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Flower Power

Flower Power

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Saturday I impulsively bought two hyacinths at the grocery store. They were tidy little plants then, barely open at all. But even on the short drive home they filled the car with their scent. Now they’re doing the same in the house.

I thought they would make a pretty Easter centerpiece, but they’re opening so fast that I may have to buy another arrangement before Sunday.

The point is, they are blooming now, I tell myself. So enjoy them. Savor the blooming and the bending. Prop up the heaviest flowers with skewer sticks so they stay upright. And then … inhale deeply.

Procession of Bloom

Procession of Bloom

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According to my favorite weather site, the cherry blossoms may last as long as 10 days this year. Though I haven’t checked on the Tidal Basin flowers since Monday evening, I can tell by the hordes on Metro that hanami is still in full force.

As the blooming season moves out to my neighborhood (always a few days later than the city trees), my ho-hum daily drives are taking on a hanami quality of their own. I’m slowing down, seeking out the streets I know from years past.

There are the Bradford pears in Franklin Farm, the redbuds on Folkstone, the Kwanzan cherry in my own front yard. All of this, if the weather cooperates, in a slow steady procession through dogwoods and azaleas — a riot of bloom that takes us from the gray trunks of winter all the way to the vivid fuchsias and scarlets of  mid-May.

Hanami

Hanami

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I just happened upon the ranger talk at the Tidal Basin last evening at 6 p.m. I’d decided to see the cherry blossoms after work, and then, impulsively, walked counterclockwise instead of the other way around. And there, at the FDR Memorial, was a green-suited ranger with a Smokey the Bear hat.

He was speaking of L’Enfant when I arrived, but went on from there to cover the flood of 1881, the creation of the Tidal Basin and the ugly construction-site look of the land around it at the turn of the 19th century. He described National Geographic writer Eliza Scidmore’s 24-year campaign to plant Japanese cherry trees around the basin, a quest that finally took root, so to speak, when President Taft’s wife, Helen, became interested in the project. (The lantern above commemorates the spot where Taft planted one of the first cherry trees.)

There are other twists and turns to this story and how cherry trees came to dominate the landscape around the Washington and Lincoln monuments. But my favorite part of the talk came when the ranger talked about the Japanese custom of hanami or “flower viewing” of the sakura or cherry blossoms.

The sakura represents a “short life, well-lived,” the ranger said, and for that reason was revered by both samurai warriors and kamikaze pilots. Hanami celebrates the fleetingness of the blossoms, the beauty that is ours just for a moment — and more lovely because of it.

Conversational Snow

Conversational Snow

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It’s March 9 and the daffodils have pushed themselves at least two inches through ground. But the ground is now covered … not in mulch but in snow.

Welcome to what the Capital Weather Gang calls “conversational snow.” This is white stuff that we talk about but do not fear. Snow that clings to trees and grass but not roads.

This snow fell yesterday but lingers today. Conversational? Yes. But not hardly whispered. Just ask the witch hazel tree (foreground), with its yellow blossoms all coated and frozen. It would like to change the conversation, I think. And it will have its chance. Tomorrow, we could hit 70!

Faded Rose

Faded Rose

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We’re at that point in the season when the bright hue of autumn leaves has not yet arrived and the muted palette of late summer prevails. Sedum and asters, the faded rose of late-blooming crepe myrtle.

All that’s left of clematis paniculata are the spent blossoms of the tiny white flowers.

And then there are the shaggy meadow flowers, the golden rod and Joe Pye Weed.

It’s easy to wander long amidst the subtle shades of this subtle season.

Smelling the Roses

Smelling the Roses

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In the last few days, summer has caught up with itself. Mornings have been cooler with that steady thrum of insect noise that you don’t notice until it goes away in the fall.

To be able to work outside with the heat building, cicadas crescendoing and every so often a stray idea making its way into my brain … well, it’s very good indeed.

When I need to take a break, I dead-head the roses, lean down and sniff the ones that are still blooming. Then I let my gaze shift to blank and stare out at the green and oh-so-weedy backyard.

Nothing is perfect, it seems to say, but look what less-than-pefect gets you.

Longest, Greenest

Longest, Greenest

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There’s the dark, shiny green of the holly, and the springy green of the grass, still relatively weedless this time of year. The ferns add texture. Running my hands over their fronds is the way green feels.

But mostly this longest day is about how green looks: light through oak leaves, the ancient rusted tint of begonia foliage, tall green stems in the garden bearing day lily buds and brand-new coneflowers.

Out front by the mailbox a new garden bed sprouts tender morning glory stems and leaves twisting around twine, salvia, verbena and baby zinnias, too.

It’s a riot of green out there, a show of life force. I want to revel in it.

New Dawn

New Dawn

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If I had endless subject matter (which I do) I wouldn’t have to write twice in one week about roses. But roses are on my mind right now. On my mind — and in my sight.

As I write, the petals are oh so softly falling off the New Dawn Climbing rose. It budded slowly this year in the cold spring, then burst quickly into blossom. Night before last it shimmered in the little porch lights, a fairy garden.

I chose this plant from a garden catalog shortly after we moved to this house. I wanted an English cottage garden, and climbing roses would be part of it.

They are the only part of it that survived. Virginia does not have a cool, rainy climate. Astilbe and larkspur don’t flourish here.

But the New Dawn has thrived. It clambers over the pergola, hangs heavy over the glass-topped table.

It is a gracious nod toward projects past, a hopeful sign of projects future.

Roses and Parakeets

Roses and Parakeets

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Today I have only four hours of Winrock work ahead of me then an afternoon and three whole days off. I’m wondering what it would be like to have unlimited time and space. Frightening at first, I imagine, but maybe not. It would be stepping off the carousel into some sort of other time-space continuum with only my own to-do list to guide me.

Here’s the thing, though. I have a hefty internal to-do list. It’s a vague one, needing time and energy to flesh out, and the thought of being face-to-face with it is mildly terrifying.

But still, there are mornings like this, full of blooming roses and chirping parakeets, when I’d like nothing better than to chuck it all and just … be …. free …

Bountiful Begonias

Bountiful Begonias

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Some years it’s the impatiens that rule the yard, other years the day lilies shine. This year, it’s the begonias that are taking my breath away.

They’re big without being leggy. Their whites, pinks and reds are brighter, more intense. They are, hands down, the most attractive flowers in the neighborhood. And I don’t just mean my begonias, the ones in pots on the deck (pictured here), but the ones at the neighborhood entrance and all over the area, they’re gorgeous, too.

Begonias have long been the workhorse annual of the garden. They are cheerful whether dry or wet, and they last well into the fall. There’s a tendency, to discount them, much as we do the always willing friend.

So today, I break ranks, take notice and find the time to say, thank you, begonias, for a summer’s worth of bloom.