And now- Act Four!
O.K. Enough stalling. Donning gloves, I dive in to do essential garden work, nervously feeling O.M.Winter’s bleak breath backstage.
This lovely autumn makes it especially difficult to do what I must before Winter’s stone-cold entrance.
First: the hostas. Though they’re still perky, I slash them to the dirt. This job, which used to take hours, now takes a few short minutes, because two years ago I hit upon the idea of using a serrated kitchen bread knife. What a difference!
Only giant hostas live at Sunnybank, as slugs can’t open their mouths wide enough to munch those thick leaves gone. They’d much rather dine on the littler ones. But, when these slimeballs faint for bait, chow down and dissolve, I’m left with hundreds of micro-dentures in the dirt. (I think about these sorts of profundities when I’m slaving away out there.)
Next: the huge ostrich ferns. A quick tug separates broken green (sterile) fronds cleanly from their rhizome crowns, which protrude baldly above the soil, like lumpy brown moles. But the dark chocolate-colored (fertile) fronds, mostly hidden when this plant is fully dressed, still delight. Two feet tall, and straight as a ruler, their peculiar beauty makes quite a statement.
Ferns may be the oldest plant on earth. Having hit early upon a successful design, they’ve felt no need to tweak it for three hundred million years. My fern forest was huge and lush this year, because I realized they’re steady drinkers. And so I’ve given them what they crave. A skinny brown 24/7 drip-line wanders through my fern forest floor. With the tap always open, my reward is a stunning Jurassic Park reminiscence.
Sadly, I tug out the exuberant front garden marigolds. Nothing daunts these wonderful plants. With decent sun, a little snort of food and occasional drinks they bloom vigorously, pest and disease-free, for five months. But if I wait ‘til the earth hardens, extraction will be nearly impossible. Left to wither and die in bed, they’d look wretched all winter.
Such an ignominious end is not allowed here.
After last week’s hard frost, Christopher, my indispensable helper, chopped away a multitude of nine-foot tall, frost-blackened canna leaves, and dug up nearly all the shallow, basketball-sized rhizomes, which I dried on the garage floor for a week, then tucked into cardboard boxes stuffed with crumpled newspapers, peat moss and straw. Parked in his cool, dark sheep barn all winter, they’ll be safe from freezing. These old friends, have been with me for simply years.
This year, though, we’re experimenting. One rhizome whopper remains undug. Christopher and I piled lots of manure and heaps of straw over it, then secured the mound with (pinned down) chicken wire. I know, I know, it’s tropical. But- just maybe- it’ll be o.k. under that thick blanket, especially if Traverse City receives a bonus rug of snow. Oh, that my entire canna mini-forest could be safely left in the ground next autumn! Skipping all those tedious storage steps would be a huge time-saver.
Next, I yank out all the annual geraniums, even though their cheerful blooms keep coming. Each perfect, horrified plant is tossed into the wheelbarrow. I hate this task, and must harden my heart. (If you saw the inside of my house you’d smile. Fat pots housing this or that grateful annual are so numerous I can barely move through my kitchen. I’ve even potted two icicle plants. It’s pathetic. But I need to sniff them in deep winter to lift my spirits.)
Uh-oh; here’s the stupid spiderwort. Hmmm. I stifle the urge to strangle it, and instead, chop much of it gone. This shamelessly sex-mad plant loves to dominate. All season long it hops into bed with outraged neighbors (like black-eyed Susans and perennial geraniums) making whoopee- and more ‘worts,’ and not caring one jot. But, darn it, those ball-sy blue flowers are so attractive! Sighing, I retain just a few stalks. One plant will be ten more in a blink next spring, so I remind myself to patrol it if I mean to control it. Now it sits there, smug, knowing it’s too handsome to be dumped.
I turn to the spent sweet autumn clematis. Long, exhausted stray tendrils drape disconsolately over the alley fence and wistfully twine around the furiously blooming chocolate eupatorium. I gently shorten these explorers, leaving the rest to decorate the fence-tops. Snow enhances their naked, honey-colored vinery in winter. In early spring I’ll chop all five clematis almost to the ground, then shock them into vigorous growth by offering yummy sea kelp and fish guts washed down with copious water. By July they’ll be massive again.
Snip! Siberian iris and daylily leaves are trimmed to smart, short angles.
Withered lily stalks are cut to within two inches of the earth; the remaining stumps mark their locations.
The last Shasta daisy fades to blackspot; leggy, collapsed stems are cut to basal leaves.
The winter garden, with its clean, spare look, emerges. Giant, plumed, gorgeously colored miscanthus grasses, and the fourteen-foot high golden pyramidal chamaecyparis conifer, co-anchor the main garden. Vividly red berries brighten the holly and crabapple tree. The fothergilla’s orange foliage gleams.
The drained, elegantly swanned fountain has been covered in a huge Christmas tree-shaped green tarp, on which we’ll drape a cascade of tiny, colorful lights. Even when blanketed in snow they’ll shine.
Enigmatic Winter waits backstage as Autumn exits noisily, passing wind. When the Old Man finally makes his entrance, will it be to blast and freeze his captive audience, or taunt and tease?
Or both?
Bring it on! I’ve dusted off my snowshoes, and relish the suspense!
