two jalapeños and multiple red snack peppers ready to be harvested and we are truly stunned. the red snacks and a jalapeño will become part of a meal we will share with 20 – stars in our fajitas. it will be a proud moment for us and we’ll be grateful for the amazement of growing our own food, just like we were with the batches of pesto (red and genovese) we made and froze last week.
we spent monday at the chicago botanic garden this week. each time we visit we are wowed by a different spot in the garden, a different grouping, a different extraordinary flower, beauty after beauty. david remarked about how much he loved the english walled garden. he said that if he were to build and plant a garden today he would plant a walled garden. i laughed and pointed out that our backyard is kind of like a walled garden. we don’t have the same level of order or discipline in our garden – for, along with our pond, there are ornamental grasses and peonies, ferns, day lilies and hosta planted slightly more haphazardly, but it is mostly walled in by the back and side fence, the garage serving as a perimeter. there is a privacy afforded, a quietness.
we sit at our bistro table or in our infamous adirondack chairs and watch our birds and squirrels and chippies. we share time and space and life with our dogga. and our barnwood potting stand – adjacent to the deck and the patio – is a place of tiny miracles.
we could have shied away from trying peppers, even at their discounted price. we could have worried that we would not bring them to fruition, that we would not be successful pepper-planters.
instead, we tried something new.
and these gloriously red peppers in tomorrow’s fajitas will remind us – once again – that life is there for the trying. it is not in the certainty of succeeding that we live. it is in risking. it is in anticipation. it is in mystery. it’s all really quite stunning, after all.
i hadn’t seen a pink daylily before. but one of our neighbors along the lakefront has a few in their garden. beautiful! i looked it up. i did not know there were so many varieties. the things you learn…
our front yard has come a long way. there is a lawn now, with many thanks to our dear grassking. all along the old brick wall are orange daylilies. along the side fence in the backyard are yellow daylilies. and along the west fence are maroon daylilies. they all came from our friend sally’s garden – she had a few too many and, years ago, we wheelbarrowed a bunch from her house to ours. clearly they love it here. they have multiplied and filled out the gardens. they are simple flowers, nothing fancy. but we aren’t too fancy ourselves, so it seems fitting.
these are stalwart flowers, particularly the ones along the front wall. they had much upheaval during the great water line replacement project. they prevailed – even in the midst of the chaos that followed – our yard ripped up and salad-tossed with all kinds of excavated and project debris. we transplanted them as we reconfigured the garden along the wall. they stuck it out. we seeded and fertilized and watered and tended the grass. we didn’t pay that much attention to the plants, assuming we might lose them as they also took the brunt of the big equipment. but the low-maintenance daylilies kept on keeping on. and now, their abundance is stunning.
i’ve tried fancier flowers. but they have stubbornly not cooperated. it’s like our yard is telling us – no,no…these…these grasses, these daylilies, this hydrangea, these ferns…these are good…these are right.
there is a simplicity.
and there is a steadfastness.
and the daylilies stand now – side by side – with the ever-stunning peonies out back. they languish next to graceful grasses and across the yard from the tall ferns. along with wild geranium they frame barney and the chippie condo this old piano has become.
and they rock and roll in front of the old brick wall – a mass of orange and green.
even in the midst of chaos, the midst of upheaval, the midst of the unexpected, the midst of the disappointing, these simple flowers have been tolerantly intrepid. they have been resilient. in tutti, they have withstood and they have come back healthier, more robust, reverberant.
because beauty is not quiet. it always finds a way through the messy.
parsley and rosemary. in what would seem their prime, it was time to harvest, for another frost might damage them and a freeze most certainly would. we covered them – along with the basil and the mint and the lavender – but it’s november and it’s wisconsin, so it was time to make some other choices. because it’s what we do, i researched. and then, with snippers, went out and snipped off stems, laying them gently on a cookie sheet so that i might freeze them and pull them out mid-winter to use: fresh herbs in the winter from our own potting stand will remind me that spring will, yes, arrive again.
and yes, i know it’s simple to run to the grocery store and pick up a fresh bundle of parsley and one of those little plastic containers of rosemary. but there is something to be said for these herbs that we grew, that gave us so much joy to watch as they flourished this summer. we simply bought them at lowe’s, planted them in good soil in good old clay pots, placed them in the sun, watered them as needed. and we celebrated them as they grew. mighty and strong.
it’s a little like children. you try your best to plant them in good soil, in solid but permeable pots, expose them to the sun and nutrients as they need them. and they flourish. and one day you are watching your daughter fly down the biggest mountain run in summit county – one of the highest inbound ski terrains in north america – on a snowboard, her skills generously coaching and instructing others. and another day you are watching your son’s hands fly across the mixer board, spinning electronic dance music, bringing elation – even rapture – to beautiful people expressing the freedom and joy of living. and then another day and another and another…mighty and strong.
