Monday Morning Garden Report: 4 December 2022
One of the most informative and inspiring garden books I read this past year was Seedheads in the Garden by Noel Kingsbury, with superb, high-quality color photographs by Jo Whitworth. Since I started working in the Coe garden in 2014, one of my primary concerns has been to find ways in which the garden can be more attractive and ecologically beneficial in the winter months. One approach has been to introduce a variety of sculptures to help maintain a year-around aesthetic appeal. Another option has been to introduce more plants that in the winter months retain a visual interest while serving the needs of wildlife, particularly desirable birds and insects. Kingsbury, one of the leaders in the New Perennial movement, has written a book which provides many plant suggestions potentially applicable to the Coe garden.
In the second half of the book, Kingsbury methodically describes 140 plant species with attractive seedheads. Some of his choices, such as switch grass or goldenrod, would have dozens of different species and cultivar possibilities. As I worked my way through his plant list, I noted the Coe garden currently has 56 winter seedhead plants listed by Kingsbury. I have placed an asterisk after the species that have been added or substantially expanded in the past eight years:
• Achillea (Yarrow)*
• Agastache (includes Hyssop)*
• Alcea (Hollyhock)*
• Allium (Ornamental onions, including Millenium)*
• Amsonia (Arkansas Blue Star)*
• Anemone*
• Aquilegia (Columbine)*
• Asclepias (Butterfly Weed)*
• Aster
• Astilbe*
• Astrantia (Masterwort)*
• Bouteloua (Gramma grass)*
• Briza (Quaking Grass)*
• Calamagrostis (‘Karl Foerster’ Fountain grass)*
• Campanula*
• Centaurea*
• Chasmanthium (River Oats)*
• Chelone (Turtlehead)*
• Clematis*
• Daucus (Wild Carrot, Queen Anne’s Lace)
• Deschampsia (Tuft grass)*
• Digitalis (Foxglove)*
• Echinacea (Coneflower)
• Echinops (Globe Thistle)(
• Eragrostic (Love grass)*
• Eryngium*
• Eupatorium (Joe Pye Weed)*
• Foeniculum (Fennel)*
• Geum (Prairie smoke)*
• Helleborus*
• Hosta
• Hydrangea
• Iris
• Liatris (Blazing stars)*
• Ligularia*
• Lysimachia (Gooseneck loosestrife)
• Malva*
• Miscanthus (Eulalia grass)*
• Monarda (Bergamot, bee balm)*
• Nigella (Love-in-a-mist)
• Paeonia (Peony)
• Panicum (Switch grass)*
• Pennisetum (Fountain grass)*
• Perovskia (Russian sage)*
• Rudbeckia (Black-eyed Susan)*
• Salvia (Sage)*
• Schizachyrium (Little Bluestem)*
• Sedum*
• Solidago (Goldenrod)
• Sorghastrum (Indian Grass)*
• Sporobolus (Dropseed grass)*
• Thalictrum*
• Tragopogon (Goat’s Beard)*
• Verbena*
• Vernonia (Ironweed)*
• Veronicastrum*
For me, the biggest surprise in Kingsbury's recommendations is the absence of Baptisia australis (false indigo), a plant whose leaves and seedpods play a major role in the Coe garden’s winter design. Another option that might have appeared on his list would be American wisteria (Wisteria frutescens), whose long, brown seedpods during the winter months hang from the vines wrapped around the garden’s pergola.
One of the most informative and inspiring garden books I read this past year was Seedheads in the Garden by Noel Kingsbury, with superb, high-quality color photographs by Jo Whitworth. Since I started working in the Coe garden in 2014, one of my primary concerns has been to find ways in which the garden can be more attractive and ecologically beneficial in the winter months. One approach has been to introduce a variety of sculptures to help maintain a year-around aesthetic appeal. Another option has been to introduce more plants that in the winter months retain a visual interest while serving the needs of wildlife, particularly desirable birds and insects. Kingsbury, one of the leaders in the New Perennial movement, has written a book which provides many plant suggestions potentially applicable to the Coe garden.
In the second half of the book, Kingsbury methodically describes 140 plant species with attractive seedheads. Some of his choices, such as switch grass or goldenrod, would have dozens of different species and cultivar possibilities. As I worked my way through his plant list, I noted the Coe garden currently has 56 winter seedhead plants listed by Kingsbury. I have placed an asterisk after the species that have been added or substantially expanded in the past eight years:
• Achillea (Yarrow)*
• Agastache (includes Hyssop)*
• Alcea (Hollyhock)*
• Allium (Ornamental onions, including Millenium)*
• Amsonia (Arkansas Blue Star)*
• Anemone*
• Aquilegia (Columbine)*
• Asclepias (Butterfly Weed)*
• Aster
• Astilbe*
• Astrantia (Masterwort)*
• Bouteloua (Gramma grass)*
• Briza (Quaking Grass)*
• Calamagrostis (‘Karl Foerster’ Fountain grass)*
• Campanula*
• Centaurea*
• Chasmanthium (River Oats)*
• Chelone (Turtlehead)*
• Clematis*
• Daucus (Wild Carrot, Queen Anne’s Lace)
• Deschampsia (Tuft grass)*
• Digitalis (Foxglove)*
• Echinacea (Coneflower)
• Echinops (Globe Thistle)(
• Eragrostic (Love grass)*
• Eryngium*
• Eupatorium (Joe Pye Weed)*
• Foeniculum (Fennel)*
• Geum (Prairie smoke)*
• Helleborus*
• Hosta
• Hydrangea
• Iris
• Liatris (Blazing stars)*
• Ligularia*
• Lysimachia (Gooseneck loosestrife)
• Malva*
• Miscanthus (Eulalia grass)*
• Monarda (Bergamot, bee balm)*
• Nigella (Love-in-a-mist)
• Paeonia (Peony)
• Panicum (Switch grass)*
• Pennisetum (Fountain grass)*
• Perovskia (Russian sage)*
• Rudbeckia (Black-eyed Susan)*
• Salvia (Sage)*
• Schizachyrium (Little Bluestem)*
• Sedum*
• Solidago (Goldenrod)
• Sorghastrum (Indian Grass)*
• Sporobolus (Dropseed grass)*
• Thalictrum*
• Tragopogon (Goat’s Beard)*
• Verbena*
• Vernonia (Ironweed)*
• Veronicastrum*
For me, the biggest surprise in Kingsbury's recommendations is the absence of Baptisia australis (false indigo), a plant whose leaves and seedpods play a major role in the Coe garden’s winter design. Another option that might have appeared on his list would be American wisteria (Wisteria frutescens), whose long, brown seedpods during the winter months hang from the vines wrapped around the garden’s pergola.
Monday Morning Garden Report: 28 November 2022
Yesterday morning I was in Paris, eating breakfast on the River Seine, a short walk from the Eiffel Tower. The rest of the day was spent traveling back to Iowa, as one would expect an exhausting journey. The discomforts of this trip were compounded by a terrible head cold and cough, but on the plus side we had no problems with weather or mechanical delays. Our flights out of Charles de Gaulle and O’Hare were on time, and by 10:00 p.m. last night we were safely at home. I still feel lousy, but it’s been ten days since I was in the garden, and I thought it was important to make sure everything was in decent shape.
As I soon discovered, at some time while we were in France the electricity had gone off in the greenhouse and garden shed, which meant that the heaters were both turned off, which meant that the temperature in the greenhouse had dipped below freezing. Most of the plants (such as the two big rosemary plants and a group of Nicotiana) were fine, but a tender geranium and an ivy had been zapped, and it was not evident either would survive. I trimmed back both plants, gave them some water, and hoped the return of the heater would revive their spirits. As for the earthworms in the garden shed, a high percentage were out of the soil, hugging the roof of their container. Many were unresponsive or slow to react when prodded, but I don’t think they froze, and they should revive once the soil temperature has returned to the 60s.
As for the garden, everything appeared to be in good shape. There was some trash to pick up, including the normal allotment of plastic bags caught on the branches of trees and shrubs, but no major surprises. What really caught my attention was how uniform the garden appeared. Standing at the steps of the patio, looking toward the east end of the garden, I felt the garden’s herbaceous perennials all blended together, undifferentiated, nearly all the plants in some shade of brown. The yews, of course, remain a darker green, and the lawn is a mixture of autumn greens and tans, but the flower beds have all been painted from the same restricted palette. From February to November, when various flowers are in bloom, the beds are often at notably different stages of the season. The south-facing beds catch far more sunshine, particularly in the spring, and they march to a faster, more intense drum beat. That intensity tends to continue through the year. But today, all the instruments in the orchestra were committed to the same measure of the musical score, clearly marked Largo.
It was only when I began to walk around the garden, coming closer to specific plants, that the individuals emerged and the garden became a chorus of unique individuals. This is particularly the case when one takes the time to notice the distinguishing characteristics of individual seedheads. This is the time of the year when the seeds and their capsules have their days of glory. The four photos in the slideshow are of seedheads observed during a short walk around the garden on the first day of December, the beginning of the meteorological winter. Posted below are four paragraphs commenting on each of these seedheads. In next week's report, I'll provide photos and reflections on several more seedheads that play a prominent role in the winter garden. ~Bob
Millennium Allium. These seeds are supposedly sterile, though one of these ornamental onions under the information center has produced a few offspring. I first saw this allium used extensively at a botanical garden in Chicago. They make a superb border plant. Unlike most allium, their leaves remain green and attractive from early in the spring until after a hard freeze. The blooms are long-lasting and are a favorite for many bees and butterflies. And at the end of the season are these attractive seedheads. These allium are drought-resistant and unaffected by disease, insects, or visiting mammals that like to munch on plants. They are modest spreaders, easy to divide and transplant. A darn near perfect plant for a perennial flower garden in Iowa.
Allium cristophii is often referred to as the Star of Persia. These ornamental onions produce large umbels of purple blooms in late spring and leave behind these dried stalks that often remain quite attractive--and can be a wonderful addition to a dried flower arrangement. Since the leaves disappear by mid-summer, these allium work well when planted among other plants (such hostas or daylilies) that retain their foliage through the summer.
These milkweed seeds come from an ornamental milkweed, Asclepias tuberosa, with beautiful orange blossoms. The garden also has a butterfly milkweed with yellow blooms, and there are two beds with several wild milkweed, probably A. syriaca. The wild natives produce large seed pods, and the monarch caterpillars prefer to feed on these locals. In the rain garden is a swamp milkweed which is difficult to control because of its aggressive root system. In the eight years I’ve been working in the Coe garden, I’ve never seen a Monarch caterpillar on a swamp milkweed.
The long row of the Plains False Indigo, Baptisia australis, north of the patio was well established when I first arrived in the garden in the summer of 2014. Given the dense root clumps, it would not surprise me that these Baptisia were planted when the garden was first constructed. The mature Baptisia develop deep taproots and are super hardy, impervious to drought and cold weather. We allow them to remain through the winter because they can stand up to heavy snowfall, providing the garden with year-around appeal. In the photo the large seedpod has burst open, sending the black seeds to the soil. In the spring, hundreds of baby Baptisia will emerge across the bed.
Yesterday morning I was in Paris, eating breakfast on the River Seine, a short walk from the Eiffel Tower. The rest of the day was spent traveling back to Iowa, as one would expect an exhausting journey. The discomforts of this trip were compounded by a terrible head cold and cough, but on the plus side we had no problems with weather or mechanical delays. Our flights out of Charles de Gaulle and O’Hare were on time, and by 10:00 p.m. last night we were safely at home. I still feel lousy, but it’s been ten days since I was in the garden, and I thought it was important to make sure everything was in decent shape.
As I soon discovered, at some time while we were in France the electricity had gone off in the greenhouse and garden shed, which meant that the heaters were both turned off, which meant that the temperature in the greenhouse had dipped below freezing. Most of the plants (such as the two big rosemary plants and a group of Nicotiana) were fine, but a tender geranium and an ivy had been zapped, and it was not evident either would survive. I trimmed back both plants, gave them some water, and hoped the return of the heater would revive their spirits. As for the earthworms in the garden shed, a high percentage were out of the soil, hugging the roof of their container. Many were unresponsive or slow to react when prodded, but I don’t think they froze, and they should revive once the soil temperature has returned to the 60s.
As for the garden, everything appeared to be in good shape. There was some trash to pick up, including the normal allotment of plastic bags caught on the branches of trees and shrubs, but no major surprises. What really caught my attention was how uniform the garden appeared. Standing at the steps of the patio, looking toward the east end of the garden, I felt the garden’s herbaceous perennials all blended together, undifferentiated, nearly all the plants in some shade of brown. The yews, of course, remain a darker green, and the lawn is a mixture of autumn greens and tans, but the flower beds have all been painted from the same restricted palette. From February to November, when various flowers are in bloom, the beds are often at notably different stages of the season. The south-facing beds catch far more sunshine, particularly in the spring, and they march to a faster, more intense drum beat. That intensity tends to continue through the year. But today, all the instruments in the orchestra were committed to the same measure of the musical score, clearly marked Largo.
It was only when I began to walk around the garden, coming closer to specific plants, that the individuals emerged and the garden became a chorus of unique individuals. This is particularly the case when one takes the time to notice the distinguishing characteristics of individual seedheads. This is the time of the year when the seeds and their capsules have their days of glory. The four photos in the slideshow are of seedheads observed during a short walk around the garden on the first day of December, the beginning of the meteorological winter. Posted below are four paragraphs commenting on each of these seedheads. In next week's report, I'll provide photos and reflections on several more seedheads that play a prominent role in the winter garden. ~Bob
Millennium Allium. These seeds are supposedly sterile, though one of these ornamental onions under the information center has produced a few offspring. I first saw this allium used extensively at a botanical garden in Chicago. They make a superb border plant. Unlike most allium, their leaves remain green and attractive from early in the spring until after a hard freeze. The blooms are long-lasting and are a favorite for many bees and butterflies. And at the end of the season are these attractive seedheads. These allium are drought-resistant and unaffected by disease, insects, or visiting mammals that like to munch on plants. They are modest spreaders, easy to divide and transplant. A darn near perfect plant for a perennial flower garden in Iowa.
Allium cristophii is often referred to as the Star of Persia. These ornamental onions produce large umbels of purple blooms in late spring and leave behind these dried stalks that often remain quite attractive--and can be a wonderful addition to a dried flower arrangement. Since the leaves disappear by mid-summer, these allium work well when planted among other plants (such hostas or daylilies) that retain their foliage through the summer.
These milkweed seeds come from an ornamental milkweed, Asclepias tuberosa, with beautiful orange blossoms. The garden also has a butterfly milkweed with yellow blooms, and there are two beds with several wild milkweed, probably A. syriaca. The wild natives produce large seed pods, and the monarch caterpillars prefer to feed on these locals. In the rain garden is a swamp milkweed which is difficult to control because of its aggressive root system. In the eight years I’ve been working in the Coe garden, I’ve never seen a Monarch caterpillar on a swamp milkweed.
The long row of the Plains False Indigo, Baptisia australis, north of the patio was well established when I first arrived in the garden in the summer of 2014. Given the dense root clumps, it would not surprise me that these Baptisia were planted when the garden was first constructed. The mature Baptisia develop deep taproots and are super hardy, impervious to drought and cold weather. We allow them to remain through the winter because they can stand up to heavy snowfall, providing the garden with year-around appeal. In the photo the large seedpod has burst open, sending the black seeds to the soil. In the spring, hundreds of baby Baptisia will emerge across the bed.
Monday Morning Garden Report:
14 November 2022
It’s likely this will be the last week for any major outdoor gardening until February. A serious cold front is forecast for the end of the week, and the following week my wife and I will be out of the country. By the time of our return, my pickup goes into storage for the winter and most of my gardening becomes an indoor sport: preparing seed catalog orders, looking through the year’s pile of gardening magazines, sowing seeds and caring for plants in two greenhouses at Coe and at home. Despite our recent chilly temperatures, the soil is still unfrozen, and I continue planting bulbs. Here is what happened today:
• By the greenhouse entrance, I cleaned out the small garden bed that for several years had been home to a flag iris with lovely light blue flowers. Most of the iris died out two years ago, probably attacked by flag iris borer moths, though I never found any of the caterpillars. The few surviving iris I will replant in another location in the spring. This morning I planted a mix of red and yellow tulips. Because this spot catches the early morning sun and is next to a heated building, it wakes up earlier than most areas of the garden. These will likely be the first tulips to bloom in the spring.
• Planted 25 Purple Sensation alliums in the “A2" bed on both sides of the new pendulum sculpture. This was an area that had been set aside for the Japanese anemone, but they failed to emerge this past spring, and except for several volunteer hyssop (one of my favorite wild flowers), this was an empty space this summer. In preparing the area, I removed several hyssop and a large clump of goldenrod. I’m still undecided what else to plant here in the spring.
• After mowing the lawn, the last mowing for the year, I planted about 30 Crocreation crocus sprinkled randomly around the SE lawn section. We received 1,000 crocus bulbs in early October, and we have now planted over 850 in two lawn quadrants. Squirrels have dug up a dozen or more bulbs, but treating the area with an animal repellent appears to have convinced the squirrels to search elsewhere for nourishment.
• In front of the gazebo, I planted another 20 Purple Sensation alliums. After I dug up the Siberian Iris from this area last year, it was taken over by a patch of self-seeding Verbena bonariensis. I intend to move two Eryngium into this space next spring, thinking that the tall verbena, the allium, and the sea holly might complement each other reasonably well.
Addendum. Yesterday (Thursday, 17 November), I completed my 5th consecutive day of bulb planting. Given the current forecast for lows dipping into the teens this evening, I assumed my bulb-planting spree was coming to an end. During the week, I did add more spring-flowering bulbs into several flower beds:
• I planted about 20 Purple Sensation allium in the middle of the “D” bed (in front of the large patch of Joe Pye weed), two small groups in two locations in the “F” bed, a third group in the “H” bed under the pergola , and a fourth group in the middle of the “I” bed. I encountered difficulties with the last site because I kept finding forgotten, unexpected daffodil bulbs. Combined with the Purple Sensations already planted in the “A,” “B,” “C,” “L,” and “M” beds, I hope these large purple flower balls will link these beds together, suggesting hints of an intentional design.
• Planted two groups of Galanthus at the front of the “A1" bed--in the area where Crocosima ‘Lucifer’ once resided, and another three groups along the same walkway east of the flowering crab. In the same bed, I planted a group of Leucojum next to the goldenrod in the upper bed and a second group in the middle of the lower bed behind the new snowdrops.
• Kept planting crocus, adding another 50 to the SE lawn section.
At the end of the day, I still had about 150 bulbs left in the greenhouse. Perhaps those can still be planted in December, but most likely I will plant them in the greenhouse and in the spring set them outside in various pots and planters.