O.K. Enough stalling. Donning gloves, I dive in to do essential garden work, nervously feeling O.M.Winter’s bleak breath backstage.
This lovely autumn makes it especially difficult to do what I must before Winter’s stone-cold entrance.
First: the hostas. Though they’re still perky, I slash them to the dirt. This job, which used to take hours, now takes a few short minutes, because two years ago I hit upon the idea of using a serrated kitchen bread knife. What a difference!
Only giant hostas live at Sunnybank, as slugs can’t open their mouths wide enough to munch those thick leaves gone. They’d much rather dine on the littler ones. But, when these slimeballs faint for bait, chow down and dissolve, I’m left with hundreds of micro-dentures in the dirt. (I think about these sorts of profundities when I’m slaving away out there.)
Next: the huge ostrich ferns. A quick tug separates broken green (sterile) fronds cleanly from their rhizome crowns, which protrude baldly above the soil, like lumpy brown moles. But the dark chocolate-colored (fertile) fronds, mostly hidden when this plant is fully dressed, still delight. Two feet tall, and straight as a ruler, their peculiar beauty makes quite a statement.
Ferns may be the oldest plant on earth. Having hit early upon a successful design, they’ve felt no need to tweak it for three hundred million years. My fern forest was huge and lush this year, because I realized they’re steady drinkers. And so I’ve given them what they crave. A skinny brown 24/7 drip-line wanders through my fern forest floor. With the tap always open, my reward is a stunning Jurassic Park reminiscence.
Sadly, I tug out the exuberant front garden marigolds. Nothing daunts these wonderful plants. With decent sun, a little snort of food and occasional drinks they bloom vigorously, pest and disease-free, for five months. But if I wait ‘til the earth hardens, extraction will be nearly impossible. Left to wither and die in bed, they’d look wretched all winter.
Such an ignominious end is not allowed here.
After last week’s hard frost, Christopher, my indispensable helper, chopped away a multitude of nine-foot tall, frost-blackened canna leaves, and dug up nearly all the shallow, basketball-sized rhizomes, which I dried on the garage floor for a week, then tucked into cardboard boxes stuffed with crumpled newspapers, peat moss and straw. Parked in his cool, dark sheep barn all winter, they’ll be safe from freezing. These old friends, have been with me for simply years.
This year, though, we’re experimenting. One rhizome whopper remains undug. Christopher and I piled lots of manure and heaps of straw over it, then secured the mound with (pinned down) chicken wire. I know, I know, it’s tropical. But- just maybe- it’ll be o.k. under that thick blanket, especially if Traverse City receives a bonus rug of snow. Oh, that my entire canna mini-forest could be safely left in the ground next autumn! Skipping all those tedious storage steps would be a huge time-saver.
Next, I yank out all the annual geraniums, even though their cheerful blooms keep coming. Each perfect, horrified plant is tossed into the wheelbarrow. I hate this task, and must harden my heart. (If you saw the inside of my house you’d smile. Fat pots housing this or that grateful annual are so numerous I can barely move through my kitchen. I’ve even potted two icicle plants. It’s pathetic. But I need to sniff them in deep winter to lift my spirits.)
Uh-oh; here’s the stupid spiderwort. Hmmm. I stifle the urge to strangle it, and instead, chop much of it gone. This shamelessly sex-mad plant loves to dominate. All season long it hops into bed with outraged neighbors (like black-eyed Susans and perennial geraniums) making whoopee- and more ‘worts,’ and not caring one jot. But, darn it, those ball-sy blue flowers are so attractive! Sighing, I retain just a few stalks. One plant will be ten more in a blink next spring, so I remind myself to patrol it if I mean to control it. Now it sits there, smug, knowing it’s too handsome to be dumped.
I turn to the spent sweet autumn clematis. Long, exhausted stray tendrils drape disconsolately over the alley fence and wistfully twine around the furiously blooming chocolate eupatorium. I gently shorten these explorers, leaving the rest to decorate the fence-tops. Snow enhances their naked, honey-colored vinery in winter. In early spring I’ll chop all five clematis almost to the ground, then shock them into vigorous growth by offering yummy sea kelp and fish guts washed down with copious water. By July they’ll be massive again.
Snip! Siberian iris and daylily leaves are trimmed to smart, short angles.
Withered lily stalks are cut to within two inches of the earth; the remaining stumps mark their locations.
The last Shasta daisy fades to blackspot; leggy, collapsed stems are cut to basal leaves.
The winter garden, with its clean, spare look, emerges. Giant, plumed, gorgeously colored miscanthus grasses, and the fourteen-foot high golden pyramidal chamaecyparis conifer, co-anchor the main garden. Vividly red berries brighten the holly and crabapple tree. The fothergilla’s orange foliage gleams.
The drained, elegantly swanned fountain has been covered in a huge Christmas tree-shaped green tarp, on which we’ll drape a cascade of tiny, colorful lights. Even when blanketed in snow they’ll shine.
Enigmatic Winter waits backstage as Autumn exits noisily, passing wind. When the Old Man finally makes his entrance, will it be to blast and freeze his captive audience, or taunt and tease?
Or both?
Bring it on! I’ve dusted off my snowshoes, and relish the suspense!