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Roses in December

Roses in December

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It was almost 70 degrees yesterday as I made my way along New Jersey Avenue to the Capitol. A small wind was whiffling the pansies, stirring the purples and yellows and the dark green leaves.  I moseyed down a section of tree-lined street that reminds me of Paris, with the U.S. Capitol winking through what’s left of the leaves.

The broad plaza of the East Front entrance was filled with shirt-sleeved tourists snapping photos, but noon light drained color from the scene. I turned left down East Capitol, passing the Library and the Folger and a bookstore I always intend to visit but never do. Roses were still blooming, tumbling along fence posts and garden gates. In the air, the smell of new-mown grass.

Everyone was out in the warm weather — dog-walkers and nannies pushing prams and office workers on a lunchtime jog.  There’s a park where I usually turn around, and today I strode right through the middle of it. I never knew what it was called until I checked a map after my stroll. It’s Lincoln Park — and not at all like its Chicago counterpart — but now I’ll never forget the name.

Late Rose

Late Rose

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Frost has nipped the begonias, colored the maples, brought a dignified end to the tomato and basil plants. But it has not yet conquered the knockout roses in our front yard.

They have continued to bloom red and pink, their colors out of place with subtle autumn russets and gold, their freshness unexpected and sublime.

To see them still waving in the breeze is to believe that all will be well, that winter will pass and spring will come again.

Witch Hazel

Witch Hazel

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Halfway through October, our witch hazel is the most colorful tree in the garden.  I never think of it as an autumn showpiece — it’s best in late winter, blooming in the snow. Yet this year I notice that it’s mellowing to a muted, green-veined yellow that is the soul of the season — when the season is seen as a gentle winding down rather than a last, flaming hurrah.

Though witch hazel leaves begin as squiggly yellow flowers, they end as bigger, plate-like foliage and then, sometimes, there is a second flowering, an autumn bloom. After reading about this today I tiptoed out into our dark backyard to see if I could find evidence of it.

There is some debate about whether the witch hazel is a shrub or a tree, but our specimen is most definitely the latter. Tall, straight-limbed, arching, generous. Even in the dark I felt its presence. And reaching up to touch the limbs I felt along the stem and found the beginnings of those same squiggly flowers that are the harbingers of spring. Perhaps to bloom soon, perhaps in a few months. Or perhaps, it doesn’t matter.

The point is: the flowers will come again.

Tiny Hopeful Garden

Tiny Hopeful Garden

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I pass it on the way to work sometime. A dingy little corner at 2nd and D. It’s on the northeast side, next to the homeless shelter and across the street from the tunnel. There’s no more than five or six feet of soil between the sidewalk and the building.

Earlier this season I noticed a few green shoots. Not weeds exactly.  They were more intentional.

As the weeks wore on, I watched the plants grow up and out, the stems thicken , small yellow flowers form. Throughout the hot, dusty summer, they stayed alive. Not flourishing exactly, but not dying, either.

Today I walked past them. The flowers are turning to fruit, curved and healthy. I’m no master gardener, but I think we have a pumpkin patch here. A spot of color in a block of gray. A tiny hopeful garden.

Leaf, Blossom, Bole

Leaf, Blossom, Bole

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The crepe myrtle blooms when other foliage withers. It adds springtime hues to a late-summer palate. It does all of this and more.

But only if you have sunlight to sustain it.

Our two crepe myrtles have decided this is not the case. So we have the leaves and in one case even the buds, but not the flowers.

But what is the essence of the plant?

For some reason I think of Yeats, who speaks of that and so much more:

O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance? 

Channeling Mr. McGregor

Channeling Mr. McGregor

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One sign that you have grown up: When you start identifying not with Peter Rabbit, but with Mr. McGregor. If it’s been a while since you read  Beatrix Potter, this is the man whose garden Peter plunders, who chases Peter with a hoe after the errant rabbit sneaks under the fence and snarfs down lettuce, radishes and French beans.

