Waterworks

If it's true what the late English garden designer Russell Page once famously said, that "gardens are an expression of faith and the embodiment of hope," I wholeheartedly agree. Such sentiments are particularly important to me this season--one of the rainiest summers I've experienced in many years.

As dreary days and deluges fill up the month, I find myself ready for a garden stroll, camera in hand, as soon as the sun peeks through the clouds. Although my out-of-doors activities seem to be centered around weeding and grass-mowing, I do try to find the time to revel in nature's wonders. Some of my delightful discoveries include the pure white Asian lilies that popped up seemingly overnight near my pond (pictured, above, left), and a plethora of pinkish-purple bee balm I don't recall  planting (above, right).

In my front yard, the finicky hydrangeas have decided to put on a rare performance. The combination of mild winter temps, moderate sun and plenty of rain has coaxed them into blooming better than they have in years. While the more reliable arborescens ('Annabelle') banked along the brick driveway (pictured below, center) can hardly contain themselves, the shy macrophylla peek their blue mop heads around the base of my rhododendrons (bottom, left), and the 'Blushing Bride' (bottom, right) are profuse, even though my acidic soil has turned their pinkish blush into a soft bluish hue.

I've learned to take the good with the bad, turn lemons into lemonade, so to speak. Though there's not nearly enough sunshine around here to grow a lemon! I've heard the upcoming weekend may be clear....

What inspires you?

What do you consider beautiful? What elements are must-haves in your landscape? Rocks? Water? Architectural foliage? Color? Pristine, perfectly symmetrical spaces or plants that bloom with abandon in every corner of the yard? An abundance of one type of flower or maybe no flowers at all? 

Whatever you favor, NOW is the time to turn your intentions into reality. This is the height of the blooming season, and the best shot you'll have at plotting out what's going to look fantastic in your garden spaces.

It all starts with an idea. That idea should center around what FEEL you want your yard to have, and how you plan to utilize the space. Many of my friends have lovely built-in swimming pools. They like to have summer gatherings around them, so they go for the "resort" look. Perennial beds line the fence surrounding the pool and oversized planters are strategically scattered around patio furniture and built-in bars. The planters are chock-full of annuals, since they give the most colorful blooms all season long.

I opt for a different atmosphere (above), since I tend to use my yard differently. My style is more of a "retreat", with a pond and lots of greenery. The screened-in porch off to the side is the optimum place to start my day, with my cup of morning coffee. I spend many a summer afternoon writing alongside the pond, watching the frogs dive and swim and catch flies. The only people who ever enter this water feature are my kids' friends, on a dare.

Perhaps you like a rustic, woodsy style, which calls for ferns and shade plants. Maybe a beachy look appeals--with wide-open spaces and 10 different types of perennial grasses. Does a fenced garden with old-fashioned flowers make you swoon? Consider roses, hydrangeas and hollyhocks. Whatever your style, head to your nearest nursery and ask the experts exactly what you need to achieve the look you desire. Before you plant your new garden gems, move them around the yard, letting them reside in different areas until you come up with the exact spot that speaks to you. It should tell you "plant me here!"

But don't wait too long. It's best to get your selections in the ground before the hottest days of summer hit us, just a few weeks from now. You want to give plants the best possible chance of success.

911

I'm going to admit something I'm not at all proud of: I live an hour north of New York City and I have been to the World Trade Center area only three times since the 911 catastrophe. I first dragged myself to the site a few years after the unimaginable tragedy, when the area was known simply as Ground Zero. It was exactly what we all imagine when the word "zero" comes to mind: Nothingness. A void. A big empty hole in the ground. Yet knowing that so very, very  much actually resided in that seemingly empty space was overwhelming. I left the place at a near run, horrified, distraught, and feeling more empathetic for those who lost their loved ones than at any other time in my life.

I didn't go back there until late November of 2015, escorting out-of-towners around the beautiful infinity pool waterfalls placed on the footprints of the original towers. I read every single name carved on the surrounding plaques that cold, sunny day, running through a pocket pack of tissues as I did so. I felt it only fitting to give each person who perished the attention he or she deserved-- a little, insignificant gesture but, like everyone around me, I attempted to somehow make sense of the senseless and stamp my own little version of meaning on the utterly meaningless. How, after all, can we find meaning in those who would murder more than 3,000 people for a twisted, detestable ideology?

