this charming little flower started popping up all over the top part of our yard – between the old brick wall and the garden by the house. striped squill require no special skills, no plant food, no specific watering instructions. it just appears. and it thrives. and every single one of these tiny striped blooms makes me smile. they are incredibly low-maintenance in a high-maintenance world. it’s hard to think of something sweeter to broadcast that spring-in-the-midwest is actually on its way.
because there is wild geranium under barney – the old upright in the backyard – and there are day lilies growing feverishly in every bit of garden and there are the tiniest curlicues of ferns along the back fence over in the corner by the garage and there are sedum’s wee cabbages obstinately ignoring any deep temperature drops – we have to believe that we here in wisconsin are on the docket for spring’s arrival.
years ago i planted hundreds of tulip and daffodil bulbs with the great hope that, well, tulips and daffodils would grow in our yard. but – the squirrels dug them all up and ate ’em all. que sera. it wasn’t to be.
i am not horticulturally derailed by that. i enjoy the bulb flowers in other gardeners’ gardens and appreciate what actually grows easily in ours. striped squill – its delicate flowers – are our gig, it seems. no credit to us.
and i have to say that i really love it that way.
because these tiny flowers – even in what seems their inconsequence – are most meaningful. their presence in our grass signals the hope of fallow-coming-to-an-end. it signals the freshness of a new season, a new time. it signals rejuvenation of a place on earth that has rested for some time – in this case, right here, through winter.
i can’t help but linking-thinking it to the hope of fallow-coming-to-an-end and the freshness of a new season, a new time and rejuvenation….of me, of us, of each of us.
somewhere deep in our own fallow – our own dormancy – we start to thrash our arms at the darker shadows and invite in the light. somewhere deep in our own fallow – our own dormancy – we begin to cultivate the chance of growth, of healing, of rising up through the debris of whatever had been plowed over. from somewhere deep in our own fallow – our own dormancy – we emerge stronger, more vital, chutzpah leading the way.
the little squill stand firm in the wind and the rain, their skinny little stems steadfast. they keep reaching for the sun, grinning. they know they matter. they have no doubt. they are the harbingers of renewal. and they cheer each of us on our way with them.
“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)
though we are not ‘good’ at many plants, it seems, we are ‘good’ at ornamental grasses. maybe it’s the soil, maybe it’s the sun, maybe it’s location, but grasses have given us a sense of garden-accomplishment that nothing else (shy of mayyyybe the cherry tomatoes and basil and lavender this year) has bestowed upon us.
we won’t cut them down. no pruning. they will stay through the winter, magnificent plumes golden against the drear, against the snow, reminding us of good fluff of the day.
i imagine tiny animals sheltering in their masses, dense bush allowing warmth and security and invisibleness. maybe tiny chipmunks, with pantries of birdseed they have stolen from the finches and sparrows, waylaid from intrepid robins and scarlet cardinals. we’ll just keep filling the birdfeeder. judging by the birds partying in our backyard yesterday, i think we may try and find another birdfeeder to hang as well. i have turned into my parents.
dogdog comes inside each day now, laden with seed pods. if wishes were granted on seedheads, we would have so many magical dreams coming true. he seems to not mind these tiny hitchhikers tucked into his very-furry fur. we pick them off, one by one.
and now i think, who’s gonna stop us from wishing on each one? these grasses grace us in more than one way. let the magic commence.
reverse threading 