it’s good dirt, a good pot, sun, nutrients. celebration.
and a whole lot of love.
maybe next year we’ll also plant sage and thyme – to complete the old folk song that goes through my mind every time i think of parsley and rosemary.
we were hose-holdouts. we had those hard rubber (and some hard plastic) hoses that are just difficult to deal with – the kind that bend back on themselves and kink and stop the waterflow (which, of course, is their entire role in life). one of them was attached to one of those hose rollup reel thingies that has a handle and you roll the hose onto it, trying to guide it into place (because it all somehow reels into the same spot) while simultaneously getting wet and muddy from the hose which is supposed to just easily glide into place on the rollup thingie.
we admired other people’s gardenhoses. they had nifty wrinkled-up expandable miracle hoses. they had lightweight-rubber-hoses-that-never-kinked. they had expandable-retractable hoses of many colors. we were in hose-envy with no hose-budget.
until one day.
the amazon guy left a couple boxes out in front of our door. now, this is a very exciting day. we order little and so we are ridiculously excited to see a box on our doorstep. truly, ridiculously.
two boxes. one was the spiffiest 50′ expandable hose – lightweight, all curled up like a sleeping garden snake, ready to take on our backyard. the other box had a bright neon green watering wand, which has to be one of the best inventions of all time. gifts from one of my beautiful nieces, we did a we’re-catching-up-in-the-world happy dance and relieved the heavy old hose from its duty on our deck.
it makes a difference, i must say. one wants to spend time watering with a hose that isn’t like lugging the entire water table along behind you sans sherpa-help. the wand is truly amazing (and i know we must be many years behind with this one, having been the proud owners of handheld nozzles for a bazillion years – the kinds that invariably don’t seal properly onto the hose screwtop receiver and spray sideways all over you as you attempt to use it.)
now, i stand calmly and peacefully – even zen-like – with my watering wand and obedient expandable-retractable-lightweight-miracle-hose and move from spot to spot in the backyard. i gently and tenderly – without jerking the hose along – sprinkle my herbs and rain down on our ornamental grasses and ferns.
everything has benefited from this combo. but mostly me.
the simplest upgrade-change – something newfangled! – has made a difference in a chore. it has made it a gift of slowing-down-time, of appreciating the growth of our gardens around us, a kind of meditation.
mostly, we have entered the twenty-first century of hoses. and we are feeling like the cat’s meow.
in the way that dads are corny, my sweet poppo was just that – a little bit corny. somehow, it seems it’s supposed to be that way. his humor was lighthearted and the way he repeated some jokes was comforting. “do you think the rain will hurt the rhubarb?” he’d quip. waiting just a few seconds, he’d respond to himself – if you didn’t beat him to it – “not if it’s in cans!!” and then he’d laugh. every time.
i think he was buying time to think when he’d quip about the rhubarb. it wasn’t like he was intently concerned about the rhubarb. matter of fact, i only remember them growing rhubarb maybe one or two years, back behind the house. and even then, it wasn’t like he was a huge rhubarb fan. i think the only way he liked it was with strawberries – in a pie.
but his jokes were harmless and predictably silly. no stand-up routine for him, he was just daddy-o, trying his best to carry on. and because he wasn’t a giant conversationalist – he turned that over to my sweet momma – he’d just fill in the gaps. “well, how do you like them apples?” he’d say.
i’m pretty sure he’d had loved the corn we grew in our backyard this summer. the squirrels and chippies had everything to do with this crop. they’d deplete the birdfeeder in mere hours, tossing kernels and seeds everywhere. i have no doubt where the cornfield came from. but it was pretty astounding to see. we suddenly became prolific mini-farmers.
it was everywhere. next to breck, our aspen. inbetween the ornamental grasses. under the birdfeeder. under the potting bench with our herbs. next to the garage. yesterday we found it in the front garden bed.
i could hear david’s dad columbus chuckle from the other side when we found it in the front garden. a cornfield-lover from way back, i figure he might have had something to do with that. we laughed as well, delighted in a – hmmm – corny kind of way.
for the longest time we left it all right where it was. there was something really pleasing about glancing out at the corn.
but then we decided it was time to pull it out, so that it wouldn’t suffocate our intentional plantings. we took pictures and then pulled it, thanking it for the entertainment it had provided.
outside on the driveway we talked to our westneighbors. we talked about our hummingbirds and our feeders and the birdbaths we had placed in our yards and the chippies and squirrels stealing seed and the birds gathering in the bushes. we were all zealous, loving the little creatures in our yards. “we’ve turned into our parents,” i noted and we all nodded and laughed.
reverse threading 