More Musings

Yesterday we scored some early-evening childcare, so we did the most romantic thing we could think of after 11 years of marriage. We went over to our old (still unsold) house and tidied up the yard.

Naturally, the garden was lush, overflowing with massive peonies, poppies, 4ft tall columbines, and the first of the roses.

Don't believe me about the columbines? They were a self-seeded batch of "black" Barlows and they've never been that tall before. Don't know what got into them this year.

It was so beautiful and so depressing, I came home very blue -- the kind of blue where you either have to sit down and place a major order with a plant nursery, or you have to eat a lot of ice cream. Since we have no money and no ice cream, I was up a crik, as they say.

What I have right here, in my new house, is chicken scratch compared to what I had at my old house. And I know that that garden is 9 years old, that it's evolved pretty extensively, that it was made at a time in my life when I had lots of disposable income and no children to keep me from doing what I wanted to do, at least from a gardening perspective.





This is a hastily cut bouquet of Abraham Darby (middle top), Mary Rose (left) and Sydonie (2 right bottom). Sydonie is one of the ones I couldn't take a cutting from last fall and I'd so like to take one now, but am not sure I have room for it -- it gets about 5 feet tall with branches that arch over and make it about 6 feet wide. So pretty, all covered with blooms. The bud is Comte du Chambord, which is finally looking excellent after 9 years of sulking. Naturally, it outdoes itself the year I move.

I have been moping all day, missing my garden and all the little maintenance tasks that I so liked doing -- pruning and dividing and deadheading and otherwise fussing over everything. I think I just need to get started here, do something to give myself a feeling of hope that this garden can be at least as enjoyable as my old one. It will never be the same, and I probably need to find a way to just let that go, but it's hard when you've poured so much sweat into a place.

I need to just take hold.

Am I Blue?

Oh yes, I am.

This is part of my mother's day present. It's Hydrangea "Endless Summer." I love the purply-blue flowers. It's probably not as utterly beautiful as "Nikko Blue," but Nikko doesn't bloom reliably in my climate zone.

I love blue flowers almost as much as I love pink. In fact, in my former garden I had so many blue flowers that bloomed in the spring that the whole effect was a little somber from a distance. I had meant it to all bloom with some lemon yellow daylilies, but the flowers had their own ideas about when they'd show up.

This is a Siberian iris. It's much more purple than this picture shows and I'm pretty sure it's one called "Caesar's Brother." It's quite tall -- about 40 inches -- and very elegant with long, slender stems and these softly architechtural blooms that seem to float above the foliage. In my old garden, these bloomed with the first flush of roses and I grew them in full sun. In my new home, these were a pleasant surprise, found growing in dappled shade.

Another blue, though more in the category of excellent background notes is Hosta Sieboldiana "Elegans." This was one I planned to take from my old garden but my husband accidentally killed mine with Spectracide. I was debating whether or not to just buy another one when two huge ones popped out of the ground next to our new deck. What an unexpected pleasure that was.

It's been raining here for days and days and Sunday I went out and shot some water droplet pictures of these hostas. Man, there is nothing like a really beautiful plant, beautifully grown. These massive babies (they're 3 feet across and nearly 3 feet high) make my heart happy.

I've been missing my old garden a lot this spring and I seem to be unable to get a grip on what I'd like to do with this space, especially since my husband tosses out these caveats from time to time, like "No trellises!" and "Nothing with thorns!", which make it hard for me to know what direction to take things. Then, too, having a dirt-eating toddler around is kind of a deterrent to digging and planting and generally making any kind of progress at all. At least I have a few things that soften my loss.

Coping

I have turned the corner on my grief, I think. I feel more optimistic, at least. It helps that I did some stuff in the garden this weekend to try to ensure I'll have at least some of the stuff in my new place. I am having to reconcile myself to the fact that I will have to purchase a number of plants -- like all the clematis, which don't transplant well -- but I started some rose cuttings, and the roses would be the most expensive to replace. I moved pieces of my grandma's peonies, though whether they'll make it is anybody's guess, and I lifted a few hostas.

I must have had a premonition about this move, because I actually took some rose cuttings about 3 weeks ago, before we even thought we'd be able to make an offer. I was really encouraged to find that fully 80% of them have already begun to root. I am using the baggie method, which can sometimes be dicey, but since they're going to have to live in my mom's sunroom for the winter, I needed to be sure they'd have enough moisture without constant attention. The closed environment of the baggie will give them that. Here's what I rooted:

Abraham Darby
Kathryn Morley
Ambridge Rose
Sharifa Asma
The Prince
Heritage
Eglantine
Mary Rose
Falstaff

I did not take cuttings from The Pilgrim, Jacqueline DuPre, Comte du Chambord, Winchester Cathedral or Sydonie, either because they had no ripe wood, or because what they had was covered with blackspot and unlikely to survive. Jacqueline DuPre has always been miserable in my garden,stunted and stingy with bloom. Wouldn't you know it, she had a banner year this year. Grew to 2.5 feet and bloomed 3 times. Stupid plant. I am not buying her tricks, although I love her wild rose look. If she throws another bloom before frost I might be tempted to take a cutting.

The Pilgrim is one that I saw in a garden in England where it was utterly stunning -- an ethereal pale yellow with a darker center. Here it just fades to nearly white after about 30 minutes in the sun. If I got up at 5 a.m. routinely, I could see it as I remembered it from England, but I'd rather just sleep. Also it throws out 7 foot canes and then blooms right at the top, which looks dumb. I could peg it, but since I'm not all that thrilled with it, I don't bother.

The Comte is another one that has never done well in my garden. The plant itself is fine, but the blooms always ball if it's even a little wet and it is a thrips magnet. I have always considered myself lucky to get a handful of unmaimed bloom over the course of the season. Of course, it's had its best year ever in my garden, blooming often and beautifully with no balling and no thrips. Whatever. I'm leaving it behind.

Winchester Cathedral performs well, but I am just not that into white roses. It does occasionally sport to blush pink and even to bright pink (not really a sport, that. It's reverting back to Mary Rose, of which it is itself a sport). Not interesting enough to take along, though.

Sydonie I like very much. An old Damask Perpetual and tough as nails, it throws tons of bloom in the spring and sort of pegs itself -- the canes bend outward and it breaks along the length for even more bloom. Unfortunately it is awash in blackspot. I may buy this one again. It's really big, though, so I'll have to see if I have room for it at the new place.

Planning makes me feel better.