As I reflect on a week of bulb planting, I admit that I don’t spend much time thinking about how the spring bulbs will relate with each other. Although I do consider a few issues of location (such as trying to ensure that short flowering bulbs will not be hidden by taller vegetation) and the probable time in the spring when these flowers are most likely to be in bloom, I do not worry about any color coordination. There is a youthful exuberance in spring-blooming flowers that dismisses any inclination to worry about such issues. It’s more appealing to operate on the principle that everything goes with everything. And all these flowers move through the season in quick succession, often blooming for only one or two weeks. We don’t have time to be bothered by the potential conflicts between a bright red and whatever is surrounding it. Just wait 24 hours, and the problem will be history. It’s okay for the spring garden to be a scene of rambunctious chaos, dismissing winter to a distant past. So this week, I just kept searching for open spaces, another place to put another bulb, confident that in the spring the garden will become a theater of serendipitous surprises.
14 November 2022
It’s likely this will be the last week for any major outdoor gardening until February. A serious cold front is forecast for the end of the week, and the following week my wife and I will be out of the country. By the time of our return, my pickup goes into storage for the winter and most of my gardening becomes an indoor sport: preparing seed catalog orders, looking through the year’s pile of gardening magazines, sowing seeds and caring for plants in two greenhouses at Coe and at home. Despite our recent chilly temperatures, the soil is still unfrozen, and I continue planting bulbs. Here is what happened today:
• By the greenhouse entrance, I cleaned out the small garden bed that for several years had been home to a flag iris with lovely light blue flowers. Most of the iris died out two years ago, probably attacked by flag iris borer moths, though I never found any of the caterpillars. The few surviving iris I will replant in another location in the spring. This morning I planted a mix of red and yellow tulips. Because this spot catches the early morning sun and is next to a heated building, it wakes up earlier than most areas of the garden. These will likely be the first tulips to bloom in the spring.
• Planted 25 Purple Sensation alliums in the “A2" bed on both sides of the new pendulum sculpture. This was an area that had been set aside for the Japanese anemone, but they failed to emerge this past spring, and except for several volunteer hyssop (one of my favorite wild flowers), this was an empty space this summer. In preparing the area, I removed several hyssop and a large clump of goldenrod. I’m still undecided what else to plant here in the spring.
• After mowing the lawn, the last mowing for the year, I planted about 30 Crocreation crocus sprinkled randomly around the SE lawn section. We received 1,000 crocus bulbs in early October, and we have now planted over 850 in two lawn quadrants. Squirrels have dug up a dozen or more bulbs, but treating the area with an animal repellent appears to have convinced the squirrels to search elsewhere for nourishment.
• In front of the gazebo, I planted another 20 Purple Sensation alliums. After I dug up the Siberian Iris from this area last year, it was taken over by a patch of self-seeding Verbena bonariensis. I intend to move two Eryngium into this space next spring, thinking that the tall verbena, the allium, and the sea holly might complement each other reasonably well.
Addendum. Yesterday (Thursday, 17 November), I completed my 5th consecutive day of bulb planting. Given the current forecast for lows dipping into the teens this evening, I assumed my bulb-planting spree was coming to an end. During the week, I did add more spring-flowering bulbs into several flower beds:
• I planted about 20 Purple Sensation allium in the middle of the “D” bed (in front of the large patch of Joe Pye weed), two small groups in two locations in the “F” bed, a third group in the “H” bed under the pergola , and a fourth group in the middle of the “I” bed. I encountered difficulties with the last site because I kept finding forgotten, unexpected daffodil bulbs. Combined with the Purple Sensations already planted in the “A,” “B,” “C,” “L,” and “M” beds, I hope these large purple flower balls will link these beds together, suggesting hints of an intentional design.
• Planted two groups of Galanthus at the front of the “A1" bed--in the area where Crocosima ‘Lucifer’ once resided, and another three groups along the same walkway east of the flowering crab. In the same bed, I planted a group of Leucojum next to the goldenrod in the upper bed and a second group in the middle of the lower bed behind the new snowdrops.
• Kept planting crocus, adding another 50 to the SE lawn section.
At the end of the day, I still had about 150 bulbs left in the greenhouse. Perhaps those can still be planted in December, but most likely I will plant them in the greenhouse and in the spring set them outside in various pots and planters.
As I reflect on a week of bulb planting, I admit that I don’t spend much time thinking about how the spring bulbs will relate with each other. Although I do consider a few issues of location (such as trying to ensure that short flowering bulbs will not be hidden by taller vegetation) and the probable time in the spring when these flowers are most likely to be in bloom, I do not worry about any color coordination. There is a youthful exuberance in spring-blooming flowers that dismisses any inclination to worry about such issues. It’s more appealing to operate on the principle that everything goes with everything. And all these flowers move through the season in quick succession, often blooming for only one or two weeks. We don’t have time to be bothered by the potential conflicts between a bright red and whatever is surrounding it. Just wait 24 hours, and the problem will be history. It’s okay for the spring garden to be a scene of rambunctious chaos, dismissing winter to a distant past. So this week, I just kept searching for open spaces, another place to put another bulb, confident that in the spring the garden will become a theater of serendipitous surprises.
Monday Morning Garden Report: 7 November 2022
Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower. ~Albert Camus
I jotted down these notes just before 5:00 p.m. on the 7th, following a lovely afternoon working in the garden. The day was coming to a conclusion with a classic sunset, the sun’s rays reflecting off strings of cirrus clouds, gently flowing from the west. The cords of clouds were like beautiful dreadlocks of purple and gold, connecting the horizon to the sky overhead. The temp had reached the 50s earlier in the day, and working in the sunshine I could plant crocus bulbs without needing a sweater or fleece. But the garden had been in the shadow of the Alumni House for almost an hour and the thermometer in the gazebo indicated the temp had dropped into the 40s.
As I was bringing out my tools from the garden shed, I made a silly bet with myself that if someone did visit the garden this afternoon, they would sit in the Adirondack chairs. Since these were installed in the spring of 2021, they have become a popular choice for folks who come to sit and read or chat. While I don’t find them particularly comfortable, they look comfortable, and it’s evident that many people find them appealing. As it turned out, my wager was a winner. The first visitor to the garden chose an Adirondack, opened up a computer, and apparently thought the garden was an ideal location in preparing for an upcoming course assignment.
Meanwhile, I continued to plant more crocus in the lawn area. In October a thousand crocus bulbs were delivered, and we now have over 700 planted. The two student garden assistants and I have been planting these crocus bulbs using my largest dibble (or dibbler), searching for small spaces where little or no grass is growing. But today, unable to find my favorite crocus planter, I brought out the electric drill with a small auger. Although I try to avoid relying on garden tools that have not been tried and tested for a minimum of two centuries, I must admit the auger’s soil-penetration abilities do accelerate the bulb planting process. Not only is the auger quick and efficient, it hoists from the hole small chunks of soil that can then be used for covering the bulb after it has been planted. In the lawn’s compact soil, the dibble makes a hole by pressing the soil to the sides, requiring that we use a soil/compost mix for filling in the small hole. And since the garden’s red squirrels find the crocus an attractive snack, we sprinkle rabbit/squirrel/deer repellent beads on the small wound–beads composed of dehydrated garlic, castor beans, and several other foul-smelling ingredients.
A quick note on “dibble” or “dibbler.” According to my OED (a Christmas present from over 50 years ago), the word “dibble” first appeared in English in the late 15th century. In his Art of Gardening (1563), Thomas Hill uses the term for a tool that makes holes in the soil for planting seeds. The verb “dibble” also appears in the same period, referring to the act of making such holes. It is only in the 19th century that the word “dibbler” popped up as another name for the same tool. I plan to continue using the older name.
The garden has no commercial bird feeders, but the garden is intended to serve as an appealing smorgasbord for birds remaining in an urban area during the winter or passing through on their spring or fall migrations. Earlier this fall I watched male robins assiduously consuming the soft crab apples–although the crop was small this year because of an intense heat wave in early May. There is, however, one flowering crab near the patio with large red fruit that has not yet attracted much attention. Earlier this year the birds consumed all the dark fruit on the elderberries and viburnum.
While some plant seedheads are removed in the fall, most seedheads are allowed to remain throughout the winter, and we wait until March or April to perform a widespread pruning of this plant material. This afternoon I was not aware we had any visiting birds, but the garden is often a popular destination in the early morning. This past week, sparrows focused their attention on the seeds of the perennial sunflowers in the “A2" bed (southeast of the patio). My bird-identification skills are very limited, but it’s my impression that most of these are English sparrows. They will perch on the cedar fence or a limb of the nearby flowering crab tree, fly into the sunflower stalks for a few seconds, quickly peck at the small tan seeds, and then fly off. The coneflower seedheads also attract attention and are a particular favorite of goldfinches, but I don’t recall seeing any goldfinches in the garden this fall.
I’m not sure how many different seed varieties the birds will consume, but at present we have a substantial number of seedheads and seed pods on these plants:
Artemisia (a vigorous self-seeding annual in the SW corner of the garden)
Asters (several varieties, including New England and Aromatic)
Baptisia (False Indigo)
Coneflowers
Gayfeathers (also known as Blazing Stars)
Goldenrod
Ironweed
Joe Pye Weed
Ornamental Grasses: Calamagrostis (Feather Reed), Fescue, Hakonechloa, Miscanthus, Panicum (Switch Grass), Pennisetum (Fountain Grass), River Oats, Sioux Blue Indian Grass
Penstemons
Platycodon (Balloon Flowers)
Rudbeckia (Black-Eyed Susan)
Sedums
Sunflowers (several species of perennial sunflowers)
Tansy
Tall Verbenas (Verbena bonariensis)
Wisteria (with long brown seed pods, resembling pole beans)
In addition to the birds and red squirrels, the garden currently has one cotton-tail rabbit. In the spring the rabbits like to eat emerging tulips, but during most of the year they appear to rely on the grass and clover in the lawn for their meals and do relatively minor damage to the flower beds. They are the only animals who utilize the yews that surround three sides of the garden, but that is for purposes of hiding and protection, not as a food source. The birds and squirrels are rarely seen in the yews. Those poisonous shrubs are a “no man’s land” for everyone, even spiders and insects.
Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower. ~Albert Camus
I jotted down these notes just before 5:00 p.m. on the 7th, following a lovely afternoon working in the garden. The day was coming to a conclusion with a classic sunset, the sun’s rays reflecting off strings of cirrus clouds, gently flowing from the west. The cords of clouds were like beautiful dreadlocks of purple and gold, connecting the horizon to the sky overhead. The temp had reached the 50s earlier in the day, and working in the sunshine I could plant crocus bulbs without needing a sweater or fleece. But the garden had been in the shadow of the Alumni House for almost an hour and the thermometer in the gazebo indicated the temp had dropped into the 40s.
As I was bringing out my tools from the garden shed, I made a silly bet with myself that if someone did visit the garden this afternoon, they would sit in the Adirondack chairs. Since these were installed in the spring of 2021, they have become a popular choice for folks who come to sit and read or chat. While I don’t find them particularly comfortable, they look comfortable, and it’s evident that many people find them appealing. As it turned out, my wager was a winner. The first visitor to the garden chose an Adirondack, opened up a computer, and apparently thought the garden was an ideal location in preparing for an upcoming course assignment.
Meanwhile, I continued to plant more crocus in the lawn area. In October a thousand crocus bulbs were delivered, and we now have over 700 planted. The two student garden assistants and I have been planting these crocus bulbs using my largest dibble (or dibbler), searching for small spaces where little or no grass is growing. But today, unable to find my favorite crocus planter, I brought out the electric drill with a small auger. Although I try to avoid relying on garden tools that have not been tried and tested for a minimum of two centuries, I must admit the auger’s soil-penetration abilities do accelerate the bulb planting process. Not only is the auger quick and efficient, it hoists from the hole small chunks of soil that can then be used for covering the bulb after it has been planted. In the lawn’s compact soil, the dibble makes a hole by pressing the soil to the sides, requiring that we use a soil/compost mix for filling in the small hole. And since the garden’s red squirrels find the crocus an attractive snack, we sprinkle rabbit/squirrel/deer repellent beads on the small wound–beads composed of dehydrated garlic, castor beans, and several other foul-smelling ingredients.
A quick note on “dibble” or “dibbler.” According to my OED (a Christmas present from over 50 years ago), the word “dibble” first appeared in English in the late 15th century. In his Art of Gardening (1563), Thomas Hill uses the term for a tool that makes holes in the soil for planting seeds. The verb “dibble” also appears in the same period, referring to the act of making such holes. It is only in the 19th century that the word “dibbler” popped up as another name for the same tool. I plan to continue using the older name.
The garden has no commercial bird feeders, but the garden is intended to serve as an appealing smorgasbord for birds remaining in an urban area during the winter or passing through on their spring or fall migrations. Earlier this fall I watched male robins assiduously consuming the soft crab apples–although the crop was small this year because of an intense heat wave in early May. There is, however, one flowering crab near the patio with large red fruit that has not yet attracted much attention. Earlier this year the birds consumed all the dark fruit on the elderberries and viburnum.
While some plant seedheads are removed in the fall, most seedheads are allowed to remain throughout the winter, and we wait until March or April to perform a widespread pruning of this plant material. This afternoon I was not aware we had any visiting birds, but the garden is often a popular destination in the early morning. This past week, sparrows focused their attention on the seeds of the perennial sunflowers in the “A2" bed (southeast of the patio). My bird-identification skills are very limited, but it’s my impression that most of these are English sparrows. They will perch on the cedar fence or a limb of the nearby flowering crab tree, fly into the sunflower stalks for a few seconds, quickly peck at the small tan seeds, and then fly off. The coneflower seedheads also attract attention and are a particular favorite of goldfinches, but I don’t recall seeing any goldfinches in the garden this fall.
I’m not sure how many different seed varieties the birds will consume, but at present we have a substantial number of seedheads and seed pods on these plants:
Artemisia (a vigorous self-seeding annual in the SW corner of the garden)
Asters (several varieties, including New England and Aromatic)
Baptisia (False Indigo)
Coneflowers
Gayfeathers (also known as Blazing Stars)
Goldenrod
Ironweed
Joe Pye Weed
Ornamental Grasses: Calamagrostis (Feather Reed), Fescue, Hakonechloa, Miscanthus, Panicum (Switch Grass), Pennisetum (Fountain Grass), River Oats, Sioux Blue Indian Grass
Penstemons
Platycodon (Balloon Flowers)
Rudbeckia (Black-Eyed Susan)
Sedums
Sunflowers (several species of perennial sunflowers)
Tansy
Tall Verbenas (Verbena bonariensis)
Wisteria (with long brown seed pods, resembling pole beans)
In addition to the birds and red squirrels, the garden currently has one cotton-tail rabbit. In the spring the rabbits like to eat emerging tulips, but during most of the year they appear to rely on the grass and clover in the lawn for their meals and do relatively minor damage to the flower beds. They are the only animals who utilize the yews that surround three sides of the garden, but that is for purposes of hiding and protection, not as a food source. The birds and squirrels are rarely seen in the yews. Those poisonous shrubs are a “no man’s land” for everyone, even spiders and insects.
Monday Morning Garden Report: 24 October 2022
As I was looking at the garden today, I was reminded of a passage from Marc Hamer’s gardening memoir, Seed to Dust: Life, Nature, and a Country Garden. Hamer is a Welsh writer and gardener. His first memoir focused on his career as a professional mole-catcher, a vocation he finally decided to end. His latest book shares his reflections on experiences caring for a widow’s garden. In the passage that came to mind this morning, he writes about the attractions of a late fall garden.
For me, it is the earth looking after itself, the soil sucking back in the nutrients it has breathed out, breaking down the fallen leaves and turning them into earth; water expanding and contracting in between the earth’s grains and cracked rocks, breaking up the surface of inanimate, porous things, killing off the bugs so that the young can hatch, fresh and new, stopping disease in its tracks. It gives me an opportunity to rest and wear wool, to build fires, to look at other things, to travel away from the garden that consumes my attention, and to breathe in again.
Hamer adeptly celebrates the benefits of winter, enabling the garden soil to replenish itself. I also like this passage because I too enjoy putting away my summer shirts and wearing my Harris Tweed wool hat. Somewhere in our collection of family photo albums is a photograph of my son and daughter playing in the maple leaves in our back yard. The photo, taken almost 40 years ago, shows my son’s head lost underneath my old Irish wool hat, the one I still wear most fall and spring days when the daytime temperatures range from the 20s to the 50s. The hat looks crumpled and malformed when resting on the hat rack, but once it goes on my head, it always feels just right.
This will be a week dedicated to dahlias and crocus. All the dahlias have been dug up, washed with the garden hose, and are now drying on the lawn. The dahlias are sorted into five groups: Kelvin Floodlight, Cambridge, Bishop of Llandaff, Bishop’s Children, and the large miscellaneous assortment (most originally started from seed in 2015). Once they have been trimmed of stalks and soft tubers, they will be stored for the next 4-5 months in two bins of peat moss. Even though they will reside under a work bench in near total darkness, they somehow know that when the spring equinox approaches, it’s time to start sending out fresh growth. They will then be removed from the peat moss, placed in separate pots with a fresh soil/compost mixture, and pampered in the warm greenhouse before returning to their flower beds on some warm day in May. Most will go into two flower beds with tulips (which will have just finished blooming) and plains coreopsis, a prolific self-seeding Midwest native. The coreopsis will provide most of the flower power before the dahlias start their bloom cycle in late July or August.
As for the crocus, this will be the fourth year of planting crocus in the two east-side lawn quadrants. In the fall of 2019, we planted 1,000 Crocus tommasinianus and last year another 500 of these crocus with the pale lilac and white petals. The Tommies have a reputation for being good naturalizers, and a few bulbs have created offspring, but the total number of blooming crocus this past spring was under 500, suggesting that many had not survived. This year I ordered a blend of 1,000 purple and yellow bulbs, cleverly labeled “Crocreation.” These are larger bulbs that will be planted a bit deeper. This means we will be creating 1,000 holes randomly distributed in those two lawn segments. Our preference will be to locate bare spots or places where we can dig out unwanted plants–such as crabgrass or dandelions--replacing them with the underground crocus bulbs. In addition to the crocus, we also have received a shipment of 400 tulips (half will go into the dahlia beds), 25 Imperial Fritillary (also into the dahlia beds), 100 allium, 150 daffodils, 300 winter aconites, and 200 snowdrops. We have a month to plant over 2,000 bulbs.
In preparation for the bulb planting, the biggest challenge will be cleaning up the flower bed between the pergola and the rain garden’s north drainage channel. We planted a couple hundred daffodils in that bed two years ago, but the bed has become overrun with gooseneck, quack grass (or a grass that looks and acts like quack grass, relentlessly spreading via its underground rhizomes), and a dense patch of crown vetch. The vetch is particularly problematic because its roots run deep and once established can be extraordinarily stubborn. My intent is to dig up everything from the beginning of the drainage channel to the end of the rain garden. The east end of that area will be particularly challenging because of the thick wisteria roots and a patch of river oats, a plant whose small roots create a tenacious grip on the soil. I will wait until after a rain before trying to clean up that area.
