My visit to the Alumni House Garden earlier today only lasted for a few minutes. I had not shoveled any walkways so the snow was a foot deep and it was cold–the night-time temperatures would dipping below zero Fahrenheit. I also did not want to disrupt the garden’s serene peacefulness, these special moments when there’s no evidence of recent human visitations. No trash, no footprints, everything clean, pristine, unsullied. It reminded me of the snow globe I had in my room as a child: an immaculate existence residing in its own bubble, immune from the world’s noise and dirt.
As I’ve noted on several occasions, there are few obvious signs of any animal or bird life within the garden in January. The seed heads of the purple coneflowers are erect, well above the snow cover, but it’s not apparent these seeds have been the source of recent meals. I hear sparrows chirping, but they are in the hawthorn branches outside the garden. The rectangular snow lawn is perfectly smooth, no evidence of any squirrels or rabbits having sprinted across the surface since the last snowfall. At the west end of the garden I see one set of rabbit tracks and two small displays of rabbit turds, their warmth having created small dimples in the crusty snow. Tomorrow morning, I will return and venture into the cold with my camera, trying to capture the blue, fleeting, early morning shadows that stretch across the garden’s white canvas, ghosts that can never survive in the mid-day light.
I LEAN DOWN AND GRAB a hyssop’s small, brown seedhead. When I first started working in the garden, the giant hyssops were only in the NE corner, but their steady self-seeding habits have enabled them to find homes across nearly all the perennial flower beds. I’m not sure the history of this variety, but I suspect it’s an Agastache foeniculum, a Midwest prairie native. I love their fragrance after crushing a fluffy seedhead between my fingers. One common name for A. foeniculum is “anise hyssop,” and the seed heads do have a slight anise or licorice aroma. Although some people have described the fragrance as “skunky” or medicinal, I find their perfume to be quite pleasant, a clean and aromatic mint odor--and hyssop is in the mint family. Certainly one of my favorites. The seedheads are small but attractive in a dried flower arrangement, and the 4-6' flower stalks often retain their upright stature throughout the winter. The hyssop’s flowers are wildly popular with our butterflies and carpenter bee populations, but birds appear to be more attracted to other seed sources. By this time of the year, most of the hyssop’s tiny seeds have fallen to the ground and the seedheads are mostly chaff–though an attractive chaff.
In front of the hyssop is an English thyme (Thymus vulgaris), another member of the mint family. I break off a 2" long stem sticking above the snow. Although the tiny gray leaves are desiccated and brittle, when I hold the stem close to my nose, the thyme’s distinctive fragrance is immediately recognizable. I have no functional vocabulary for describing its aromatic properties, other than to say it smells like thyme. Although dried thyme has the reputation of holding its flavor after being harvested, after a few minutes it becomes harder for me to detect the thyme’s aroma unless I crush it between my fingers. Apparently my brain requires a more vigorous signal to confirm this fragrance is still worthy of attention. I’ve read that of all our human senses, smell is for many people the last to lose its efficacy in old age. Even as we grow older, we continue producing new olfactory neurons, replacements appearing every few weeks.
A few steps further and I come to one of the few Sweet Annie (Artemisia annua) that we did not pull up in the fall. Since each plant produces hundreds of seeds, a few plants can provide more than enough seeds to ensure a fresh crop of Annies in the spring. A member of the daisy family, this annual artemisia is not a particularly attractive plant during the summer. Many years ago our neighbor was cleaning up a flower bed between our adjacent backyards and pulled up all the Sweet Annie in my flower bed, thinking they were unwanted weeds. Despite their tiny blossoms and unassuming appearance, the leaves and seeds are marvelously aromatic. It’s not surprising to discover some people are allergic to this artemisia, which can initiate uncontrollable sneezes. I have a dried Sweet Annie stalk in the garden shed that is two years old and still retains its fragrance. In The Sensual Garden, Ken Druse notes that some people have described Sweet Annie’s fragrance “as being like that of Juicy Fruit gum or the inside of an old general store.” The gum comparison seems more accurate, conveying the aroma’s distinctly sweet character.
Of course, most people visiting the garden will walk by the Sweet Annie, unaware of the plants’ potential impact on their olfactory neurons. In fact, all three of these plants are typically ignored, rarely attracting much attention. While even in winter these fragrances are vibrant and undiminished, freely available to any visitors, they do require a moment of focused intimacy. None of these fragrances is wildly broadcast throughout the neighborhood. As I ponder their modesty, I wonder what is the survival value of these fragrances for the three plants. Whom might the fragrances be attracting or repulsing? Or are their aromas just accidental byproducts?
The complete essay can be read as a pdf document by clicking on this link to Mondays in a Garden.