My third trip to the area was yesterday. Once again, I ushered someone from far away to our devastating part of the world. As I walked through the area, I thought about how eager my countrymen from other parts of our great nation are to get to lower Manhattan to pay tribute to our fallen heroes, and how they may be a bit puzzled by my reluctance to go there. It's not that I lost family members or close friends at that site on that horrifying day. Like every other citizen in the great United States of America, I grieve for our national losses: the lives, and the crushed potential of more than 3,000 hopes and dreams. I can't ever seem to fully understand the depth of our immense collective loss. But for New Yorkers, the feeling goes somehow deeper.

I'm not suggesting I feel the pain of 911 more significantly than someone living in Kansas, and I certainly wouldn't begin to compare it with those who actually lost those they loved. The fact is, I can't even explain the feeling I share with other New Yorkers. None of us can. It's something we feel, but there are no words to explain that feeling. It's a tangible intangible. An oxymoron to describe our innermost feelings on the subject. Only my friends in and around the New York City area understand it. Maybe it's the proximity. We've lost the innocence and gentle trust of wandering the streets of New York City without jumping at every loud noise and scanning sidewalks for unattended bags. I've wondered if maybe those around Pearl Harbor in the 1940's or near the book repository in Dallas after November of 1963 may have felt the same way.

Yesterday, the 911 Memorial site was indescribable in its beauty. There was something about the area that gave me a sense of peace I'd never experienced during previous visits. Gazing around, I suddenly realized what it was: nature.  The swamp white oaks, which hadn't been there the first time I was, and had shed their leaves on my second visit were now full of the rich green foliage that calms the senses and imbeds in the brain the vital message of rebirth. I sat on a granite bench and listened to the leaves stirring in the gentle breeze. After a while I walked the footprints, once more taking note of the seemingly endless stream of names. This time I noticed something else: simple white roses marking those who would have celebrated birthdays. Of course the notion made my heart plunge to my stomach and my eyes well with tears, but after a while another feeling accompanied them: gratitude. How thoughtful to commemorate individual birthdays. And in the language everyone speaks...the language of flowers.

Before I left the site, I stood before the memorial's most inspiring living symbol: The Survivor Tree (photo below). A callery pear ornamental, this modest tree is a testament to not only survival, but hope. Found among the rubble weeks after 911, it was originally thought to be dead, as many of its roots had snapped and most branches were burned. Someone with horticultural knowledge thought otherwise and sent the plant to the botanical garden in the Bronx. Experts there lovingly coaxed the tree back to health, and in 2010 returned the tree to its rightful place. The irony of the story is this: Those who know the way callery pear trees grow understand that their upward branching pattern often limits their ability to thrive. Instead of reaching outward, like most trees do, pear tree branches have a more vertical slant, with narrow crotch angles that break easily, causing trees to split. But not this callery Pear tree, which continues to reach skyward, it's branches fully extended toward the heavens.

I'd never go so far as to say the 911 Memorial site is a happy place. It will never be that. Yet the thoughtful design and inclusion of nature--always inspiring--gave me a sense of peace I never expected to find there.

All-natural insect aid

Due to our mild winter, ticks are thriving in the Northeast right now. And, thanks to our exceptionally wet spring, the flowers are larger than life itself. This offers even more foliage for critters to hide in. I got into the habit of spraying myself with bug and tick repellent months ago, but every time I do it, it seems like I'm getting more of the toxic stuff in my lungs than on my skin. Even when I hold my breath, spray, then run away before inhaling again, the mist seems to surround me in noxious vapor--which takes the express route up my nostrils and down my windpipe. Tiring of the daily coughing fit to expel the poison, I've started looking for alternatives.

As usual, nature provides cures for what ails us. I've discovered the humble balm plant (Melissa officinalis). It's a perennial herb, native to the Mediterranean and Middle East, yet is cultivated here--mostly for culinary use. It can grow up to 3 feet tall and has yellow, rose, or bluish white flowers. The leaves can be crushed into a poultice for bug bites, or even spread on skin to discourage gnats, ticks and other annoying pests. The lemon scent, so pleasant to us, is distasteful to most bugs. Except bees. Personally, I love bees. I find their hovering reassuring: the plants in the area are getting pollinated. If you don't share my affection for them, keep your balm usage to the culinary variety.