One small achievement today: the installation of a new thermometer in the gazebo. This is the 4th thermometer in four years. The first two were both faux brass thermometers that also recorded humidity. They were not large but they had clear black numbers on a white background and were quite attractive. They were both stolen, one of the few acts of vandalism the garden has suffered during my term as gardener. Last year I installed a small outdoor wall thermometer that was reasonably accurate, but the temperature could be read only when standing directly in front of it. Today I installed a new thermometer with numbers sufficiently large so it can be read at a distance. It’s reasonably attractive (at least in my humble opinion) and it only cost $5 at Menards. If someone does steal it, the damage to the garden’s account will be quite modest. ~Bob
As I was looking at the garden today, I was reminded of a passage from Marc Hamer’s gardening memoir, Seed to Dust: Life, Nature, and a Country Garden. Hamer is a Welsh writer and gardener. His first memoir focused on his career as a professional mole-catcher, a vocation he finally decided to end. His latest book shares his reflections on experiences caring for a widow’s garden. In the passage that came to mind this morning, he writes about the attractions of a late fall garden.
For me, it is the earth looking after itself, the soil sucking back in the nutrients it has breathed out, breaking down the fallen leaves and turning them into earth; water expanding and contracting in between the earth’s grains and cracked rocks, breaking up the surface of inanimate, porous things, killing off the bugs so that the young can hatch, fresh and new, stopping disease in its tracks. It gives me an opportunity to rest and wear wool, to build fires, to look at other things, to travel away from the garden that consumes my attention, and to breathe in again.
Hamer adeptly celebrates the benefits of winter, enabling the garden soil to replenish itself. I also like this passage because I too enjoy putting away my summer shirts and wearing my Harris Tweed wool hat. Somewhere in our collection of family photo albums is a photograph of my son and daughter playing in the maple leaves in our back yard. The photo, taken almost 40 years ago, shows my son’s head lost underneath my old Irish wool hat, the one I still wear most fall and spring days when the daytime temperatures range from the 20s to the 50s. The hat looks crumpled and malformed when resting on the hat rack, but once it goes on my head, it always feels just right.
This will be a week dedicated to dahlias and crocus. All the dahlias have been dug up, washed with the garden hose, and are now drying on the lawn. The dahlias are sorted into five groups: Kelvin Floodlight, Cambridge, Bishop of Llandaff, Bishop’s Children, and the large miscellaneous assortment (most originally started from seed in 2015). Once they have been trimmed of stalks and soft tubers, they will be stored for the next 4-5 months in two bins of peat moss. Even though they will reside under a work bench in near total darkness, they somehow know that when the spring equinox approaches, it’s time to start sending out fresh growth. They will then be removed from the peat moss, placed in separate pots with a fresh soil/compost mixture, and pampered in the warm greenhouse before returning to their flower beds on some warm day in May. Most will go into two flower beds with tulips (which will have just finished blooming) and plains coreopsis, a prolific self-seeding Midwest native. The coreopsis will provide most of the flower power before the dahlias start their bloom cycle in late July or August.
As for the crocus, this will be the fourth year of planting crocus in the two east-side lawn quadrants. In the fall of 2019, we planted 1,000 Crocus tommasinianus and last year another 500 of these crocus with the pale lilac and white petals. The Tommies have a reputation for being good naturalizers, and a few bulbs have created offspring, but the total number of blooming crocus this past spring was under 500, suggesting that many had not survived. This year I ordered a blend of 1,000 purple and yellow bulbs, cleverly labeled “Crocreation.” These are larger bulbs that will be planted a bit deeper. This means we will be creating 1,000 holes randomly distributed in those two lawn segments. Our preference will be to locate bare spots or places where we can dig out unwanted plants–such as crabgrass or dandelions--replacing them with the underground crocus bulbs. In addition to the crocus, we also have received a shipment of 400 tulips (half will go into the dahlia beds), 25 Imperial Fritillary (also into the dahlia beds), 100 allium, 150 daffodils, 300 winter aconites, and 200 snowdrops. We have a month to plant over 2,000 bulbs.
In preparation for the bulb planting, the biggest challenge will be cleaning up the flower bed between the pergola and the rain garden’s north drainage channel. We planted a couple hundred daffodils in that bed two years ago, but the bed has become overrun with gooseneck, quack grass (or a grass that looks and acts like quack grass, relentlessly spreading via its underground rhizomes), and a dense patch of crown vetch. The vetch is particularly problematic because its roots run deep and once established can be extraordinarily stubborn. My intent is to dig up everything from the beginning of the drainage channel to the end of the rain garden. The east end of that area will be particularly challenging because of the thick wisteria roots and a patch of river oats, a plant whose small roots create a tenacious grip on the soil. I will wait until after a rain before trying to clean up that area.
One small achievement today: the installation of a new thermometer in the gazebo. This is the 4th thermometer in four years. The first two were both faux brass thermometers that also recorded humidity. They were not large but they had clear black numbers on a white background and were quite attractive. They were both stolen, one of the few acts of vandalism the garden has suffered during my term as gardener. Last year I installed a small outdoor wall thermometer that was reasonably accurate, but the temperature could be read only when standing directly in front of it. Today I installed a new thermometer with numbers sufficiently large so it can be read at a distance. It’s reasonably attractive (at least in my humble opinion) and it only cost $5 at Menards. If someone does steal it, the damage to the garden’s account will be quite modest. ~Bob
Monday Morning Garden Report: 12 October 2022
Because of lower back tightness and several non-gardening obligations, my first day working in the garden this week was on a Wednesday afternoon. Midway through my four-hour stretch of fertilizing and weeding, I took a 20-minute break sitting on the SE garden bench. It had been a pleasant afternoon, but a thick cloud cover was moving in, accompanied by a notable increase in the wind. For the first time in weeks, I heard the wind chimes behind me (which also reminded me that I needed to reattach the chimes’ clapper, which had broken off earlier this summer).
Between the bench and the recently trimmed yews is probably the oldest clump of Joe Pye weeds in the garden. If not the oldest, it is certainly the largest. This group of Eupatorium (the old genus name but now officially classified as a Eutrochium) is actually composed of one older clump, a solid 3-4' in diameter, surrounded by 4-5 younger Joe Pye satellites that have been formed in the last few years. The first spring I worked in the garden, I thought the clump had died because it was so late in producing new growth, a pattern of late emergence that has continued each spring. Perhaps the late appearance is due to its dense, congested root foundation. If a gardener ever does try to remove this Joe Pye weed, it will be an arduous endeavor.
There are more than ten other Joe Pye colonies that have appeared in the garden in the last decade. I’ve never been certain which species of Joe Pye we have in the garden. Several individuals that I’ve examined with some care have hollow, purple stems–characteristics indicating they are Eutrochium fistulosum. With the exception of a miniature Joe Junior that I planted in front of the pergola several years ago, the Joe Pyes distributed in almost every flower bed in the garden are the product of self-seeding. Every summer I remove most of the volunteers, but they often have chosen open terrain, and since they are natives rarely requiring special attention (the exception being when they encounter long, hot dry spells), they've become one of my most trusted garden work horses.
A couple at the west end of the garden have fresh purple blooms, but the “Thoroughwort” or “ Queen of the Meadow” or “ Trumpetweed” (to bring into this report other common names for this "weed") surrounding me have well-advanced seed heads, fully prepared to release their seeds at the slightest provocation. This western wind will certainly send many of them aloft. Each seed head has a plethora of almost weightless, dark brown seeds attached to a spiral of tiny, tan filaments. As my hand gently touches the nearest group of seeds, many of them immediately take flight, sailing into the yews, a location that will not likely prove very hospitable. When reflecting on Joe Pyes in the Coe garden, I am often reminded of two previous encounters. First, a canoe trip on the Range River in northern Minnesota when we discovered a large patch of tall Eupatorium bordering a small waterfall. Second, walking around Holehird Gardens in England’s Lake District and finding several All-American Joes at the back of a perennial flower bed.
Although we have had two nights with low temperatures hovering around the freeze mark, most of the garden’s tenderest flowers have survived without serious damage. Most notable are the two dahlia beds, both of which have more blooms than at any time this fall. In the south bed, I counted at least ten dark red Bishop of Llandaff blooms and in the middle of the bed are several erect stalks with attractive white blossoms, comparable in size to the 2" wide Bishops. On the north side of the garden, the larger Kelvin Floodlight and Cambridge blooms are easily spotted from this distance. Because of their top-heavy blooms, these plants are badly bent over and deserve a support structure. But that assistance must wait for another year.
Usually there are not many visual attractions outside the garden walls that compel my attention, but today as I looked toward the Alumni House, I was immediately drawn to three maple trees in red and yellow fall glory west of the garden’s NW gate. Quite a dramatic show, though I also know this lovely vision is a prelude to the crevice and rock gardens being inundated with maple leaves blowing through the west-side garden fence–to be followed later by oak leaves. At least the leaves provide good fodder for the garden’s compost bins.
One major task we accomplished this past week was fertilizing the four lawn sections. I purchased the Milorganite fertilizer in June when it was on sale, and placed the three bags inside the big compost bin. Milorganite is manufactured by the Milwaukee Metropolitan Sewerage District, using wastewater that provides nutrients for various microbes. The small, black pellets in this fertilizer are actually kiln-dried microbes. Some animal, perhaps attracted by the fragrance, ripped open two of the bags. It was only when we were pouring the fertilizer into the spreader that we discovered many of the small fertilizer pellets had bonded together into clumps much too large for the spreader to handle. So I retrieved my soil sieve, and we proceeded to massage the Milorganite through the sieve, breaking down most of the clumps. The ones that resisted our efforts I’ll grind up and sprinkle in the compost bins.
Because of lower back tightness and several non-gardening obligations, my first day working in the garden this week was on a Wednesday afternoon. Midway through my four-hour stretch of fertilizing and weeding, I took a 20-minute break sitting on the SE garden bench. It had been a pleasant afternoon, but a thick cloud cover was moving in, accompanied by a notable increase in the wind. For the first time in weeks, I heard the wind chimes behind me (which also reminded me that I needed to reattach the chimes’ clapper, which had broken off earlier this summer).
Between the bench and the recently trimmed yews is probably the oldest clump of Joe Pye weeds in the garden. If not the oldest, it is certainly the largest. This group of Eupatorium (the old genus name but now officially classified as a Eutrochium) is actually composed of one older clump, a solid 3-4' in diameter, surrounded by 4-5 younger Joe Pye satellites that have been formed in the last few years. The first spring I worked in the garden, I thought the clump had died because it was so late in producing new growth, a pattern of late emergence that has continued each spring. Perhaps the late appearance is due to its dense, congested root foundation. If a gardener ever does try to remove this Joe Pye weed, it will be an arduous endeavor.
There are more than ten other Joe Pye colonies that have appeared in the garden in the last decade. I’ve never been certain which species of Joe Pye we have in the garden. Several individuals that I’ve examined with some care have hollow, purple stems–characteristics indicating they are Eutrochium fistulosum. With the exception of a miniature Joe Junior that I planted in front of the pergola several years ago, the Joe Pyes distributed in almost every flower bed in the garden are the product of self-seeding. Every summer I remove most of the volunteers, but they often have chosen open terrain, and since they are natives rarely requiring special attention (the exception being when they encounter long, hot dry spells), they've become one of my most trusted garden work horses.
A couple at the west end of the garden have fresh purple blooms, but the “Thoroughwort” or “ Queen of the Meadow” or “ Trumpetweed” (to bring into this report other common names for this "weed") surrounding me have well-advanced seed heads, fully prepared to release their seeds at the slightest provocation. This western wind will certainly send many of them aloft. Each seed head has a plethora of almost weightless, dark brown seeds attached to a spiral of tiny, tan filaments. As my hand gently touches the nearest group of seeds, many of them immediately take flight, sailing into the yews, a location that will not likely prove very hospitable. When reflecting on Joe Pyes in the Coe garden, I am often reminded of two previous encounters. First, a canoe trip on the Range River in northern Minnesota when we discovered a large patch of tall Eupatorium bordering a small waterfall. Second, walking around Holehird Gardens in England’s Lake District and finding several All-American Joes at the back of a perennial flower bed.
Although we have had two nights with low temperatures hovering around the freeze mark, most of the garden’s tenderest flowers have survived without serious damage. Most notable are the two dahlia beds, both of which have more blooms than at any time this fall. In the south bed, I counted at least ten dark red Bishop of Llandaff blooms and in the middle of the bed are several erect stalks with attractive white blossoms, comparable in size to the 2" wide Bishops. On the north side of the garden, the larger Kelvin Floodlight and Cambridge blooms are easily spotted from this distance. Because of their top-heavy blooms, these plants are badly bent over and deserve a support structure. But that assistance must wait for another year.
Usually there are not many visual attractions outside the garden walls that compel my attention, but today as I looked toward the Alumni House, I was immediately drawn to three maple trees in red and yellow fall glory west of the garden’s NW gate. Quite a dramatic show, though I also know this lovely vision is a prelude to the crevice and rock gardens being inundated with maple leaves blowing through the west-side garden fence–to be followed later by oak leaves. At least the leaves provide good fodder for the garden’s compost bins.
One major task we accomplished this past week was fertilizing the four lawn sections. I purchased the Milorganite fertilizer in June when it was on sale, and placed the three bags inside the big compost bin. Milorganite is manufactured by the Milwaukee Metropolitan Sewerage District, using wastewater that provides nutrients for various microbes. The small, black pellets in this fertilizer are actually kiln-dried microbes. Some animal, perhaps attracted by the fragrance, ripped open two of the bags. It was only when we were pouring the fertilizer into the spreader that we discovered many of the small fertilizer pellets had bonded together into clumps much too large for the spreader to handle. So I retrieved my soil sieve, and we proceeded to massage the Milorganite through the sieve, breaking down most of the clumps. The ones that resisted our efforts I’ll grind up and sprinkle in the compost bins.
Monday Morning Garden Report: 19 September 2022
A walk around the garden at 9:15: Twenty observations.
(1) A lovely morning – temperature near 70F – decent humidity (about 60%) – sunshine with a few clouds and slight breeze – a perfect day for gardening.
(2) Surprised to discover 0.5" in the rain gauge – at home, less than a mile north of here, barely enough rain this weekend to moisten the bottom of the rain gauge – last night we saw the lightning strikes and heard the thunder a few seconds later – we had no idea a real rain was so close.
(3) A large Carryall 6-passenger golf cart is parked in the garden under the pergola – probably rented for a college function this past weekend.
(4) Watched a small Monarch resting on the top of a Baptisia leaf, slowly moving its wings in the sunlight – it then flew higher and landed on the top branch of a nearby yew -- apparently warming up in the sunlight – so unusual to see any wildlife on or in the yews, which dominate a substantial percentage of the garden.
(5) Observed three large Monarchs in the “I” bed – one concentrated on the azure salvia blooms, spending 30-45 seconds per blossom – the other two Monarchs were more impatient, moving from the salvia to the New England asters to the Verbena bonariensis and back to the salvia – and then a hummingbird appeared, in constant motion, aggressively entering and exiting the salvia blooms, perhaps one second per flower– then darting to the verbena.
(6) In the rain garden, the purple ironweed and blue lobelia flowers are done for the year – the pink turtleheads are fading – no evidence of any bees in the area.
(7) For the first time since spring, no blooms on the honeysuckle in the “H” bed – but the plant’s foliage still looks fresh and vigorous –the Hall honeysuckle next to the NW gate has a few fragrant blooms.
(8) The lawn needs mowing, but I’ll wait a few more days before mowing and fertilizing – I average an hour each day pulling up crabgrass, sedge, creeping spurge, and miscellaneous other weeds.
(9) The New England asters are entering their primary flowering stage – because I failed to cut back the asters, many are too tall and bent over with the weight of their flower heads – pruning the asters and goldenrod was on my “to-do” list for early July but it didn’t get done.
(10) First time in two months that no Kelvin Floodlight dahlia is blooming – several other dahlias, however, are now producing their first flower buds – maybe we’ll have a fuller display of blooms in a couple weeks – one pleasant surprise is the appearance of a fully intact Cambridge dahlia, the tubers purchased last fall – the two Cambridge plants had produced several earlier blooms but they were top heavy and resting on the soil, damaged before reaching full maturity -- an August photo of a Kelvin Floodlight dahlia at the conclusion of this garden report.
(11) Last week I trimmed all the yews except for the top of the yews behind the “F” bed in the southeast corner of the garden – this final pruning will be slow because I must come from the back of the bed -- the narrow pathway next to the fence does not allow for much maneuverability.
(12) Need to trim the espalier apple tree one more time – the third pruning this year – it has a new bird’s nest near the top of the central spire but I never saw birds enter or leave the tree – it’s a small nest these were not large birds – most years a nest is constructed in that same area.
(13) At the back of the “K” bed, snuggled against a Joe Pye weed, were four blue Platycodon blossoms – unexpected surprises.
(14) The aromatic asters are beginning to bloom – although not very tall, those asters often sprawl over neighboring plants – I’m always relieved when their blossoms finally open.
(15) There are tall stonecrop in nearly every bed and all are blooming – perhaps it was three years ago when the stonecrop flowers at the west end of the garden were covered with dozens of Painted Lady butterflies.
(16) No roses on either large shrub rose at the east end of the garden – they have had a long season of blooms but I’m surprised that they are both without a single red rose – the small Knock Out roses next to the message center each have a couple of blossoms.
(17) The Russian Sage still has a full canopy of blooms – I’ve never managed to take a good photo of this plant's small blossoms – perhaps tomorrow morning I’ll try again.
(18) Found one dandelion just ready for its bloom to open up – one more addition to the compost pile.
(19) The plastic packet that holds the printed garden maps and Garden Quarto issues is missing from the information center – I looked in the garbage, thinking someone might have thrown them away, but all I saw were fast food cups and wrappers – later today I’ll print new maps after making a few editing changes to account for the addition and deletion of several plants.
(20) Last Thursday I left two yellow zucchini and two New England pie pumpkins on a table on the patio – this morning the two zucchini are still there but the two pumpkins are gone – I would bet the pumpkins are being used for decorations and not pie-making. ~Bob
A walk around the garden at 9:15: Twenty observations.
(1) A lovely morning – temperature near 70F – decent humidity (about 60%) – sunshine with a few clouds and slight breeze – a perfect day for gardening.
(2) Surprised to discover 0.5" in the rain gauge – at home, less than a mile north of here, barely enough rain this weekend to moisten the bottom of the rain gauge – last night we saw the lightning strikes and heard the thunder a few seconds later – we had no idea a real rain was so close.
(3) A large Carryall 6-passenger golf cart is parked in the garden under the pergola – probably rented for a college function this past weekend.
(4) Watched a small Monarch resting on the top of a Baptisia leaf, slowly moving its wings in the sunlight – it then flew higher and landed on the top branch of a nearby yew -- apparently warming up in the sunlight – so unusual to see any wildlife on or in the yews, which dominate a substantial percentage of the garden.
(5) Observed three large Monarchs in the “I” bed – one concentrated on the azure salvia blooms, spending 30-45 seconds per blossom – the other two Monarchs were more impatient, moving from the salvia to the New England asters to the Verbena bonariensis and back to the salvia – and then a hummingbird appeared, in constant motion, aggressively entering and exiting the salvia blooms, perhaps one second per flower– then darting to the verbena.
(6) In the rain garden, the purple ironweed and blue lobelia flowers are done for the year – the pink turtleheads are fading – no evidence of any bees in the area.