When I read this book to the children, we identified with Peter, of course. Mr. McGregor was the villain, even though it was his garden that Peter ransacked. Peter, on the other hand, was devilish but brave. Willing to take on the world. And definitely a locavore.

It’s not a rabbit but deer that have turned me into Mr. McGregor. The herd of deer who have watched and waited until our day lily buds are full to bursting and then moved in for the kill. The deer who have eluded the stinky Invisible Fence that we’ve doused our flowers with.

Now I know how Mr. McGregor feels. We looked forward to the day lilies all spring long.  We transplanted, fertilized and nurtured them. And then, just when we were preparing to enjoy them, the deer snapped them up.

It’s not just disappointment I feel. It’s humiliation: Deer 1, Anne 0.

Photo: Project Gutenberg

Honeysuckle Season

Honeysuckle Season

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It isn’t just the flowers and new leaves that make May my favorite month, the azealas and the iris. It’s the perfumed air. Take a walk in our neighborhood now and you would have to be suffering from a severe head cold or sinus infection to miss the olfactory assault.

The air is literally perfumed. Stroll past the honeysuckle. Deconstruct that scent. For me, it is cool mornings along a Fayette County Lane, out early to pick strawberries. It is a roll-on perfume by Avon that I wore in high school, came in a little tube like Chap-Stick. I thought it marked me as a “natural girl.” No Shalimar for me!

Honeysuckle drapes itself over hedges and fence rows. It is an elegant, lithesome plant, willing to grow just about anywhere.  Which is good news for us. Because that means we can smell it on walks through woods or along suburban lanes.

Last night I picked a sprig and bought it home. Now it sits beside the kitchen window. Bringing the outside in.

Photo: GardenLovetoKnow.com

Iris

Iris

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The iris are blooming. We have just a few, only these small Siberian ones, slender, weighted with their own blossoms, bending slightly with the fullness of the season. We bought these from a local lady whose garden was once the envy of the neighborhood but who has since passed away and whose yard is but a shadow of its former self.

But bulbs from the “Iris Lady” are planted all over the mid-Atlantic and even farther afield. Her garden grows not just in Oak Hill, Virginia, but in countless climes and soils. It has done what flowers and people are supposed to do, has given itself to others, has held its head high.

Morning in the Garden

Morning in the Garden

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Morning in the garden. Holly blossoms in the air. I move some ferns and plant some impatiens. As I plunge my hands into the worked soil, I feel connected to the day. Birds sing from their green perches.

I measure the warmth, the freedom of being outside in shirt sleeves before 8 a.m. It’s a good way to live.

My neighbor, Nancy, reads my mind: “I love mornings in the garden, don’t you?” She’s on her daily  walk. I will soon be on mine, too.

Sally’s Garden

Sally’s Garden

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A few days ago our friend Sally invited us to her house to dig up ferns. Her crop was crowded and needed to be thinned, she said. So we ventured over, shovels in tow, on an unseasonably warm April afternoon.

We’d been to Sally’s house before but had never spent time in her backyard. It was nice, I knew, from looking out the back window. But I was unprepared for the beauty and calm spirit of the place.

In the native plants garden there are ostrich ferns and wood poppies and bluebells. A path winds along the perimeter with a pond in the middle and a little arched bridge. The yard is shady and cool, a habitat for birds and butterflies. It backs into a woods that stretches for miles along the stream valley of Little Difficult Run. Sally’s garden is one of those surprising suburban oases.

It wasn’t until we returned home, our car stuffed full of ferns and wood poppies for transplant, that I realized why “Sally’s garden” sounded familiar. It was the Yeats’ poem “Salley Gardens” it brought to mind, a verse put to song, a tale of regret and time passing and all sorts of emotions that are often hidden in the suburbs. But they are what give a place depth.

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her did not agree.
In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she placed her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

W. B. Yeats