In the Garden
It may be premature to announce this, but summer is just about over, and I
couldnt be happier. The tragic faces of schoolbound children delight the eye as far
as one can see. In the manner of a cartoon cat dreamily picturing Little Mister Canary as
a tiny roasted carcass on a platter, I imagine these tanned urchins crammed into their
uncomfortable desks, fidgeting endlessly through World Geography while, out beyond the
playground, insolent adults swaggeringly reclaim the wide open spaces. Soon, my little
dears; very soon.
But this is a relatively minor payoff compared to the sheer joy of seeing the tail end
of summer itself, with its alternating napalmd droughts and monsoon rains. As is
usual in August here in the upper South, the garden -- well, to be specific, my garden --
is a class 4 disaster offering countless opportunities for the
tactfully averted eye. Those gold-banded lilies which, verdant and leonine, sprang
adorably out of the dirt in April have now achieved a height of five to seven feet and
suggest the stark remains of a palm grove after a firefight. The Japanese beetles have
outstayed the contractually specified six weeks and are roiling on the surface of every
rose not otherwise destroyed by the elements. The tomatoes, victims of an ill-considered
experiment in which they were allowed to sprawl along the ground rather than being staked
up -- Live Free or Die! -- have provided plenty of compost for themselves but, to date,
little fruit. Evil caravans of nut grass have journeyed undisturbed into the bearded
irises and set up thriving colonial outposts there, and other places, too.
I acknowledge that many of these misfortunes could have been avoided if only I had not
found it so blasted hot outside. In spring I was all business, digging and weeding and
hauling around big loads of X or Y, but as the
heat set in I began to see more and more clearly the need for staying at the office until
seven or eight or possibly nine in the evening, and then soon enough weekends were taken
up with a careful examination of the fall nursery catalogues that had begun to pour in on
or around June 15. Well, what would you do, given a choice
between grubbing around in the rose beds in thousand-degree heat or lying on a comfortable
sofa in an air-conditioned living room, looking at handsome pictures of rare and pristine
daffodils that can be had for only a few hundred dollars a bulb? All right, then.
But forget about that; its time to look ahead. As the temperature gradually
drops, certain green stirrings may be discerned. About a week ago I noticed that the
Boursault rhododendrons have left off their mule-eared sulking and broken out in new
leaves, at least in clusters here and there. A group of cinnamon ferns that had grown
crackling dry and, I assumed, cashed in their chips are unrolling a few lurid replacement
fronds. The late-blooming hosta Royal Standard -- common as dirt and nothing
to write home about leaf-wise -- has begun shooting up elegant stalks of waxy white
blossoms that are heavily jasmine-scented and good for jamming into a vase with other
flowers more showy but less fragrant.
Im particularly pleased to see a constellation of buds appear on the tangle of clematis
paniculata (now, I think, classified as c. something else, but I cant
recall what) that has hog-tied a bed full of floribunda roses and annuals in front of the
house. If you dont know this worthy, its an energetic species that covers
itself with a multitude of vanilla-scented white stars for a couple of weeks in late
August and September here in Virginia. I bought it in pots for several years running and
planted it in a variety of sites, where inevitably and without formalities it would
expire. Then I gave up, and shortly thereafter it popped up unannounced in one of the
flower beds, apparently self-sown. During the summer I periodically yank out big hunks of
it that have got into places where I dont want it and leave the rest as a sort of
billowing groundcover. For some months it slithers around among the flowers before
exploding into bloom itself at the end of the season.
Certain trees and shrubs are now making minor displays of confusion: some of my azaleas
are showing the odd flower or two, and recently I noticed that a magnolia soulangeana
on the street where I work was blooming sparsely and with some embarrassment, as though it
had jumped out of a cake at the wrong time. There are also some curiosities
out there like those bearded iris that have been bred to bloom both at their proper moment
in the spring and then again, superfluously, in the fall. I dont approve of this and
I suggest you put any idea of them out of your head.
We are, of course, still some weeks away from the most gratifying part of the fall --
the time when the gardener goes forth into the mercantile wilderness, hell-bent on
gathering zillions of bags of bulbs from every nursery in a hundred-mile radius. Many
times these bags will be tucked away in dark corners to await planting at the most
favorable moment: they will then be discovered sometime in the following July, soft as
marshmallows and perhaps covered with a fine green fur of mold.
When they escape this fate, however, bulbs are a particular, and peculiar, pleasure --
not just for the flowers they will turn into, but for themselves. I am not talking about
daffodils and hyacinths, which are big and flaky in a disheveled way, like aged onions, or
about fritillaria imperialis, the so-called crown royal, which not only is big and
ugly but stinks to high heaven. (And incidentally, the flowers are perfectly
awful-looking.) I mean the tulips, particularly the smaller species like t.
turkestanica and t. tarda, and the little species irises, reticulata and
danfordia, and several other minor bulbs. When in good shape (i.e, neither rotten
nor desiccated) they are plump and shiny -- the tulips very much like chestnuts or
buckeyes -- and they look and feel wonderful in the palm. Get as many of them as you can:
they look best planted in generous sweeps, and the squirrels will be digging them up and
eating them as fast as you can get them in the ground.
One more thing. I am sorry to have to mention it, mainly because I hate doing it
myself, but fall means tidying up. Which is to say, among other things, cutting the grass
after frost even though its not going to grow that much more,
because otherwise it will look exceptionally crummy all winter long. You are free to guess
how I know this. Once growth has slowed its time to pull on those wellingtons, get
the hell out there, and root up all, or most, or anyway some, of the pernicious weeds that
entrenched themselves over the summer, and to clear out the remains of the vegetable
garden and the defunct annuals. Unpleasant things overwinter in this detritus -- both
pests and diseases -- and additionally you dont want to spend some hushed winter
evening gazing mistily out the window at a spotless blanket of snow punctuated by a row of
dismal blackened cucumber vines on a sagging trellis. No: what you want from snow is a
blank slate from which every trace of last years gardening catastrophes has been
erased, and upon which the shifting kaleidoscope of next years anticipated wonders
can be projected courtesy of good old limitless hope, a certain amount of purely medicinal
alcohol, and a few hundred housebound hours with some really top-notch garden catalogues.
-Viriditas Digitalis
see In the Garden, Vol. 1, No. 2
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