(7) For the first time since spring, no blooms on the honeysuckle in the “H” bed – but the plant’s foliage still looks fresh and vigorous –the Hall honeysuckle next to the NW gate has a few fragrant blooms.
(8) The lawn needs mowing, but I’ll wait a few more days before mowing and fertilizing – I average an hour each day pulling up crabgrass, sedge, creeping spurge, and miscellaneous other weeds.
(9) The New England asters are entering their primary flowering stage – because I failed to cut back the asters, many are too tall and bent over with the weight of their flower heads – pruning the asters and goldenrod was on my “to-do” list for early July but it didn’t get done.
(10) First time in two months that no Kelvin Floodlight dahlia is blooming – several other dahlias, however, are now producing their first flower buds – maybe we’ll have a fuller display of blooms in a couple weeks – one pleasant surprise is the appearance of a fully intact Cambridge dahlia, the tubers purchased last fall – the two Cambridge plants had produced several earlier blooms but they were top heavy and resting on the soil, damaged before reaching full maturity -- an August photo of a Kelvin Floodlight dahlia at the conclusion of this garden report.
(11) Last week I trimmed all the yews except for the top of the yews behind the “F” bed in the southeast corner of the garden – this final pruning will be slow because I must come from the back of the bed -- the narrow pathway next to the fence does not allow for much maneuverability.
(12) Need to trim the espalier apple tree one more time – the third pruning this year – it has a new bird’s nest near the top of the central spire but I never saw birds enter or leave the tree – it’s a small nest these were not large birds – most years a nest is constructed in that same area.
(13) At the back of the “K” bed, snuggled against a Joe Pye weed, were four blue Platycodon blossoms – unexpected surprises.
(14) The aromatic asters are beginning to bloom – although not very tall, those asters often sprawl over neighboring plants – I’m always relieved when their blossoms finally open.
(15) There are tall stonecrop in nearly every bed and all are blooming – perhaps it was three years ago when the stonecrop flowers at the west end of the garden were covered with dozens of Painted Lady butterflies.
(16) No roses on either large shrub rose at the east end of the garden – they have had a long season of blooms but I’m surprised that they are both without a single red rose – the small Knock Out roses next to the message center each have a couple of blossoms.
(17) The Russian Sage still has a full canopy of blooms – I’ve never managed to take a good photo of this plant's small blossoms – perhaps tomorrow morning I’ll try again.
(18) Found one dandelion just ready for its bloom to open up – one more addition to the compost pile.
(19) The plastic packet that holds the printed garden maps and Garden Quarto issues is missing from the information center – I looked in the garbage, thinking someone might have thrown them away, but all I saw were fast food cups and wrappers – later today I’ll print new maps after making a few editing changes to account for the addition and deletion of several plants.
(20) Last Thursday I left two yellow zucchini and two New England pie pumpkins on a table on the patio – this morning the two zucchini are still there but the two pumpkins are gone – I would bet the pumpkins are being used for decorations and not pie-making. ~Bob
Monday Morning Garden Report: 12 September 2022
The temperature in the garden at 7:20 a.m. was 59F; steady 29.85 barometric pressure; 55% humidity and overcast skies–a beautiful day for gardening. Walking through the SW garden gate, I was immediately struck by the visual impact of the perennial sunflowers, next to the cedar fence, at the east end of the “A2" flower bed, and a comparable group at the east end of the “M2" bed. Dozens of bright yellow 4" wide sunflowers serving as hosts to hundreds of bees, flies, soldier beetles, and other small insects well beyond my ability to identify. Last week I witnessed a similar frenzy with these diverse multitudes thrilled with the bounty of the goldenrod blossoms. While they have not forgotten the goldenrod, their intensity of interest has shifted to another group from the Asteraceae, a huge family with over 22,000 species.
In the garden’s central flower beds, the Canada goldenrod continues to be the garden’s primary source of flower power. It’s also pleasing to see a band of rose-pink flowers stretching across the middle of the “D” bed. These are the blooms of Physostegia virginiana, a native North American native of the mint family, commonly known as False Dragonhead or Obedient Plant. There’s a smaller group of these Zone 3 perennials in the “M1" bed near the NW gate, though that colony has had some difficulty spreading, hemmed in by a long row of taller peonies. The Physostegia flower spikes proffer rows of small, two-lipped blossoms that should continue into October.
In the “I” bed in the northeast corner, there is a group of flowers in bloom that makes an interesting combination. In the middle of the bed are the azure salvia with their stalks of small soft-blue blooms. They are surrounded by a clump of Canada goldenrod and several tall wild asters with small, white, daisy-like blooms. At the rear are the bright blooms of a Red Torch Mexican sunflower, an annual started from seed last spring in the greenhouse. It was in June before I finally got it transplanted, and it was almost immediately overshadowed by the taller plants surrounding it, particularly the Baptisia that has vigorously expanded its height and reach this summer. Despite these competitors for breathing space, by early August the Torch had reached about 4' tall and had begun producing its vibrant red flowers, which resemble large zinnia blooms. It has continued to be a steady performer. While Gertrude Jekyll would not be impressed by the juxtaposition of these blue, yellow, white, and red blooms–without any evidence of intelligent foresight–I’m pleased that at least something is happening in a bed where most of the flowering is done for the year.
One task for this week is tidying up the two dahlia beds facing each other on opposite sides of the garden’s water fountain. This year’s dahlias have been more productive than any year since 2015, the first year I introduced dahlias into the garden. It really helped to plant the tubers in pots in March, giving the plants two months to develop a significant plant structure before setting them out. Last year the dahlias did not start blooming until September; this year many varieties started blooming in July. Particularly notable have been the Kelvin Floodlight dinner plate blooms and the steady red blooms produced by the dark-leaf Bishop of Llandaff in the “E” bed. Unfortunately, several dahlias have not yet produced any flowers, and it’s not likely I will save any of those tubers for next year. Another disappointment is that several dahlias with top-heavy blooms have weighed down the flower stalks, producing many broken flower stems. It might have helped if I had planted the dahlias closer together. Perhaps the plants would have been more effective in supporting each other.
One small success this past week is that I introduced several new perennials purchased from Cedar River Nursery in Palo. At the front of the “H” bed I planted a group of three tall stonecrops with purple-red blossoms just beginning to open. The stonecrop play a major visual role in the garden’s fall and winter months. Perhaps these stonecrop will help strengthen the coherence of the garden at this time of year when most perennials are in abeyance. In the “G” bed, I pulled up the old clematis at the front of the pergola. This clematis died back to the ground last summer, and I was ready to replace it this spring before discovering new growth. For a few weeks, the clematis appeared to be reviving, and then it died back again. When I dug it out. The roots were small and compacted. Before planting the new autumn-blooming clematis, I removed most of the surrounding rock, dug a bigger hole, added a soil/compost and soil conditioner mix, placed the new plant in this old clematis bed, filled the surrounding space with the soil mixture, covered the area with the river gravel, watered the plant, and called it done. The new clematis is only about 18" tall, but it is covered with small white blossoms and looks quite petite and attractive. The question now is whether it will thrive in this new space and eventually climb to the top of its 8' tall plant support. ~Bob
The temperature in the garden at 7:20 a.m. was 59F; steady 29.85 barometric pressure; 55% humidity and overcast skies–a beautiful day for gardening. Walking through the SW garden gate, I was immediately struck by the visual impact of the perennial sunflowers, next to the cedar fence, at the east end of the “A2" flower bed, and a comparable group at the east end of the “M2" bed. Dozens of bright yellow 4" wide sunflowers serving as hosts to hundreds of bees, flies, soldier beetles, and other small insects well beyond my ability to identify. Last week I witnessed a similar frenzy with these diverse multitudes thrilled with the bounty of the goldenrod blossoms. While they have not forgotten the goldenrod, their intensity of interest has shifted to another group from the Asteraceae, a huge family with over 22,000 species.
In the garden’s central flower beds, the Canada goldenrod continues to be the garden’s primary source of flower power. It’s also pleasing to see a band of rose-pink flowers stretching across the middle of the “D” bed. These are the blooms of Physostegia virginiana, a native North American native of the mint family, commonly known as False Dragonhead or Obedient Plant. There’s a smaller group of these Zone 3 perennials in the “M1" bed near the NW gate, though that colony has had some difficulty spreading, hemmed in by a long row of taller peonies. The Physostegia flower spikes proffer rows of small, two-lipped blossoms that should continue into October.
In the “I” bed in the northeast corner, there is a group of flowers in bloom that makes an interesting combination. In the middle of the bed are the azure salvia with their stalks of small soft-blue blooms. They are surrounded by a clump of Canada goldenrod and several tall wild asters with small, white, daisy-like blooms. At the rear are the bright blooms of a Red Torch Mexican sunflower, an annual started from seed last spring in the greenhouse. It was in June before I finally got it transplanted, and it was almost immediately overshadowed by the taller plants surrounding it, particularly the Baptisia that has vigorously expanded its height and reach this summer. Despite these competitors for breathing space, by early August the Torch had reached about 4' tall and had begun producing its vibrant red flowers, which resemble large zinnia blooms. It has continued to be a steady performer. While Gertrude Jekyll would not be impressed by the juxtaposition of these blue, yellow, white, and red blooms–without any evidence of intelligent foresight–I’m pleased that at least something is happening in a bed where most of the flowering is done for the year.
One task for this week is tidying up the two dahlia beds facing each other on opposite sides of the garden’s water fountain. This year’s dahlias have been more productive than any year since 2015, the first year I introduced dahlias into the garden. It really helped to plant the tubers in pots in March, giving the plants two months to develop a significant plant structure before setting them out. Last year the dahlias did not start blooming until September; this year many varieties started blooming in July. Particularly notable have been the Kelvin Floodlight dinner plate blooms and the steady red blooms produced by the dark-leaf Bishop of Llandaff in the “E” bed. Unfortunately, several dahlias have not yet produced any flowers, and it’s not likely I will save any of those tubers for next year. Another disappointment is that several dahlias with top-heavy blooms have weighed down the flower stalks, producing many broken flower stems. It might have helped if I had planted the dahlias closer together. Perhaps the plants would have been more effective in supporting each other.
One small success this past week is that I introduced several new perennials purchased from Cedar River Nursery in Palo. At the front of the “H” bed I planted a group of three tall stonecrops with purple-red blossoms just beginning to open. The stonecrop play a major visual role in the garden’s fall and winter months. Perhaps these stonecrop will help strengthen the coherence of the garden at this time of year when most perennials are in abeyance. In the “G” bed, I pulled up the old clematis at the front of the pergola. This clematis died back to the ground last summer, and I was ready to replace it this spring before discovering new growth. For a few weeks, the clematis appeared to be reviving, and then it died back again. When I dug it out. The roots were small and compacted. Before planting the new autumn-blooming clematis, I removed most of the surrounding rock, dug a bigger hole, added a soil/compost and soil conditioner mix, placed the new plant in this old clematis bed, filled the surrounding space with the soil mixture, covered the area with the river gravel, watered the plant, and called it done. The new clematis is only about 18" tall, but it is covered with small white blossoms and looks quite petite and attractive. The question now is whether it will thrive in this new space and eventually climb to the top of its 8' tall plant support. ~Bob
Monday Morning Garden Report: 5 September 2022
The Monday of Labor Day weekend. I had heard rumors there was a horse in the garden on Saturday and I should be on the look out for horse manure. Apparently the horse belonged to a wedding party coming to the garden for a photo shoot. Although I found several plastic water bottles on the grounds and in one raised bed a moderate-sized pile of poop (probably a coon’s gift), I gained no visual or olfactory evidence of a horse having visited the premises. On Friday I briefly chatted with a photographer waiting to take pre-nuptial wedding photos, but he gave no indication a horse might be involved. He did, however, lament that the wedding party was behind schedule “as usual.” I mentioned to the photographer that the garden was not as colorful or as vibrant as it had been several weeks ago. He politely nodded, “it is what it is.”
The long stretch in August without any significant rain has taken its toll on the garden’s morale. The lawn has many brown areas, and on Thursday I finally lost hope and started a cycle of watering, running a sprinkler 4-6 hours on each of the eight major flower beds and then watering the lawn. The Black-Eyed Susans had done a great job of holding up the garden during most of August, but they are now faded, just a few vibrant blooms remaining in the garden’s shadier areas. One of the most dramatic changes in the garden in the past decade has been the emergence of these Rudbeckias. When I first started gardening here in the summer of 2014, they were a minor presence, just a few small groups at the east end of the garden and one patch near the patio. In the past eight years, they have silently spread throughout the garden, intelligently choosing new beach heads. They request no care. I leave most of the seed heads through the winter, not only as a potential source for new seedlings but for their visual sturdiness and potential foraging for visiting birds and other wildlife. They have become one of the garden’s core summer performers.
In this first week in September, the Susans are have been replaced by their composite siblings, the Solidago. I think there are four Goldenrod species in the garden, but by far the majority are Solidago canadensis. As is noted in my invaluable guidebook The Sunflower Family in the Upper Midwest by Thomas M. Antonio and Susanne Masi, Canada Goldenrod is suitable for garden use, but it can be an “aggressive weed” quickly forming colonies that overrun the garden. Through the summer and fall I’m frequently pulling up and throwing in the compost dozens of goldenrod plants and their industrious rhizomes. While I like to have a few patches of this tall goldenrod to fill in the back of flower borders, this year the goldenrod is more widely spread than I had anticipated. I’ll let them have their day on the stage for a couple more weeks, but once their blooms begin to fade, most of them will be yanked out of the ground. I need to do the same with the Joe Pye weed, another of my wild friends whose numbers need to be reduced. ~Bob
The Monday of Labor Day weekend. I had heard rumors there was a horse in the garden on Saturday and I should be on the look out for horse manure. Apparently the horse belonged to a wedding party coming to the garden for a photo shoot. Although I found several plastic water bottles on the grounds and in one raised bed a moderate-sized pile of poop (probably a coon’s gift), I gained no visual or olfactory evidence of a horse having visited the premises. On Friday I briefly chatted with a photographer waiting to take pre-nuptial wedding photos, but he gave no indication a horse might be involved. He did, however, lament that the wedding party was behind schedule “as usual.” I mentioned to the photographer that the garden was not as colorful or as vibrant as it had been several weeks ago. He politely nodded, “it is what it is.”
The long stretch in August without any significant rain has taken its toll on the garden’s morale. The lawn has many brown areas, and on Thursday I finally lost hope and started a cycle of watering, running a sprinkler 4-6 hours on each of the eight major flower beds and then watering the lawn. The Black-Eyed Susans had done a great job of holding up the garden during most of August, but they are now faded, just a few vibrant blooms remaining in the garden’s shadier areas. One of the most dramatic changes in the garden in the past decade has been the emergence of these Rudbeckias. When I first started gardening here in the summer of 2014, they were a minor presence, just a few small groups at the east end of the garden and one patch near the patio. In the past eight years, they have silently spread throughout the garden, intelligently choosing new beach heads. They request no care. I leave most of the seed heads through the winter, not only as a potential source for new seedlings but for their visual sturdiness and potential foraging for visiting birds and other wildlife. They have become one of the garden’s core summer performers.
In this first week in September, the Susans are have been replaced by their composite siblings, the Solidago. I think there are four Goldenrod species in the garden, but by far the majority are Solidago canadensis. As is noted in my invaluable guidebook The Sunflower Family in the Upper Midwest by Thomas M. Antonio and Susanne Masi, Canada Goldenrod is suitable for garden use, but it can be an “aggressive weed” quickly forming colonies that overrun the garden. Through the summer and fall I’m frequently pulling up and throwing in the compost dozens of goldenrod plants and their industrious rhizomes. While I like to have a few patches of this tall goldenrod to fill in the back of flower borders, this year the goldenrod is more widely spread than I had anticipated. I’ll let them have their day on the stage for a couple more weeks, but once their blooms begin to fade, most of them will be yanked out of the ground. I need to do the same with the Joe Pye weed, another of my wild friends whose numbers need to be reduced. ~Bob
Monday Morning Garden Report: 29 August 2022
I spent over six hours in the Coe garden today, my perceptions and tasks dominated by the dry spell. It looked like we might receive some rain on Saturday night, but the dark clouds and lightning strikes produced only a few sprinkles. While my vegetable garden near Toddville has received no more rain than the Coe flower garden, most of the vegetable beds have a thick layer of fresh mulch (from large bales of prairie hay) and the garden soil is in good shape. I’ve not done a good job of mulching the Coe perennials, and many of those flowers are showing the strain of a long, dry August. In the mid-morning sun the garden looks exhausted, dominated by dry brown and gray foliage, withered daylily stalks, black & desiccated coneflowers (most of which I will leave in place, potential fall and winter food for visiting birds). Since the grass is also turning brown, I have decided I’ll spend a few days later this week giving the lawn and most of the flower beds a thorough watering, typically 4-6 hours of irrigation per bed. I’ll begin with the beds on the north side of the garden, which receive the most hours of direct sunlight.
While I have dozens of more important jobs that I should be doing, I spent over two hours today in the SE lawn quadrant pulling up crabgrass (probably Digitaria ischaemum, “smooth crabgrass”). I periodically become obsessed with this uninvited guest, and I would like to have at least one lawn section relatively clean. But the supply of seedlings is endless, and I know the crabgrass will win in the end. It’s too stubborn and has too many resources, including those millions of seeds–but I would like to make it work for its victory. So far we have managed to control the crabgrass without using a herbicide, but this hand-to-grass combat is clearly an exercise in Sisyphean futility. I’m thinking that next spring I may use a pre-emergent application, perhaps on two of the four lawn sections, and see if this makes a difference.
While on my hands and knees, yanking up the crabgrass, I also dislodge other weeds, including spears of nut sedge, some sorrel and clover, a lot of creeping spurge, an occasional thistle or dandelion, and a few border flowers–such as salvias and cranesbills--that have thrown their seeds across the gravel walkway. I enjoy these periodic respites from other chores, lying on the grass, examining the lawn at close range. I become more familiar with local wildlife, particularly the ubiquitous small crickets hopping away from me and the occasional earthworm slithering across the grass blades, seeking an escape from the sunlight. Today, I came upon a good-sized toad (probably an American toad, Anaxyrus americanus) that startled me as I was reaching for a nearby weed. I frequently see a rabbit in the lawn, often eating the clover. Their small brown turds are regular additions to the lawn mixture. I would like to think these rabbit deposits may eventually disintegrate into a useful fertilizer. Later, in September, assuming the rains do return, I will give the lawn its annual Milorganite feeding.
Despite the late-summer doldrums, the garden does offer a few images of vibrant joy:
• Two clumps of Rozanne cranesbill remain in full bloom with their blue-violet, five-petal blossoms. Unfortunately two Rozannes that I planted at the front of the “G” border have not survived, apparently unable to compete with the more well-established plants in that area, but these perennial geraniums in the “D” and “F” beds have been unfazed by this long dry spell.