Balm is a popular substitute for lemon thyme, due to it's strong lemon flavor and scent (which is why you'll also find it in potpourri, liqueurs and perfumes). Balm tea is a tasty beverage, with just a tang of lemon flavor. In fact, balm tea was traditionally used to treat insomnia and intestinal disorders. Seek medical advice before treating anything with balm, but try planting this versatile herb in your garden for an exotic flavoring and all-natural bug-inhibitor.

This is why I garden

All right, I'll admit it: all the rain this spring was really bumming me out. Seems like I'd just finish mowing and weeding my yard (between raindrops) and I'd have to start all over again! Now, I love to be in my garden, but I like just a bit of down time between chores. And let's face it, my annual garden party isn't much fun when the guests are soggy and the wind gusts are severe.

Granted, I've been spoiled. Last year we had a drought, so, not much garden maintenance. Yet the blooms weren't as abundant, vibrant or long-lasting. That's a high price to pay for less work. I mean, really, we only get to witness each flower's bloom for a fleeting week or two per year (or, in the case of day lilies, only a single day)! What a colossal disappointment when our garden gems can't give it their all!

So, much as it pains me to say it, BRING ON THE RAIN! The garden looks fantastic this year! Weigela and iris (top) impress against a backdrop of pachysandra, while wisteria blossoms roam their wrought iron arbors with abandon (above). Fuschia rhododendrons offer a warmer-than-usual welcome to visitors taking the modest side entrance (below, left), and playful poppies are sprouting endlessly--three times as many buds as usual (below, center). And then there's the peony, my favorite, at the very bottom of this page (far right)--the first bud of the season, just starting to unfurl.

Ahhh, Spring!

Artful arrangements

When I was in Austin a few weeks ago, we visited a graffiti park. If you're familiar with that city, you'll relate to their motto: Keep Austin Weird. It's a great place to revel in the offbeat and marvel at the creativity that flows like water through a swollen river.

At the park I noticed that not even the plant life in the area was spared from the spray can (above). The whimsical colors sprinkled on the petals, like Fantasia fairy dust, sparked a few ideas in my own brain. I thought about creating floral centerpieces with whatever flowers could be gathered in nature. Scooping up all manner of foliage and florals, be they desirables or weeds, then dotting them with various colors and arranging them in vases might look fantastic.

It may also prove to be a less expensive floral centerpiece option, since all that's needed are a few paint colors, a willingness to pick flowers, and the patience to arrange them so that they look their best.

Why not give it a try? Got a few cans of spray paint hanging around your garage? Have access to perennials, annuals, or even weeds? Try your hand at creating your own artful arrangement. I'm going to give it a shot. If it looks okay, I'll include it in an upcoming post!

Dandy dandelions

Having been away for the past few weeks, I arrived home last week to discover my lawn inundated with dandelions. Taking to the yard with my spray bottle filled with white vinegar, and my mouth spitting vitriol about weeds that masquerade as flowers, my neighbor dropped by to ask about my cross-country trip.

"It's a shame you're getting rid of the dandelions," he said.

I looked at him, sure I'd misheard him. "What?" I asked.

"The dandelions, I just love them," he said. "They look so nice, popping up in the yard."

I took my finger off the spray-bottle trigger and tried to see the weeds the way he did. "Really?" I asked. All I saw were weeds marring an otherwise uniform green expanse.

"Yeah, I've always loved them. They're so cheery."

That's when his words hit home: One woman's weed was another man's precious flower. I stopped spritzing the yard and went inside with a good book, realizing if I didn't stress so much over what I envisioned as the "perfect weed-free yard," I'd have a heck of a lot more time to catch up on my reading. I have a list a mile long of personal must-reads.

The dandelions continued to grace the grass with their festive yellow blossoms. I remembered that my daughter's favorite color was yellow. I smiled and realized--yet again--it's all in how you look at it: weed or wondrous little flower, determined to thrive despite being (almost) universally hated.

At that moment a chubby little gopher waddled across my yard--eating every dandelion in his path!!! I stared in disbelief as he meticulously made his way from one golden bud to another, until he'd eaten every last one. Then, bypassing my hostas, he wandered off my yard, presumably searching for dandelions at my neighbor's place.

I looked back at my green lawn and let out a small sigh. Yes, balance was restored. And it took no effort on my part. I just let nature figure it out. I've gotta admit, I'm a long way from truly admiring the dogged dandelion. But I've got very little time to ponder that--I've just cracked the spine on a book I've been wanting to read for ten years!