• In the rain garden, there are the pink blossoms of the Chelone lyonii (pink turtlehead), a North American native. These plants have proven to be very resilient, requiring no care. In the past eight years the size of the colony has expanded via underground rhizomes, but the expansion has been very gradual. I just learned that chelone is the Greek word for “tortoise,” referring to the shape of the flowers. We have two varieties in the rain garden. The tubular, two-lipped pink flowers appear to be identical; the only difference I can see is that one variety is shorter than the other. Also in bloom in the rain garden are several Veronia noveboracensis (a variety of ironweed) and Lobelia siphilitica (great blue lobelia).
• Many of the dahlias have been disappointing: the plants are large and strong, but so far no blossoms. Two notable exceptions are the Kelvin Floodlight (large, vivacious yellow blooms that first appeared in July) and the Bishop of Llandaff (smaller bright red blooms over the dark burgundy foliage). The dahlias in the “J” bed are surrounded by volunteer Verbena b, each plant with clusters of 20-50 tiny purple blooms, frequent landing pads for Monarchs and other butterflies in the garden.
• Although planted primarily for foliage, the hostas along the garden walk south of the patio are topped with a marvelous display of white blooms, 2-3' above the foliage. These ample-sized flowers are a favorite of the large solitary bees that serve as the garden’s primary pollinators. ~Bob
I spent over six hours in the Coe garden today, my perceptions and tasks dominated by the dry spell. It looked like we might receive some rain on Saturday night, but the dark clouds and lightning strikes produced only a few sprinkles. While my vegetable garden near Toddville has received no more rain than the Coe flower garden, most of the vegetable beds have a thick layer of fresh mulch (from large bales of prairie hay) and the garden soil is in good shape. I’ve not done a good job of mulching the Coe perennials, and many of those flowers are showing the strain of a long, dry August. In the mid-morning sun the garden looks exhausted, dominated by dry brown and gray foliage, withered daylily stalks, black & desiccated coneflowers (most of which I will leave in place, potential fall and winter food for visiting birds). Since the grass is also turning brown, I have decided I’ll spend a few days later this week giving the lawn and most of the flower beds a thorough watering, typically 4-6 hours of irrigation per bed. I’ll begin with the beds on the north side of the garden, which receive the most hours of direct sunlight.
While I have dozens of more important jobs that I should be doing, I spent over two hours today in the SE lawn quadrant pulling up crabgrass (probably Digitaria ischaemum, “smooth crabgrass”). I periodically become obsessed with this uninvited guest, and I would like to have at least one lawn section relatively clean. But the supply of seedlings is endless, and I know the crabgrass will win in the end. It’s too stubborn and has too many resources, including those millions of seeds–but I would like to make it work for its victory. So far we have managed to control the crabgrass without using a herbicide, but this hand-to-grass combat is clearly an exercise in Sisyphean futility. I’m thinking that next spring I may use a pre-emergent application, perhaps on two of the four lawn sections, and see if this makes a difference.
While on my hands and knees, yanking up the crabgrass, I also dislodge other weeds, including spears of nut sedge, some sorrel and clover, a lot of creeping spurge, an occasional thistle or dandelion, and a few border flowers–such as salvias and cranesbills--that have thrown their seeds across the gravel walkway. I enjoy these periodic respites from other chores, lying on the grass, examining the lawn at close range. I become more familiar with local wildlife, particularly the ubiquitous small crickets hopping away from me and the occasional earthworm slithering across the grass blades, seeking an escape from the sunlight. Today, I came upon a good-sized toad (probably an American toad, Anaxyrus americanus) that startled me as I was reaching for a nearby weed. I frequently see a rabbit in the lawn, often eating the clover. Their small brown turds are regular additions to the lawn mixture. I would like to think these rabbit deposits may eventually disintegrate into a useful fertilizer. Later, in September, assuming the rains do return, I will give the lawn its annual Milorganite feeding.
Despite the late-summer doldrums, the garden does offer a few images of vibrant joy:
• Two clumps of Rozanne cranesbill remain in full bloom with their blue-violet, five-petal blossoms. Unfortunately two Rozannes that I planted at the front of the “G” border have not survived, apparently unable to compete with the more well-established plants in that area, but these perennial geraniums in the “D” and “F” beds have been unfazed by this long dry spell.
• In the rain garden, there are the pink blossoms of the Chelone lyonii (pink turtlehead), a North American native. These plants have proven to be very resilient, requiring no care. In the past eight years the size of the colony has expanded via underground rhizomes, but the expansion has been very gradual. I just learned that chelone is the Greek word for “tortoise,” referring to the shape of the flowers. We have two varieties in the rain garden. The tubular, two-lipped pink flowers appear to be identical; the only difference I can see is that one variety is shorter than the other. Also in bloom in the rain garden are several Veronia noveboracensis (a variety of ironweed) and Lobelia siphilitica (great blue lobelia).
• Many of the dahlias have been disappointing: the plants are large and strong, but so far no blossoms. Two notable exceptions are the Kelvin Floodlight (large, vivacious yellow blooms that first appeared in July) and the Bishop of Llandaff (smaller bright red blooms over the dark burgundy foliage). The dahlias in the “J” bed are surrounded by volunteer Verbena b, each plant with clusters of 20-50 tiny purple blooms, frequent landing pads for Monarchs and other butterflies in the garden.
• Although planted primarily for foliage, the hostas along the garden walk south of the patio are topped with a marvelous display of white blooms, 2-3' above the foliage. These ample-sized flowers are a favorite of the large solitary bees that serve as the garden’s primary pollinators. ~Bob
Monday Morning Garden Report: 11 July 2022
The date of this MMGR is misleading since these notes record observations on Tuesday, 12 July. The big accomplishment of the day was the extensive trimming of the flowering crab trees. In previous years I’ve done the trimming, but now that I’m in my late 70s, I asked for assistance from Coe’s grounds crew. In three hours they completed all the trimming and cleared everything away–much faster and more thorough than if I had been tackling this project with my ladder and hand saw. Dozens of dead limbs have been removed, as well as several drooping limbs that would soon be creating further problems. The trees still have many suckers and water sprouts that need removal, but I can easily remove those as time allows.
While the grounds crew was working on the trees, I moved my three-legged ladder to the espalier crab tree north of the patio. Using my manual hedge-trimmer, I had pruned the tree earlier in the spring, but it already had a lot of fresh growth and was looking rather unkempt. Fortunately the contours of its basic three-pronged fork shape are reasonably easy to follow, and it only took an hour to get it back in shape. The flowering crab and hawthorn standards north of the pergola also need trimming, but I decided to save those for another day. As for the English yews that surround three sides of the garden, I will wait until late August or September before going over them with the electric trimmer. Because they require so much ladder work, trimming those yews involves 10-15 hours, and I would prefer only doing that task once a year.
After trimming the espalier, I mowed the four lawn sections. The garden always looks so much sharper when the grass has been recently mowed. The challenge now is to pull up the emerging sedge and the crabgrass. I’ve discovered that we can do a decent job controlling the sedge and most other weeds by routine weed pulling, but the crabgrass is another matter. Since we don’t use any pre-emergent herbicide, the crabgrass is relentless in its efforts to take over the lawn area. Last summer I hired three students who spent many hours pulling up the crabgrass, trying to remove the plants before they could distribute their annual crop of seeds. It’s already evident the crabgrass has returned, as determined as ever. Perhaps next spring I will try a pre-emergent treatment and see if it has any impact.
After mowing the lawn, I turned my attention to cleaning up the “L” bed in front of the patio. Most of this effort involved deadheading the large colony of ox-eye daisies in the middle of the bed and pulling out unwanted “weeds”–here defined as little clumps of grass, several volunteer redbud seedings, a couple nightshade plants, a common weed for which I have no name, and vagabond members of the Asteraceae family: New England asters, fleabane, and goldenrod. My primary goal was to remove plants that interfere with the daylilies, which are now entering their primary bloom period.
I finished my morning efforts by weeding the large sundial flower bed in front the gazebo and the adjacent bed where last fall I planted the Northwind switch grass. The big problem in the sundial bed is Convolvulus arvensis, field bindweed, another invader impossible to control by pulling. Last summer, prior to planting the switch grass, I sprayed the bindweed in that area with Round-up. The commercial herbicide did wipe out the bindweed, and so far it has not returned. But that space is surrounded by areas impregnated with bindweed roots, and in order to eliminate the bindweed, it appears I have no choice but to expand my application of the herbicide. The challenge will be to apply sufficient weed-killer to the bindweed leaves without killing any of the flowers and groundcover that I don’t want to be harmed. By recurrent digging and hand weeding I have managed to curtail the horsetail and eradicate the thistles, dock, sedge, and other weeds that permeated this northeast corner of the garden several years ago, but the bindweed has successfully resisted my efforts and continues to thrive. While I admire their beautiful white morning glory flowers, my weed guide informs me that a single plant can produce over 500 seeds, and those seeds can “remain viable for up to 50 years.” It’s time for me to admit defeat and see what can be accomplished with a targeted offensive on the plant’s heart-shaped leaves. ~Bob
The date of this MMGR is misleading since these notes record observations on Tuesday, 12 July. The big accomplishment of the day was the extensive trimming of the flowering crab trees. In previous years I’ve done the trimming, but now that I’m in my late 70s, I asked for assistance from Coe’s grounds crew. In three hours they completed all the trimming and cleared everything away–much faster and more thorough than if I had been tackling this project with my ladder and hand saw. Dozens of dead limbs have been removed, as well as several drooping limbs that would soon be creating further problems. The trees still have many suckers and water sprouts that need removal, but I can easily remove those as time allows.
While the grounds crew was working on the trees, I moved my three-legged ladder to the espalier crab tree north of the patio. Using my manual hedge-trimmer, I had pruned the tree earlier in the spring, but it already had a lot of fresh growth and was looking rather unkempt. Fortunately the contours of its basic three-pronged fork shape are reasonably easy to follow, and it only took an hour to get it back in shape. The flowering crab and hawthorn standards north of the pergola also need trimming, but I decided to save those for another day. As for the English yews that surround three sides of the garden, I will wait until late August or September before going over them with the electric trimmer. Because they require so much ladder work, trimming those yews involves 10-15 hours, and I would prefer only doing that task once a year.
After trimming the espalier, I mowed the four lawn sections. The garden always looks so much sharper when the grass has been recently mowed. The challenge now is to pull up the emerging sedge and the crabgrass. I’ve discovered that we can do a decent job controlling the sedge and most other weeds by routine weed pulling, but the crabgrass is another matter. Since we don’t use any pre-emergent herbicide, the crabgrass is relentless in its efforts to take over the lawn area. Last summer I hired three students who spent many hours pulling up the crabgrass, trying to remove the plants before they could distribute their annual crop of seeds. It’s already evident the crabgrass has returned, as determined as ever. Perhaps next spring I will try a pre-emergent treatment and see if it has any impact.
After mowing the lawn, I turned my attention to cleaning up the “L” bed in front of the patio. Most of this effort involved deadheading the large colony of ox-eye daisies in the middle of the bed and pulling out unwanted “weeds”–here defined as little clumps of grass, several volunteer redbud seedings, a couple nightshade plants, a common weed for which I have no name, and vagabond members of the Asteraceae family: New England asters, fleabane, and goldenrod. My primary goal was to remove plants that interfere with the daylilies, which are now entering their primary bloom period.
I finished my morning efforts by weeding the large sundial flower bed in front the gazebo and the adjacent bed where last fall I planted the Northwind switch grass. The big problem in the sundial bed is Convolvulus arvensis, field bindweed, another invader impossible to control by pulling. Last summer, prior to planting the switch grass, I sprayed the bindweed in that area with Round-up. The commercial herbicide did wipe out the bindweed, and so far it has not returned. But that space is surrounded by areas impregnated with bindweed roots, and in order to eliminate the bindweed, it appears I have no choice but to expand my application of the herbicide. The challenge will be to apply sufficient weed-killer to the bindweed leaves without killing any of the flowers and groundcover that I don’t want to be harmed. By recurrent digging and hand weeding I have managed to curtail the horsetail and eradicate the thistles, dock, sedge, and other weeds that permeated this northeast corner of the garden several years ago, but the bindweed has successfully resisted my efforts and continues to thrive. While I admire their beautiful white morning glory flowers, my weed guide informs me that a single plant can produce over 500 seeds, and those seeds can “remain viable for up to 50 years.” It’s time for me to admit defeat and see what can be accomplished with a targeted offensive on the plant’s heart-shaped leaves. ~Bob
Monday Morning Garden Report: 6 June 2022
On Thursday, June 2, I sent an email inviting all Coe faculty and staff to a garden party on Monday and Tuesday afternoons, June 6 & 7, 2:30 - 5:00 p.m. In addition to cold drinks, fresh fruit, and brownies, the garden party would include a plant give-away. Visitors were free to choose from several hundred flowers and vegetables already potted or to request plants that I would dig up and distribute at a later date. Alas, I was ill-prepared for how many people showed up. Although I was too busy distributing plants and answering questions to maintain an accurate head count, midway during Monday’s gathering I did a quick head count of the people on the patio and estimated at least thirty folks were looking at plants or searching for a cold drink in the ice chest.
By the conclusion of the two-day affair on Tuesday afternoon, folks had taken over 300 plants, many started from seed in the garden’s greenhouse. The varieties distributed to new homes included twenty varieties of tomato plants (most of them heirloom), six kinds of sweet peppers, four kinds of eggplants, and over twenty different annual and perennial flowers, including scabiosa, gazanias, dahlias, lupin, foxglove, and cardinal flowers. My records are more detailed with regard to the plant requests, most of which were available for pickup the following Monday. Thirty people requested one or more plants, resulting in the following distribution of about 180 plants:
120 Strawberry plants (Flavorfest)
15 Red Raspberry plants
6 Joe Pye Weed
5 False Indigo (Baptisia australis)
5 Rhubarb
4 Plains Coreopsis
3 Siberian Iris
2 Butterfly Weed (Asclepias tuberosa)
2 Husker Red Penstemon
2 Hyssop
2 Cranesbill
2 Hostas
2 Snow-in-Summer
2 Spiderwort
1 Wild Milkweed
1 Sweet Annie (an annual artemisia)
1 Basil
1 Elderberry
Despite my poor planning, erratic labeling, and slowness in delivery of requested plants, I felt the garden party was successful and certainly worth repeating the event next year.
In addition to the pleasure of providing folks with free plants (all extras), one special benefit of this event was that I interacted with dozens of Coe people whom I had never previously met. Although I’m working in the garden several days each week, I’m usually alone and can pretend I’m working in my private garden. Even when I see other folks in the garden, we rarely need to engage in much communication. They come to eat lunch or meet with friends or have a few minutes of quiet solitude. My default practice is to leave people alone. But these two garden parties temporarily changed the ground rules, and it was a great pleasure meeting new folks and talking with them about plants and gardening. Gardens are a natural site for gift-exchanges, and what better gift than a plant (or multiple plants) to take home after the visit. I should add that in addition to meeting so many “new” people, it was also great to see some “old” faculty & staff, several of whom I had not seen since the pandemic.
On Thursday, June 2, I sent an email inviting all Coe faculty and staff to a garden party on Monday and Tuesday afternoons, June 6 & 7, 2:30 - 5:00 p.m. In addition to cold drinks, fresh fruit, and brownies, the garden party would include a plant give-away. Visitors were free to choose from several hundred flowers and vegetables already potted or to request plants that I would dig up and distribute at a later date. Alas, I was ill-prepared for how many people showed up. Although I was too busy distributing plants and answering questions to maintain an accurate head count, midway during Monday’s gathering I did a quick head count of the people on the patio and estimated at least thirty folks were looking at plants or searching for a cold drink in the ice chest.
By the conclusion of the two-day affair on Tuesday afternoon, folks had taken over 300 plants, many started from seed in the garden’s greenhouse. The varieties distributed to new homes included twenty varieties of tomato plants (most of them heirloom), six kinds of sweet peppers, four kinds of eggplants, and over twenty different annual and perennial flowers, including scabiosa, gazanias, dahlias, lupin, foxglove, and cardinal flowers. My records are more detailed with regard to the plant requests, most of which were available for pickup the following Monday. Thirty people requested one or more plants, resulting in the following distribution of about 180 plants:
120 Strawberry plants (Flavorfest)
15 Red Raspberry plants
6 Joe Pye Weed
5 False Indigo (Baptisia australis)
5 Rhubarb
4 Plains Coreopsis
3 Siberian Iris
2 Butterfly Weed (Asclepias tuberosa)
2 Husker Red Penstemon
2 Hyssop
2 Cranesbill
2 Hostas
2 Snow-in-Summer
2 Spiderwort
1 Wild Milkweed
1 Sweet Annie (an annual artemisia)
1 Basil
1 Elderberry
Despite my poor planning, erratic labeling, and slowness in delivery of requested plants, I felt the garden party was successful and certainly worth repeating the event next year.
In addition to the pleasure of providing folks with free plants (all extras), one special benefit of this event was that I interacted with dozens of Coe people whom I had never previously met. Although I’m working in the garden several days each week, I’m usually alone and can pretend I’m working in my private garden. Even when I see other folks in the garden, we rarely need to engage in much communication. They come to eat lunch or meet with friends or have a few minutes of quiet solitude. My default practice is to leave people alone. But these two garden parties temporarily changed the ground rules, and it was a great pleasure meeting new folks and talking with them about plants and gardening. Gardens are a natural site for gift-exchanges, and what better gift than a plant (or multiple plants) to take home after the visit. I should add that in addition to meeting so many “new” people, it was also great to see some “old” faculty & staff, several of whom I had not seen since the pandemic.
Monday Morning Garden Report for 9 & 16 May 2022
9 May Observations
• Post graduation, post Mother’s Day: sunny, warm, windy.
• The bloom cycle for the flowering crab apple trees is running about ten days behind their normal schedule: the espalier crab, always the first to flower, now has a few buds beginning to open–except for one small, ground-level branch that already has a group of pink blooms in a full monty display. The white bloomers should be opening in a couple of days.
• Each morning I find about 25 new dandelions in the lawn, their fresh yellow blooms magically appearing from plants I never saw the day before. Every morning I take out my long weeder-digger-outer, extract plants (some times accompanied by an intact root), and add them to a compost pile. Today was no exception.
• The lawn also has dozens of little yellow sorrel blooms; I enjoy these random dots of bright yellow and usually let them continue to enjoy their day in the sun.
• The tulips are at their peak display. I’m particularly pleased with the diagonal sequences of white, red, and pink tulip blooms running across the “C” and “L” beds in front of the patio–an instance where the placement of bulbs seems to have worked as intended.
• The white tulips are fully open--with their large, smooth petals [see photo].
• A few daffodils are still hanging on, appreciative of our cool, damp April that has slid into May.
• Many yellow blooms of the species tulips popping up in new locations, clearly self-seeding and expanding; this year some have appeared in the rain garden and one was in hiding next to a compost bin under a viburnum.
• The bloody cranesbill in the “D” bed has really extended itself in the past year, running over a less rambunctious Rozanne cranesbill and now taking over the area set aside for a salvia and obedient plants; it’s time to dig up this tough-minded perennial geranium and send it to a new foster home.
• In the greenhouse, I transferred the Bishop’s Children dahlias from the seed block tray to individual peat pots; nearly all the seeds germinated and the plants look healthy and vigorous.
• Saw an oriole in the garden this morning; I occasionally see them in my vegetable garden out in the country, but I can’t recall I’ve ever seen one in the Alumni House Garden. The last couple of weeks I’ve been seeing and hearing a wren, including this morning. Although there is fresh nesting material in one of the wren houses, I have not seen a wren in or near the little wooden house. Two years ago, a wren family used the wren house attached to the pergola, but I’m not aware any wrens nested in the garden last year. Of course, a lot happens in this garden that I never know about.
16 May Observations
It was a beautiful morning, sunny, temperature in the low 60s, pleasant westerly breeze. A dramatic contrast to last week, when the garden was baking in a hot oven. The flowering crab were late in blooming, and within 48 hours after the trees came into full bloom, they were devastated, nary a bloom to survive. The heat had the same effect on the tulips, the grape hyacinths, and most of the other spring flowering bulbs. One notable exception was the allium, apparently unfazed by the heat spike.
This morning I mowed the four lawn sections, which helps to give the garden a neater, more civilized appearance. With most of the spring-flowering bulbs now finished for the season, there is a pause in the color cycle, the garden now dominated by the lawn and the fresh green leaves of the yews, the ivy covering the brick walls, the viburnums and asters, the daylilies and peonies and false indigo. In the rock garden is a spread of vivid pinks, whites, purples, and magentas–a product of the moss phlox. In the “L” bed in front of the patio and the beds under the pergola, the ox-eye daisies are coming on. Their white petals with gold centers will dominate the east end of the garden for the next two weeks. Whites are also evident in the two masses of snow-in-summer in the raised “J” beds and the nodding spring snowflake blooms that can be found in several of the garden’s shady beds.
As I walk around the garden, I begin to notice more flowers in bloom, flowers that did not catch my attention when I first arrived. In shady areas at both ends of the garden are groups of camassias, their blue petals gracefully erect above their green foliage. The beautiful flowers will only last a few days. Much longer lasting are the yellow and gentle reddish blooms of the native columbine, a friendly self-seeder that each year quietly expands its territory. Its regional common names include “Jack in Trousers” and “Meeting Houses.” It is a welcome surprise to see a large group of them blooming under the pergola, near the east gate. Not far away are the pink blooms of the bleeding heart planted last year between a park bench and the gazebo. And in several locations in the garden the Brunnera are still in bloom. There is a special pleasure in coming across such lovely tiny flowers, ones that require an intimate closeness with a visitor. ~Bob
9 May Observations
• Post graduation, post Mother’s Day: sunny, warm, windy.
• The bloom cycle for the flowering crab apple trees is running about ten days behind their normal schedule: the espalier crab, always the first to flower, now has a few buds beginning to open–except for one small, ground-level branch that already has a group of pink blooms in a full monty display. The white bloomers should be opening in a couple of days.
• Each morning I find about 25 new dandelions in the lawn, their fresh yellow blooms magically appearing from plants I never saw the day before. Every morning I take out my long weeder-digger-outer, extract plants (some times accompanied by an intact root), and add them to a compost pile. Today was no exception.
• The lawn also has dozens of little yellow sorrel blooms; I enjoy these random dots of bright yellow and usually let them continue to enjoy their day in the sun.
• The tulips are at their peak display. I’m particularly pleased with the diagonal sequences of white, red, and pink tulip blooms running across the “C” and “L” beds in front of the patio–an instance where the placement of bulbs seems to have worked as intended.
• The white tulips are fully open--with their large, smooth petals [see photo].
• A few daffodils are still hanging on, appreciative of our cool, damp April that has slid into May.
• Many yellow blooms of the species tulips popping up in new locations, clearly self-seeding and expanding; this year some have appeared in the rain garden and one was in hiding next to a compost bin under a viburnum.
• The bloody cranesbill in the “D” bed has really extended itself in the past year, running over a less rambunctious Rozanne cranesbill and now taking over the area set aside for a salvia and obedient plants; it’s time to dig up this tough-minded perennial geranium and send it to a new foster home.
• In the greenhouse, I transferred the Bishop’s Children dahlias from the seed block tray to individual peat pots; nearly all the seeds germinated and the plants look healthy and vigorous.
• Saw an oriole in the garden this morning; I occasionally see them in my vegetable garden out in the country, but I can’t recall I’ve ever seen one in the Alumni House Garden. The last couple of weeks I’ve been seeing and hearing a wren, including this morning. Although there is fresh nesting material in one of the wren houses, I have not seen a wren in or near the little wooden house. Two years ago, a wren family used the wren house attached to the pergola, but I’m not aware any wrens nested in the garden last year. Of course, a lot happens in this garden that I never know about.
16 May Observations
It was a beautiful morning, sunny, temperature in the low 60s, pleasant westerly breeze. A dramatic contrast to last week, when the garden was baking in a hot oven. The flowering crab were late in blooming, and within 48 hours after the trees came into full bloom, they were devastated, nary a bloom to survive. The heat had the same effect on the tulips, the grape hyacinths, and most of the other spring flowering bulbs. One notable exception was the allium, apparently unfazed by the heat spike.
This morning I mowed the four lawn sections, which helps to give the garden a neater, more civilized appearance. With most of the spring-flowering bulbs now finished for the season, there is a pause in the color cycle, the garden now dominated by the lawn and the fresh green leaves of the yews, the ivy covering the brick walls, the viburnums and asters, the daylilies and peonies and false indigo. In the rock garden is a spread of vivid pinks, whites, purples, and magentas–a product of the moss phlox. In the “L” bed in front of the patio and the beds under the pergola, the ox-eye daisies are coming on. Their white petals with gold centers will dominate the east end of the garden for the next two weeks. Whites are also evident in the two masses of snow-in-summer in the raised “J” beds and the nodding spring snowflake blooms that can be found in several of the garden’s shady beds.
As I walk around the garden, I begin to notice more flowers in bloom, flowers that did not catch my attention when I first arrived. In shady areas at both ends of the garden are groups of camassias, their blue petals gracefully erect above their green foliage. The beautiful flowers will only last a few days. Much longer lasting are the yellow and gentle reddish blooms of the native columbine, a friendly self-seeder that each year quietly expands its territory. Its regional common names include “Jack in Trousers” and “Meeting Houses.” It is a welcome surprise to see a large group of them blooming under the pergola, near the east gate. Not far away are the pink blooms of the bleeding heart planted last year between a park bench and the gazebo. And in several locations in the garden the Brunnera are still in bloom. There is a special pleasure in coming across such lovely tiny flowers, ones that require an intimate closeness with a visitor. ~Bob
Monday Morning Garden Report: 2 May 2022
My MMGR two weeks ago focused on the glories of humus and composting, but most visitors to a perennial flower garden come for the flowers and would rarely care to spend much time gazing at a pile of compost. Since we are now entering the garden’s prime season for displays of foliage and blooms, it seems appropriate to describe a few flowers on this first Monday of the fifth month. Here are twenty flowers that attracted my attention during this morning’s stroll around the garden.
Barren Strawberries (Waldsteinia fragarioides)–“K” bed. A quiet, modest, but thoroughly dependable ground cover; these were planted in 2015 and in the intervening seven years have required virtually no care. Today I saw the first of the plant’s small, yellow, five-petal stars–which in shape resemble the blooms of the potentillas, another member of the Rose family.
Bleeding Heart (Lamprocapnos spectabilis, formerly Dicentra spectabilis) –“H” & “M1" beds. Last year I planted three bleeding hearts under the flowering crab behind the NE park bench. At the time of their planting, they were dry and shriveled, and I was not optimistic about their survival rate. But here on May 2 they each have one or more sets of lovely white and pink blossoms drooping from their curving stems. The old blooming heart north of the patio is also in bloom, but that plant is becoming progressively less robust each year; when it has finished this year’s bloom cycle, I may dig it up, enrich the soil with fresh compost, and hope fresh nourishment may inspire a return to its old form.
Cushion Spurge (Euphorbia polychroma)–“C” & “L” beds. When I first started working in the Alumni House Garden in 2014, there were only a couple of cushion spurge in the “C” bed; now there are more than twenty spread across both of the large beds in front of the patio, all the products of self-seeding. The vibrant yellow bracts consistently form nicely shaped domes that last until after the blooms have faded by the end of this month.
Daffodils–perhaps ten varieties in the “G” & “H” beds. In the fall of 2014 I planted a couple hundred daffodil bulbs purchased from White Flower Farm–a grab bag of unidentified varieties chosen to bloom over several weeks. Most of these cousins are still going strong, dominating the long row of daffodils at the east end of the garden. Most daffodil colonies in the garden are of one variety, but this is one area where it’s a free-for-all.
Flowering Crab Apple Trees. I just heard on the TV news that corn and soybean planting in Iowa is running about two weeks behind schedule. That’s certainly true for the flowering crab trees. They are usually covered with their gorgeous, gently fragrant blossoms the first week in May; this year it appears they won’t be on full display until after graduation weekend.
Gigantic Stair Daffodils–“A1" bed. These were planted south of the patio last fall in an area previously dominated by a hodge-podge of volunteer elderberry, Joe Pye weed, New England asters, and grass. Despite being in a relatively cool, shady area, they emerged early, bloomed early–producing the largest yellow daffs in the garden–and have not yet begun to wither. An impressive cultivar.
Grape Hyacinths (Muscari armeniacum)–“C” & “L” beds. The colony of Muscari in the “L” bed, under the NW flowering crab, are now in their third week of blooming and still looking great. We also have three new expeditionary groups that have popped up nearby. In contrast the colony under the SW flowering crab on the other side of the garden are just now covered with those racemes of modestly fragrant, violet-blue flowers with the thin white line around each mouth.
Hellebores–“G” bed. Last week I told a visitor to the gardener that the most “seductive” blooms in the garden were the hellebores in the SE corner of the garden, an area rarely visited; for whatever reasons, the hellebores have thrived in that area, five distinct cultivars, all in full bloom.
Hyacinths–“G” bed. I planted a group of hyacinths under the pergola in the fall of 2015; after two good years, most disappeared, and the survivors’ flower heads were neither robust nor long-lived. But this year they have revived, produced a few offspring, and are now in their third week of bloomung.
Imperial Fritillary–“E,” “I” & “J” beds. If you kneel down to smell a bloom, the odor does suggest a skunk; thanksfully, in most instances, one can walk by these regal flowers and not notice their fragrance.
Leucojum–“C” & “L” beds. A visitor to the garden described them as tall snowdrops; their common name is summer snowflakes, but they bloom in spring and I’ve always preferred to call them Leucojum.
Lungwort (Pulmonaria officinalis)–“K” bed. I recently read that the shift of these small blooms from pink to blue enables the flower to direct pollinators to the newest blooms with the most nectar.
Moss Phlox–“M2" bed. The moss phlox have taken over the rock garden, and for 2-3 weeks each spring, they offer visitors a beautiful blanket of blue and pink blooms; they need to be cut back, but I’ll wait until they are finished with their bloom cycle.
Prairie Smoke (Geum triflorum)–“I” bed. A native North American; other common names include Old Man’s Whiskers, Purple Avens, Long-Plumed Avens, Three-flowered Avens; these were among the first blooms of the spring and still look quite fresh.
Red Tulips–multiple beds. This morning I counted twelve different groups of red tulips in the garden, each group of a few individuals, these little clumps of red adding packets of energy everywhere I look.
Siberian Bugloss (Brunnera macrophylla)–“A1,” “G” & “K” beds. Every year I write in an MMGR that the tiny blue Brunnera blooms remind me of forget-me-nots; I’ve now done it again.
Species Tulips–multiple beds. These small blooms only last a few days but they have a fresh, unassuming beauty that I find quite appealing; we are having some success with expansion of their numbers, particularly with the long row of species tulips along the south-side channel to the rain garden in the “G” bed.
Tripartite and Sun Disk Daffodils–“A1" & “A2" beds. These varieties were planted last fall, and their green leaves are just now breaking through the mulch; I suspect they will be the last group of daffodils to bloom.
Wind Flowers–“C” & “L” beds. I’m surprised how many of these early blooming anemones appeared this spring, and they have held up quite well, apparently enjoying our cool & wet April weather.
Despite all this attention given to red tulips and other blooming flowers, it’s often the emerging foliage that captures one attention. Notable examples on this morning’s walk include emerging hostas and daylilies, domes of cat mint, dark burgundy Heuchera leaves, dark burgundy Penstemon leaves, tight clumps of stonecrop, closely packed layers of emerging columbine leaves, the dense carpet of the Cerastium comentosum’s grayish-green foliage, perfect beads of water on the lady’s mantle, dwarf lilac buds, patches of lemon balm transplanted last fall, harvestable chives in the herb beds, the miniature plantations of coreopsis, and the beautiful spears of red stalks of peonies.
My MMGR two weeks ago focused on the glories of humus and composting, but most visitors to a perennial flower garden come for the flowers and would rarely care to spend much time gazing at a pile of compost. Since we are now entering the garden’s prime season for displays of foliage and blooms, it seems appropriate to describe a few flowers on this first Monday of the fifth month. Here are twenty flowers that attracted my attention during this morning’s stroll around the garden.
Barren Strawberries (Waldsteinia fragarioides)–“K” bed. A quiet, modest, but thoroughly dependable ground cover; these were planted in 2015 and in the intervening seven years have required virtually no care. Today I saw the first of the plant’s small, yellow, five-petal stars–which in shape resemble the blooms of the potentillas, another member of the Rose family.
Bleeding Heart (Lamprocapnos spectabilis, formerly Dicentra spectabilis) –“H” & “M1" beds. Last year I planted three bleeding hearts under the flowering crab behind the NE park bench. At the time of their planting, they were dry and shriveled, and I was not optimistic about their survival rate. But here on May 2 they each have one or more sets of lovely white and pink blossoms drooping from their curving stems. The old blooming heart north of the patio is also in bloom, but that plant is becoming progressively less robust each year; when it has finished this year’s bloom cycle, I may dig it up, enrich the soil with fresh compost, and hope fresh nourishment may inspire a return to its old form.
Cushion Spurge (Euphorbia polychroma)–“C” & “L” beds. When I first started working in the Alumni House Garden in 2014, there were only a couple of cushion spurge in the “C” bed; now there are more than twenty spread across both of the large beds in front of the patio, all the products of self-seeding. The vibrant yellow bracts consistently form nicely shaped domes that last until after the blooms have faded by the end of this month.
Daffodils–perhaps ten varieties in the “G” & “H” beds. In the fall of 2014 I planted a couple hundred daffodil bulbs purchased from White Flower Farm–a grab bag of unidentified varieties chosen to bloom over several weeks. Most of these cousins are still going strong, dominating the long row of daffodils at the east end of the garden. Most daffodil colonies in the garden are of one variety, but this is one area where it’s a free-for-all.
Flowering Crab Apple Trees. I just heard on the TV news that corn and soybean planting in Iowa is running about two weeks behind schedule. That’s certainly true for the flowering crab trees. They are usually covered with their gorgeous, gently fragrant blossoms the first week in May; this year it appears they won’t be on full display until after graduation weekend.
Gigantic Stair Daffodils–“A1" bed. These were planted south of the patio last fall in an area previously dominated by a hodge-podge of volunteer elderberry, Joe Pye weed, New England asters, and grass. Despite being in a relatively cool, shady area, they emerged early, bloomed early–producing the largest yellow daffs in the garden–and have not yet begun to wither. An impressive cultivar.
Grape Hyacinths (Muscari armeniacum)–“C” & “L” beds. The colony of Muscari in the “L” bed, under the NW flowering crab, are now in their third week of blooming and still looking great. We also have three new expeditionary groups that have popped up nearby. In contrast the colony under the SW flowering crab on the other side of the garden are just now covered with those racemes of modestly fragrant, violet-blue flowers with the thin white line around each mouth.
Hellebores–“G” bed. Last week I told a visitor to the gardener that the most “seductive” blooms in the garden were the hellebores in the SE corner of the garden, an area rarely visited; for whatever reasons, the hellebores have thrived in that area, five distinct cultivars, all in full bloom.
Hyacinths–“G” bed. I planted a group of hyacinths under the pergola in the fall of 2015; after two good years, most disappeared, and the survivors’ flower heads were neither robust nor long-lived. But this year they have revived, produced a few offspring, and are now in their third week of bloomung.
Imperial Fritillary–“E,” “I” & “J” beds. If you kneel down to smell a bloom, the odor does suggest a skunk; thanksfully, in most instances, one can walk by these regal flowers and not notice their fragrance.
Leucojum–“C” & “L” beds. A visitor to the garden described them as tall snowdrops; their common name is summer snowflakes, but they bloom in spring and I’ve always preferred to call them Leucojum.
Lungwort (Pulmonaria officinalis)–“K” bed. I recently read that the shift of these small blooms from pink to blue enables the flower to direct pollinators to the newest blooms with the most nectar.
Moss Phlox–“M2" bed. The moss phlox have taken over the rock garden, and for 2-3 weeks each spring, they offer visitors a beautiful blanket of blue and pink blooms; they need to be cut back, but I’ll wait until they are finished with their bloom cycle.
Prairie Smoke (Geum triflorum)–“I” bed. A native North American; other common names include Old Man’s Whiskers, Purple Avens, Long-Plumed Avens, Three-flowered Avens; these were among the first blooms of the spring and still look quite fresh.
Red Tulips–multiple beds. This morning I counted twelve different groups of red tulips in the garden, each group of a few individuals, these little clumps of red adding packets of energy everywhere I look.
Siberian Bugloss (Brunnera macrophylla)–“A1,” “G” & “K” beds. Every year I write in an MMGR that the tiny blue Brunnera blooms remind me of forget-me-nots; I’ve now done it again.
Species Tulips–multiple beds. These small blooms only last a few days but they have a fresh, unassuming beauty that I find quite appealing; we are having some success with expansion of their numbers, particularly with the long row of species tulips along the south-side channel to the rain garden in the “G” bed.
Tripartite and Sun Disk Daffodils–“A1" & “A2" beds. These varieties were planted last fall, and their green leaves are just now breaking through the mulch; I suspect they will be the last group of daffodils to bloom.
Wind Flowers–“C” & “L” beds. I’m surprised how many of these early blooming anemones appeared this spring, and they have held up quite well, apparently enjoying our cool & wet April weather.
Despite all this attention given to red tulips and other blooming flowers, it’s often the emerging foliage that captures one attention. Notable examples on this morning’s walk include emerging hostas and daylilies, domes of cat mint, dark burgundy Heuchera leaves, dark burgundy Penstemon leaves, tight clumps of stonecrop, closely packed layers of emerging columbine leaves, the dense carpet of the Cerastium comentosum’s grayish-green foliage, perfect beads of water on the lady’s mantle, dwarf lilac buds, patches of lemon balm transplanted last fall, harvestable chives in the herb beds, the miniature plantations of coreopsis, and the beautiful spears of red stalks of peonies.
Monday Morning Garden Report: 18 April 2022
Pergola to crab tree to pergola to another crab tree and back to the pergola followed by a brief return to the first crab tree before a quick landing on the pergola and then to the second crab tree and on they go--a male cardinal chasing two females back and forth across the east end of the garden. Occasionally the ladies would stop to twitch their tail feathers, but they never remained more than a second or two in one place before zipping off, the male always in determined pursuit. An old cardinal nest can still be seen in a nearby, coiffured hawthorn, but it appears nest building (or repair of an old nest?) will be a task for another day.
I watched the cardinals while spending a few minutes in the gazebo to escape the wind and warm my hands after an hour working in the garden. The temperature at 7:30 was 36F, and there was not much warmth to be found in the NW wind. In that hour I focused on pruning honeysuckle vines and a hydrangea shrub, removing the latter’s dried flowers and tossing them in a compost bin. While they are still attractive, it’s time to bid farewell to last summer’s floral display, time to welcome new foliage and blossoms.
Almost all of my garden work this past week has concentrated on composting, a dedication inspired by a group of six students in a psychology class who are studying sustainability issues and sought some first-hand experience with fresh humus. I have always viewed the garden as a humus factory. Throughout the year I collect the garden’s vegetative material for one of the garden’s five compost bins. While some contributions can go directly into a compost bin, most benefit by being processed through the garden’s chipper/shredder. The smaller bits of leaves and stems break down much faster in the compost bins. Alas, I regret that last year I collected two large piles of material for the compost bins, but I never got anything shredded. So the past week I’ve been trying to chop up everything collected last year, as well as our spring harvest.
This winter I read a biography of John Evelyn, a 17th-century English civil servant, gardener, and author. Although most famous for Silva, his book on trees, he also wrote extensively on composting practices and the benefits of humus. While scientists now have a much more informed understanding of the composting process, the fundamental practices Evelyn advocated have not changed much in the last 400 years–and the gardening tools he and his servants used would be virtually identical in design to our modern tools. One notable exception would be the electric chipper/shredder. While this machine can dramatically speed up the composting process, using this noisy creature is my least favorite gardening task–evident by the fact that I never hooked it up last year.
I didn’t ask the students to work with the shredder, but in their 90-minute visits to the garden, I did collect material for the compost bins, dig up 2-3 bucket loads of humus from one of the bins, and spread the humus over two perennial flower beds. As I was talking with them about the benefits of humus, I pointed out that when I was eleven years old, I gave my first public speech, a presentation at a Howard Go-Getters 4-H club meeting, and the subject was humus and how to use it in a garden–a speech that inspired a Garden Shed essay posted to this website in 2017. Now, over 65 years after that 4-H meeting, I’m still talking about the benefits of humus in a garden.
Fortunately I’ve made enough progress the last four weeks in emptying three of the compost bins that I can finally do some long-overdue structural repairs. One bin was hit by a falling limb in the derecho; as for the other two bins, the weight of the compost material had twisted their cedar joints so they were no longer aligned properly. Once the bins were emptied, I could rebuild two of the bins and use a wire for pulling the sides of the third bin back into a proper alignment. In the process I also moved one of the bins so I have more space for storing other equipment, and the whole area looks much tidier. I’m periodically surprised when visiting British gardens how often they don’t make much effort to hide their compost operations. You will be walking by a beautiful flower bed and right next to the flowers is a compost pile full of fresh trimmings. Perhaps it’s like a Brechtian theatre production where we see how the stage scenery and the back stage are intimately related, a reminder of the machinery that enables the theatre to be a theatre.
“A real gardener is not a man who cultivates flowers; he is a man who cultivates the soil . . . . If he came into the Garden of Eden he would sniff excitedly and say: ‘Good Lord, what humus!’” ~Karl Capek, The Gardener’s Year
Pergola to crab tree to pergola to another crab tree and back to the pergola followed by a brief return to the first crab tree before a quick landing on the pergola and then to the second crab tree and on they go--a male cardinal chasing two females back and forth across the east end of the garden. Occasionally the ladies would stop to twitch their tail feathers, but they never remained more than a second or two in one place before zipping off, the male always in determined pursuit. An old cardinal nest can still be seen in a nearby, coiffured hawthorn, but it appears nest building (or repair of an old nest?) will be a task for another day.
I watched the cardinals while spending a few minutes in the gazebo to escape the wind and warm my hands after an hour working in the garden. The temperature at 7:30 was 36F, and there was not much warmth to be found in the NW wind. In that hour I focused on pruning honeysuckle vines and a hydrangea shrub, removing the latter’s dried flowers and tossing them in a compost bin. While they are still attractive, it’s time to bid farewell to last summer’s floral display, time to welcome new foliage and blossoms.
Almost all of my garden work this past week has concentrated on composting, a dedication inspired by a group of six students in a psychology class who are studying sustainability issues and sought some first-hand experience with fresh humus. I have always viewed the garden as a humus factory. Throughout the year I collect the garden’s vegetative material for one of the garden’s five compost bins. While some contributions can go directly into a compost bin, most benefit by being processed through the garden’s chipper/shredder. The smaller bits of leaves and stems break down much faster in the compost bins. Alas, I regret that last year I collected two large piles of material for the compost bins, but I never got anything shredded. So the past week I’ve been trying to chop up everything collected last year, as well as our spring harvest.
This winter I read a biography of John Evelyn, a 17th-century English civil servant, gardener, and author. Although most famous for Silva, his book on trees, he also wrote extensively on composting practices and the benefits of humus. While scientists now have a much more informed understanding of the composting process, the fundamental practices Evelyn advocated have not changed much in the last 400 years–and the gardening tools he and his servants used would be virtually identical in design to our modern tools. One notable exception would be the electric chipper/shredder. While this machine can dramatically speed up the composting process, using this noisy creature is my least favorite gardening task–evident by the fact that I never hooked it up last year.
I didn’t ask the students to work with the shredder, but in their 90-minute visits to the garden, I did collect material for the compost bins, dig up 2-3 bucket loads of humus from one of the bins, and spread the humus over two perennial flower beds. As I was talking with them about the benefits of humus, I pointed out that when I was eleven years old, I gave my first public speech, a presentation at a Howard Go-Getters 4-H club meeting, and the subject was humus and how to use it in a garden–a speech that inspired a Garden Shed essay posted to this website in 2017. Now, over 65 years after that 4-H meeting, I’m still talking about the benefits of humus in a garden.
Fortunately I’ve made enough progress the last four weeks in emptying three of the compost bins that I can finally do some long-overdue structural repairs. One bin was hit by a falling limb in the derecho; as for the other two bins, the weight of the compost material had twisted their cedar joints so they were no longer aligned properly. Once the bins were emptied, I could rebuild two of the bins and use a wire for pulling the sides of the third bin back into a proper alignment. In the process I also moved one of the bins so I have more space for storing other equipment, and the whole area looks much tidier. I’m periodically surprised when visiting British gardens how often they don’t make much effort to hide their compost operations. You will be walking by a beautiful flower bed and right next to the flowers is a compost pile full of fresh trimmings. Perhaps it’s like a Brechtian theatre production where we see how the stage scenery and the back stage are intimately related, a reminder of the machinery that enables the theatre to be a theatre.
“A real gardener is not a man who cultivates flowers; he is a man who cultivates the soil . . . . If he came into the Garden of Eden he would sniff excitedly and say: ‘Good Lord, what humus!’” ~Karl Capek, The Gardener’s Year
Monday Morning Garden Report: 28 March 2022
Another chilly day. When I arrived at the garden at 7:30, the temperature was 24F outdoors, 52F in the greenhouse. Because of the new flower seedlings, one of my first tasks was removing the shade fabric off the greenhouse so we can boost the sunshine quota. The greenhouse is not in an ideal location, sitting in the afternoon shade of the Alumni House, so in these spring months the young plants need as much sunshine as we can gather from the morning sun. Taking off the shade cover does sacrifice a little insulation and warmth during the night, but I can always raise the temperature on the space heater’s thermostat. Through the winter months, the greenhouse residents (dahlia and gladiola tubers, a stonecrop, two large rosemary, a few small herbs) are fine as long as it stays comfortably above freezing. But now we have four trays of flower seedlings, all started from seed at the beginning of the month, and they would benefit from more sunlight, supplemented by several grow lights.
One significant change intended for the garden this year is the increased use of flowering annuals. The Alumni House Garden was designed as a perennial flower garden, and during my eight years as its caretaker I’ve remained committed to that tradition. While we do depend on a few self-seeding annuals (e.g., cleomes, prairie coreopsis, Nigella, Verbena bonariensis) and a few tender perennials that must be replanted in the spring (dahlias and gladiolas), most of our plants were chosen because of their ability to persevere through both July droughts and sub-zero temperatures in January.
The reliance on perennials, however, creates several challenges. With few exceptions, a perennial flower’s blooming cycle tends to be short-lived. While we typically invite them into the garden because of their flowers, their year-to-year survival depends on a well-endowed, well-nourished root system, rarely their most attractive aesthetic feature. That functional foundation must be their primary commitment. A peony bush may produce visually beautiful and fragrant flower for two weeks, but that leaves 50 weeks of the year with no blooms. While the peonies do retain an attractive foliage, that is not true for many of the spring-flowering bulbs (e.g., tulips, daffodils, snowdrops, crocus, etc), foliage that must be left in place so the plants can store sufficient energy and return with new blooms next spring. In many instances, the bulb’s above-ground presence will eventually disappear completely, leaving behind open spaces of brown soil and mulch. An English-style perennial flower garden depends upon flowers blending together into a coherent community, cheek by jowl with their neighbors. Open brown spaces and long stretches of plants with no blooms in the summer months reveal a failure in design and/or execution.
Another challenge with perennials is their periodic inconsistencies and failure to perform as advertised. Some may disappear, some may survive marginally, some may become bullies and overrun their neighbors. Consider, for example, the “I” bed in the garden’s NE corner. During my first two years as gardener, I removed from this bed dozens of asters and goldenrod and thistles and vagrant rose bushes and replaced them with over a dozen new perennials: several varieties of Helenium autumnale (sneezeweed), two Geum triflorum (prairie smoke), two compass plants (Silphium laciniatum), a couple of Russian sages, variegated lily turf (purchased on sale at Home Depot), a midget arbor vita, Salvia pratensis (meadow sage), several mums, and a bunch of transplants from other beds (a Baptisia australis and 5-6 'Stella d’oro' daylilies). Some plants have performed as expected, most notably the arbor vita, the Baptisia (every year super dependable), the meadow sage. With others, the record is less consistent. In 2019 and 2021 the prairie smoke performed beautifully, but in 2020 one plant produced zero blooms and no seed heads (their primary attraction). The two Russian Sage began as indistinguishable twins, but for unknown reasons the one on the east end of the bed has become a horse, growing 3-4' every summer and with prolific blooms; its partner at the other end of the bed has never reached a foot tall and only a few blooms. As for the Helenium, they were beautiful for the first 2-3 years, but they have all disappeared, only their metal identification signs memorializing where they once thrived. As for the two compass plants, they were eaten to the ground in three successive summers, in at least two instances by visiting ground hogs, so they have never yet filled the space assigned to them and they have never bloomed. On the other hand, I keep digging up goldenrod and adolescent rose bushes, and they just keep coming back. While cleaning up this bed last week, I dug up two volunteer rose bushes that had sprouted from root fragments I had failed to remove in previous excavations. Each year this flower bed has a new story to tell, but it’s always a reformulation of the same basic message: there are no guarantees on who will show up or what their condition will be or how many flowers they will produce. Despite these uncertainties, I do know there will be empty spaces to be filled.
One option for filling in these open spaces is to bring into the flower beds various annuals that can help carry a garden through the year. Unlike perennials, annual flowers must be totally committed to producing flowers because flowers produce seeds and seeds are the flower’s only means for insuring future survival. Since seeds–not roots-- are their obsession, their bloom sequence tends to be much longer than perennials. With notable exceptions (thank goodness for New England asters, turtleheads, Japanese anemones, mums), most perennials depend on spring and early summer bloom cycles. By the time we reach August, most of the heavy-weight summer-time perennial bloomers (such as daisies, coneflowers, daylilies) are finished with their blooming operation. In contrast, many annuals are just hitting their stride.
My plan for this summer is to have at hand a diverse assortment of annuals that I can use to fill in gaps in the perennial flower beds. Some of these will be flowers directly sown in the flower borders this spring: poppies, zinnias, cosmos, sunflowers. The second group of gap-fillers are those started in the greenhouse and then brought into the garden as transplants: scabiosa, Mexican sunflowers (Tithonia), marigolds, celosia, nasturtiums, snapdragons, ornamental peppers, several herbs (such as basil & dill). This transplant group also includes biennials and perennials that might survive into the future (foxgloves, lupines, coneflowers, Maltese cross, dahlias). I am also hoping to produce enough of the multi-month bloomers so that we can arrange displays of potted flowers on the patio and occasionally provide folks who visit the garden with cut flowers they can take back to their offices or homes.
Copied below is a chart with a list of the seeds sown during a one-week stretch early in March and their germination numbers so far. All seeds were sown in square 1½“ blocks of a seed germination mixture–a blend of compost, peat or coco coir, vermiculite, and perlite. With the exception of the Baker Creek Calendula, all the flower seeds were purchased from Select Seeds, a mail-order seed source in Connecticut.
Sowing Date Flower # of seed blocks # of seedlings
3/8 Rusty Foxglove 15 6
3/8 Strawberry Foxglove 15 14
3/8 Sea Holly, ‘Blaukoppe’ 10 9
3/8 Ozark Coneflower 10 8
3/11 Sweet Peas 45 0
3/11 Viola, Tiger Laeta 5 5
3/11 Cardinal Flower (Lobelia) 20 20
3/12 Burning Heart Heliopsis 10 6
3/10 Jasmine Tobacco 10 10
3/10 Maltese Cross 10 5
3/10 Marigold ‘Frances’ Choice’ 25 24
3/10 Orange King Calendula 15 15
3/14 Bishop’s Children Dahlia 15 13
3/14 Black-Eyed Susan ‘Irish Spring’ 15 5
* The sweet pea seeds were purchased in 2020; sweet pea seeds should be good for 2-3 years, but their storage situation was not ideal, and I suspect they were no longer viable.
Monday Morning Garden Report: 14 March 2022
As I was jotting down the notes for this garden report, I was sitting on a wire chair on the patio, looking at Edmund Whiting’s Chess Players. The male figure appears to be grabbing the female’s queen, perhaps one move before checkmate? The female’s curved back suggests she is resigned to her loss, unable to avoid the game’s inexorable conclusion. But who knows? I suspect other visitors to the garden have reached quite different conclusions.
Regardless of how different people might interpret the sculpture’s ambiguities, I find it hard to believe that anyone would disagree with my conclusion that today was a lovely, sunny, early spring day. The temp was in the high 50s with comfortable humidity and just enough breeze to generate a low hum in the wind chimes. The garden still has a few tiny pockets of snow in shady areas. Several groups of snow drops have quickly revived from last week’s frigid temperatures, their white blooms available for local pollinators–though today I did not see any visiting flies or bees.
Overall the garden looks in decent shape. The yews have survived the winter with only minimal winter burn. One exception would be one of the three Hicks yews (Taxus × media ‘Hicksii’) planted late last summer south of the patio, in front of the old student apartments. While all generated new growth after their arrival in the garden, the new spikes on one of them have turned brown. This yew is only about 2' tall, and it will only take a minute to give it a quick pruning. The older growth still looks green and healthy.
Once the eye gets beyond the garden’s dominant brown/tan/russet hues, the next most notable feature is the steady emergence of daffodil and tulip spears poking up all over the garden. Last fall we planted over 1,000 spring-flowering bulbs to supplement the thousands we have planted each fall for the past seven years. Since many bulbs have not yet sent up their spring periscopes, we will have several weeks before we can sense what this year’s full display will be like. Included in last fall’s planting was the addition of 500 Crocus tommasinianus (“Tommies”) planted in the two eastern lawn segments, supplementing over a thousand Tommies planted in that area the previous two autumns. I had expected by now we would see crocus spears appearing in the grass, but my morning stroll did not reveal any activity so far. Perhaps last week’s cold temperatures convinced the crocus to lay low for a few more days. I’m also surprised we have not yet seen any winter aconites, but this morning for the first time I saw an emerging crocus; their yellow blossoms should not be far behind.
I spent most of my hours in the garden today working in the crevice garden near the NW gate. That bed was still covered with autumn leaves, mostly oak leaves that blow in from oak trees near the Nassif House. Most of the clean-up needed to be done by hand, but I could use the leaf vacuum for the top layer of dry leaves. Below the layers of leaves were many spears of reticulated iris (Iris histrioides) which will soon be producing their stunning, tropical blooms, certainly among the most beautiful of the garden’s perennials. Also under the protection of the leaves I found two small crab apples, one a bright red, the other a mellow orange. I left them lying on the gravel, thinking some bird might find them a nice treat at this time of the year. In the same area I disturbed three different species of black spiders, each scurrying across the limestone border in search of a new hiding place.
While removing leaves I also did some pruning. The myrtle spurge (Euphorbia myrsinites) needs to be cut back 2-3 times a year (see photo at the end of this report). Although I’ve never been bothered by the white sap produced by these Euphorbias, the plant is designated as a noxious weed in several western states, and I just discovered that it can be extraordinarily painful if any of the sap gets into your eyes. In his encyclopedic Perennial Garden Plants, Graham Stuart Thomas assures his readers this “strange” plant “clothed in glaucous grey leaves” is an essential flower for a border front, and it often plays an important role in English flower gardens. But given the plant’s potential for serious eye injury, I think it’s time to remove these dudes from the crevice garden. The Alumni House Garden is full of plants that can be poisonous to humans (e.g., yews, foxglove, lily-of-the-valley, larkspur, hydrangea, tansy, snakeroot, and narcissus), but it’s easy to imagine a young child touching the myrtle spurge and then rubbing their eyes–with disastrous results.
A special reward for this early spring cleaning of the crevice garden is trimming the thyme, which emits its distinctive fragrance traditionally portrayed as imparting strength and courage. Two other notable fragrances were from hyssop and Sweet Annie, their brown seed heads at just the right height for my hands to rub across their surfaces while walking into the garden. It’s a wonderful reward to be greeted with such enduring fragrances after several months of frigid temperatures.
I finished my morning gardening with a quick “police call” of the grounds, picking up the usual mixture of plastic bags (retrieving one from the lower limb of a flowering crab), a disposable plastic lid for a drink, two wrappers for fast food sandwiches, and one unusual item: a “to do” list, written in ink on a carefully torn half-page of lined paper, with a sequence of 7 numbered jobs, beginning with “Go Home and Take Medicine,” followed by “To Harbor Freight & Menards to Get Supplies*.” At the bottom of the list, the asterisk identified what should be purchased at each store, including a "Combo Mortise Gauge, 4-2/3." There was also a reminder to draw a “KoHawk Charlie on Paper for Pinko Board.” I trust these jobs and purchases were completed before the list blew away. ~Bob
As I was jotting down the notes for this garden report, I was sitting on a wire chair on the patio, looking at Edmund Whiting’s Chess Players. The male figure appears to be grabbing the female’s queen, perhaps one move before checkmate? The female’s curved back suggests she is resigned to her loss, unable to avoid the game’s inexorable conclusion. But who knows? I suspect other visitors to the garden have reached quite different conclusions.
Regardless of how different people might interpret the sculpture’s ambiguities, I find it hard to believe that anyone would disagree with my conclusion that today was a lovely, sunny, early spring day. The temp was in the high 50s with comfortable humidity and just enough breeze to generate a low hum in the wind chimes. The garden still has a few tiny pockets of snow in shady areas. Several groups of snow drops have quickly revived from last week’s frigid temperatures, their white blooms available for local pollinators–though today I did not see any visiting flies or bees.
Overall the garden looks in decent shape. The yews have survived the winter with only minimal winter burn. One exception would be one of the three Hicks yews (Taxus × media ‘Hicksii’) planted late last summer south of the patio, in front of the old student apartments. While all generated new growth after their arrival in the garden, the new spikes on one of them have turned brown. This yew is only about 2' tall, and it will only take a minute to give it a quick pruning. The older growth still looks green and healthy.
Once the eye gets beyond the garden’s dominant brown/tan/russet hues, the next most notable feature is the steady emergence of daffodil and tulip spears poking up all over the garden. Last fall we planted over 1,000 spring-flowering bulbs to supplement the thousands we have planted each fall for the past seven years. Since many bulbs have not yet sent up their spring periscopes, we will have several weeks before we can sense what this year’s full display will be like. Included in last fall’s planting was the addition of 500 Crocus tommasinianus (“Tommies”) planted in the two eastern lawn segments, supplementing over a thousand Tommies planted in that area the previous two autumns. I had expected by now we would see crocus spears appearing in the grass, but my morning stroll did not reveal any activity so far. Perhaps last week’s cold temperatures convinced the crocus to lay low for a few more days. I’m also surprised we have not yet seen any winter aconites, but this morning for the first time I saw an emerging crocus; their yellow blossoms should not be far behind.
I spent most of my hours in the garden today working in the crevice garden near the NW gate. That bed was still covered with autumn leaves, mostly oak leaves that blow in from oak trees near the Nassif House. Most of the clean-up needed to be done by hand, but I could use the leaf vacuum for the top layer of dry leaves. Below the layers of leaves were many spears of reticulated iris (Iris histrioides) which will soon be producing their stunning, tropical blooms, certainly among the most beautiful of the garden’s perennials. Also under the protection of the leaves I found two small crab apples, one a bright red, the other a mellow orange. I left them lying on the gravel, thinking some bird might find them a nice treat at this time of the year. In the same area I disturbed three different species of black spiders, each scurrying across the limestone border in search of a new hiding place.
While removing leaves I also did some pruning. The myrtle spurge (Euphorbia myrsinites) needs to be cut back 2-3 times a year (see photo at the end of this report). Although I’ve never been bothered by the white sap produced by these Euphorbias, the plant is designated as a noxious weed in several western states, and I just discovered that it can be extraordinarily painful if any of the sap gets into your eyes. In his encyclopedic Perennial Garden Plants, Graham Stuart Thomas assures his readers this “strange” plant “clothed in glaucous grey leaves” is an essential flower for a border front, and it often plays an important role in English flower gardens. But given the plant’s potential for serious eye injury, I think it’s time to remove these dudes from the crevice garden. The Alumni House Garden is full of plants that can be poisonous to humans (e.g., yews, foxglove, lily-of-the-valley, larkspur, hydrangea, tansy, snakeroot, and narcissus), but it’s easy to imagine a young child touching the myrtle spurge and then rubbing their eyes–with disastrous results.
A special reward for this early spring cleaning of the crevice garden is trimming the thyme, which emits its distinctive fragrance traditionally portrayed as imparting strength and courage. Two other notable fragrances were from hyssop and Sweet Annie, their brown seed heads at just the right height for my hands to rub across their surfaces while walking into the garden. It’s a wonderful reward to be greeted with such enduring fragrances after several months of frigid temperatures.
I finished my morning gardening with a quick “police call” of the grounds, picking up the usual mixture of plastic bags (retrieving one from the lower limb of a flowering crab), a disposable plastic lid for a drink, two wrappers for fast food sandwiches, and one unusual item: a “to do” list, written in ink on a carefully torn half-page of lined paper, with a sequence of 7 numbered jobs, beginning with “Go Home and Take Medicine,” followed by “To Harbor Freight & Menards to Get Supplies*.” At the bottom of the list, the asterisk identified what should be purchased at each store, including a "Combo Mortise Gauge, 4-2/3." There was also a reminder to draw a “KoHawk Charlie on Paper for Pinko Board.” I trust these jobs and purchases were completed before the list blew away. ~Bob
Monday Morning Garden Report: 21 February 2022
2-21-2022. Today’s date looks like a secret code. Are those numbers hiding any insights into our future? And what about tomorrow, when the numerical symmetry will appear even more ominous with all those twos and a lone zero? Two weeks ago I was in the Holy Land, walking through the ruins of the ancient Megiddo fortress, which existed before Solomon’s reign. Many believe Mount Megiddo will be the site of the final battle, Revelation’s Armageddon. Although I have now returned to Iowa, far from a land with such deep historical memories, I find myself thinking about the possibility of these pre-apocalyptic patterns in life. Perhaps juxtapositions of calendrical numbers do mean something, and I just don’t know how to read them.
This morning my task was to read a much smaller and more private landscape, a small perennial flower garden on a winter’s day in east central Iowa. I recorded my notes while sitting in the garden’s gazebo, beginning at 7:35 a.m., temperature of 36 degrees. At least that is the number according to the greenhouse thermometer. I just discovered for the second time in the past year, someone has stolen the gazebo’s small wall thermometer. In both instances I see no evidence of other vandalism. Since the garden gates are locked during the winter months, I wonder who would jump the fence and steal a small thermometer. Who would even know it’s there?
The gazebo is crammed with wooden lawn furniture, brought under the gazebo’s roof to protect these chairs and benches from the ice and snow. This morning I sat on a small teakwood bench, facing the sun, which had just risen above the Commonwealth apartment house two blocks southeast of the garden. Accompanying the sun was a steady southeast breeze, activating the garden’s large wind chimes hanging from the limb of a flowering crab tree. The wind was just strong enough to stimulate a few distinct notes on its pentatonic scale, but lying below that disjointed melody was a steady harmonic hum, a perfect accompaniment to the sunlight shining through the miscanthus. For several minutes I sat with my head tilted slightly so I had a perfect line of vision to the tawny arches of the miscanthus seed heads, rendering a shimmering image of the morning wind. The miscanthus was planted last summer in front of the gazebo, precisely for this moment. I wonder if the language lover who invented the word “shimmering” was enjoying a similar experience.
Suddenly my attention was drawn to a small flock of sparrows landing in the dwarf lilac a few feet in front of me. These house sparrows (Passus domesticus) were intently chirping, constantly moving, pecking at each other. Each had a black triangle on its breast and a narrow black mask across the eyes. And then, for then for reasons known only to them, they flashed their white tail feathers and waved goodbye, darting north out of the garden. Once they were gone, their vivid conversations were replaced by the drone of the traffic on 1st Avenue.
On the north side of the garden, there is almost no snow, but in the shadows of the wall and yews on the south side, a small berm of white ice stretches across the length of the garden. Although the walkways are frozen, with large planes of ice along the borders, by the afternoon, most of that ice will have melted, and the gravel will become wet and soggy, the frozen soil underneath the surface unable to absorb any excess moisture.
Looking around the garden, I had no trouble seeing a host of jobs crying for attention. In the fall, we removed most of the plant stems and foliage from the south side of the garden, but on the north side, many seed heads were left in place, hoping they might provide nourishment for the birds and wildlife visiting the garden during the winter months. But those ruins from last summer are now looking bent and bedraggled, and most need to be cleared out so we can see the arrival of spring flowers. It’s time to restore an illusion of tidiness.
This month I’ve been reading Jamaica Kincaid’s My Garden Book. The author was born and raised in the Caribbean, but now lives and gardens in Vermont. In the book are long laments expressing her hatred of winter. According to Kincaid, her garden no longer exists when the snow covers the ground with the “determination of death.” The whiteness is an unyielding eraser, obliterating any evidence of life. Kincaid takes winter’s attack personally: “a frost is something someone is doing to me.” And she has no patience with those garden writers who pretend to like lichens, brown bramble, and the red dogwood branches in January. After reading Rosemary Verey’s The Garden in Winter, Kincaid asserts “there was not one idea or photograph in this book to make me change my mind.” This effort to find beauty in a “clump of limp grass . . . is beyond me.”
Perhaps because I was raised in the Midwest, I have more tolerance for winter. I enjoy the annual vacation from outdoor gardening chores. I enjoy the transformations and visual beauties of the garden during the winter months, the transformations caused by the weather, the transformations well beyond my control. On several occasions in January, I walked into the Coe garden and just stood in front of the patio, relishing this small, snow-covered landscape laid out before me, without fretting about unfinished gardening tasks. For a few weeks, all tasks were suspended, everything put on hold. But now we are entering the last week in February. My patience is gone. It’s time to stop being a passive observer. It’s time to dive back into the garden.
2-21-2022. Today’s date looks like a secret code. Are those numbers hiding any insights into our future? And what about tomorrow, when the numerical symmetry will appear even more ominous with all those twos and a lone zero? Two weeks ago I was in the Holy Land, walking through the ruins of the ancient Megiddo fortress, which existed before Solomon’s reign. Many believe Mount Megiddo will be the site of the final battle, Revelation’s Armageddon. Although I have now returned to Iowa, far from a land with such deep historical memories, I find myself thinking about the possibility of these pre-apocalyptic patterns in life. Perhaps juxtapositions of calendrical numbers do mean something, and I just don’t know how to read them.
This morning my task was to read a much smaller and more private landscape, a small perennial flower garden on a winter’s day in east central Iowa. I recorded my notes while sitting in the garden’s gazebo, beginning at 7:35 a.m., temperature of 36 degrees. At least that is the number according to the greenhouse thermometer. I just discovered for the second time in the past year, someone has stolen the gazebo’s small wall thermometer. In both instances I see no evidence of other vandalism. Since the garden gates are locked during the winter months, I wonder who would jump the fence and steal a small thermometer. Who would even know it’s there?
The gazebo is crammed with wooden lawn furniture, brought under the gazebo’s roof to protect these chairs and benches from the ice and snow. This morning I sat on a small teakwood bench, facing the sun, which had just risen above the Commonwealth apartment house two blocks southeast of the garden. Accompanying the sun was a steady southeast breeze, activating the garden’s large wind chimes hanging from the limb of a flowering crab tree. The wind was just strong enough to stimulate a few distinct notes on its pentatonic scale, but lying below that disjointed melody was a steady harmonic hum, a perfect accompaniment to the sunlight shining through the miscanthus. For several minutes I sat with my head tilted slightly so I had a perfect line of vision to the tawny arches of the miscanthus seed heads, rendering a shimmering image of the morning wind. The miscanthus was planted last summer in front of the gazebo, precisely for this moment. I wonder if the language lover who invented the word “shimmering” was enjoying a similar experience.
Suddenly my attention was drawn to a small flock of sparrows landing in the dwarf lilac a few feet in front of me. These house sparrows (Passus domesticus) were intently chirping, constantly moving, pecking at each other. Each had a black triangle on its breast and a narrow black mask across the eyes. And then, for then for reasons known only to them, they flashed their white tail feathers and waved goodbye, darting north out of the garden. Once they were gone, their vivid conversations were replaced by the drone of the traffic on 1st Avenue.
On the north side of the garden, there is almost no snow, but in the shadows of the wall and yews on the south side, a small berm of white ice stretches across the length of the garden. Although the walkways are frozen, with large planes of ice along the borders, by the afternoon, most of that ice will have melted, and the gravel will become wet and soggy, the frozen soil underneath the surface unable to absorb any excess moisture.
Looking around the garden, I had no trouble seeing a host of jobs crying for attention. In the fall, we removed most of the plant stems and foliage from the south side of the garden, but on the north side, many seed heads were left in place, hoping they might provide nourishment for the birds and wildlife visiting the garden during the winter months. But those ruins from last summer are now looking bent and bedraggled, and most need to be cleared out so we can see the arrival of spring flowers. It’s time to restore an illusion of tidiness.
This month I’ve been reading Jamaica Kincaid’s My Garden Book. The author was born and raised in the Caribbean, but now lives and gardens in Vermont. In the book are long laments expressing her hatred of winter. According to Kincaid, her garden no longer exists when the snow covers the ground with the “determination of death.” The whiteness is an unyielding eraser, obliterating any evidence of life. Kincaid takes winter’s attack personally: “a frost is something someone is doing to me.” And she has no patience with those garden writers who pretend to like lichens, brown bramble, and the red dogwood branches in January. After reading Rosemary Verey’s The Garden in Winter, Kincaid asserts “there was not one idea or photograph in this book to make me change my mind.” This effort to find beauty in a “clump of limp grass . . . is beyond me.”
Perhaps because I was raised in the Midwest, I have more tolerance for winter. I enjoy the annual vacation from outdoor gardening chores. I enjoy the transformations and visual beauties of the garden during the winter months, the transformations caused by the weather, the transformations well beyond my control. On several occasions in January, I walked into the Coe garden and just stood in front of the patio, relishing this small, snow-covered landscape laid out before me, without fretting about unfinished gardening tasks. For a few weeks, all tasks were suspended, everything put on hold. But now we are entering the last week in February. My patience is gone. It’s time to stop being a passive observer. It’s time to dive back into the garden.
Monday Morning Garden Report: 17 January 2022
An overcast morning,
eight degrees below freezing
according to the gazebo’s thermometer.
The lawn’s windswept crisp crust worn smooth
after two January snow storms, the drifts 6-10" deep.
At the far end of the garden, half a block away,
the Christmas lights are still on,
draped over a trimmed hawthorn
and an untrimmed hydrangea,
the morning sun not yet able
to convince the lights’ photocell
that a new day has arrived.
To my eyes, the light is perfect,
a serene landscape only marred
by an ambulance siren on First Avenue,
and then the hint of Wendy’s breakfast bacon.
Throughout the garden is evidence
of the wind as a fierce sculptor,
using the snow to form a landscape
of hills and valleys that appear impenetrable
but the sun will in a few days
or a few weeks confirm it’s all
a transitory phase in the life of the garden.
Near at hand, a blacksmith’s large mobile,
rescued from a small town on the Wisconsin River.
The black, steel arms gently sway
within the air’s soft, indecisive touches.
The gravel walkways have been shoveled around
the terrace, creating an unimpeded path to the Alumni House,
but the other garden paths are untouched,
relishing their solitude,
confident the sun will clear the paths
when the time is right.
Rabbit tracks record a dash across a flower bed,
the story of a flight from the warmth of the poisonous yews,
passing by the tall stonecrop seeds,
passing by the zebra miscanthus seeds,
directly to the viburnum, where there are now
several small branches lying on the snow,
precisely pruned in a search for food.
In the middle of the viburnum
are two hardened, twisted, brown cocoons.
I wonder what insect built them?
Who is spending a winter inside these small houses?
Who would choose to wait for spring in a naked viburnum bush?
Thank goodness for the seed heads
of the purple coneflower, a cholesterol-free
meal for any visiting birds.
By the middle of January, as usual,
the seeds on the blazing stars are gone,
just the bare seed sticks poking into the air,
and all the seeds are gone
from the tan Pennisetum next to the gazing ball,
the shiny steel ball crowned with a snow cap
that has somehow managed to remain
stuck to the ball’s smooth, slick surface.
I see no birds in the garden,
but in the top branches of a flowering crab tree
are two plastic bags, the garden’s banners.
While leaving the garden
I reach down and grab a hyssop’s brown seed head.
A brief squeeze immediately reminds me
of root beer floats at Toot’s Drive-In
on summer evenings in Kansas,
echoing Proust and his madeleine.
And then my fingers retrieve a few seeds
of the Artemisia annua, an ancient
herbal remedy for malaria, a fragrant herb
known by such aliases as Sweet Annie, Absinthe Sauvage,
Annual Mugwort, Chinese Wormwood,
Huang Hua Guo, Sourcil de Lune.
I recall stepping off a bus in Inner Mongolia,
surrounded by a vast plain with millions of Sweet Annie,
so many memories lying so far beyond words.
An overcast morning,
eight degrees below freezing
according to the gazebo’s thermometer.
The lawn’s windswept crisp crust worn smooth
after two January snow storms, the drifts 6-10" deep.
At the far end of the garden, half a block away,
the Christmas lights are still on,
draped over a trimmed hawthorn
and an untrimmed hydrangea,
the morning sun not yet able
to convince the lights’ photocell
that a new day has arrived.
To my eyes, the light is perfect,
a serene landscape only marred
by an ambulance siren on First Avenue,
and then the hint of Wendy’s breakfast bacon.
Throughout the garden is evidence
of the wind as a fierce sculptor,
using the snow to form a landscape
of hills and valleys that appear impenetrable
but the sun will in a few days
or a few weeks confirm it’s all
a transitory phase in the life of the garden.
Near at hand, a blacksmith’s large mobile,
rescued from a small town on the Wisconsin River.
The black, steel arms gently sway
within the air’s soft, indecisive touches.
The gravel walkways have been shoveled around
the terrace, creating an unimpeded path to the Alumni House,
but the other garden paths are untouched,
relishing their solitude,
confident the sun will clear the paths
when the time is right.
Rabbit tracks record a dash across a flower bed,
the story of a flight from the warmth of the poisonous yews,
passing by the tall stonecrop seeds,
passing by the zebra miscanthus seeds,
directly to the viburnum, where there are now
several small branches lying on the snow,
precisely pruned in a search for food.
In the middle of the viburnum
are two hardened, twisted, brown cocoons.
I wonder what insect built them?
Who is spending a winter inside these small houses?
Who would choose to wait for spring in a naked viburnum bush?
Thank goodness for the seed heads
of the purple coneflower, a cholesterol-free
meal for any visiting birds.
By the middle of January, as usual,
the seeds on the blazing stars are gone,
just the bare seed sticks poking into the air,
and all the seeds are gone
from the tan Pennisetum next to the gazing ball,
the shiny steel ball crowned with a snow cap
that has somehow managed to remain
stuck to the ball’s smooth, slick surface.
I see no birds in the garden,
but in the top branches of a flowering crab tree
are two plastic bags, the garden’s banners.
While leaving the garden
I reach down and grab a hyssop’s brown seed head.
A brief squeeze immediately reminds me
of root beer floats at Toot’s Drive-In
on summer evenings in Kansas,
echoing Proust and his madeleine.
And then my fingers retrieve a few seeds
of the Artemisia annua, an ancient
herbal remedy for malaria, a fragrant herb
known by such aliases as Sweet Annie, Absinthe Sauvage,
Annual Mugwort, Chinese Wormwood,
Huang Hua Guo, Sourcil de Lune.
I recall stepping off a bus in Inner Mongolia,
surrounded by a vast plain with millions of Sweet Annie,
so many memories lying so far beyond words.