My garden is ready for winter, but there’s one very large, tall white Shasta daisy that’s blooming cheerfully in the Library Garden- for a third week! Its stems had been cut back to new buds a bit lower down in last August, and now one bud has developed into a spectacular flower, undaunted by freezing weather. I admire it daily.
This column, published a few years ago, came to mind.…
High summer. Higher heat. I was deep in the garden in late afternoon, blackened knees the evidence of my down-and-dirt-y hunt for weeds, houttuynia, and the ever-sneaky lily-of-the-valley, which burrows into my flowers’ beds from the other side of the fence in the dead of night. I’d rather fight a hundred weeds than have to pry out just one of those deeply rooted, lovely invaders. Once they settle into a disciplined garden, they’ll never leave, so beware. Shrub-crawls are a good way to spot them before they mature and multiply. I aim only for control. (My latest strategy for licking ‘Valley girl’ is to tear off her lush leaves. Perhaps in a few years she’d get tired of being stripped bare, and concede. Or not.)
Anyway, I was poking around under a large hydrangea yesterday when a sixty-something man lowered himself to the grass and peered at me through its sun-dappled leaves. “Toodleloooo – I’ve a recipe for you.” Mystified, I extracted myself and took a good look at the guy. British, I decided. He wore a neatly trimmed gray mustache; fringed hair was tidily combed over his wide forehead. Knobby, grass-stained knees emerged from wrinkled khaki shorts, and he wore a pale yellow tee shirt picturing an owl wearing glasses. His own wire spectacles sat crookedly on a long, distinguished-looking nose, and of course, they were too loose: his right index finger had full-time employment as an adjuster.
“I hope I haven’t disturbed you (yep, English), but when I saw all your lovely feverfew I wondered: are you, by chance, bothered by migraine headaches?” He pronounced it the British way- mee-graine.
“Used to be,” I replied, intrigued.
“Well,” he ventured, “I’m a herbalist (typically, he’d pronounced the ‘h’); feverfew’s leaves often arrest migraine pain. They resolve headaches of the ordinary sort, as well. In case you, or a friend, should ever feel adventurous, I offer the recipe for feverfew tea, best enjoyed by adding a touch of honey.”
He pressed a rumpled sheet of paper with scribbled directions into my hand. I peered at the small print.
“Oh, thank you! I’ve known that it’s medicinal, but never have followed up. I’ll brew a pot, should the need arise. It’ll be interesting.”
He adjusted his glasses and smiled. “I’ve truly enjoyed your garden, with its many herbs.”
We exchanged smiles, shook hands, and off he went.
Huh. I had scads of feverfew, which grew where it pleased. It’s easy, though, to pluck out a plantlet that might settle where it isn’t wanted.
The other day a scowling lady asked why I allowed so many of ‘these weeds’ to propagate. “Because,” I said, mildly, “they delight me. Nothing eats them; nothing makes them sick. Besides, I think they’re beautiful.” She sniffed, shook her head and left, radiating disapproval.
“Flea-bitten old grouch,” I muttered, uncharitably. I couldn’t imagine my garden without feverfew.
Just before closing time a young neighborhood child popped in to ask me if I could spare a flower for his visiting granny, who was in the park across the street feeling gloomy. He looked shyly hopeful.
Ha! I had a ‘Bingo!’ moment. “You know,” I said, pointing to the nearest bunch, “feverfew has an interesting sniff, and its daisy flowers seem to last forever. It earned its name because in the old days people who had headaches or fevers found that brewing a tea, using feverfew leaves, would help; aching heads felt better and fevers were fewer!” He giggled. “Best of all, it’s impossible to look at all those bright flowers and not smile. They’re the perfect ‘cheer up’ gift!”
He grin spread.
I ran into the house, fetched a little baggie, filled the bottom with cool water, trimmed a cheerful clutch of sunshine into a bouquet and zipped-locked their stems inside. He yelled his thanks and dashed off, clutching his treasure.
What fun! Normally these pert plants register only in peoples’ peripheral vision, as I suppose they are as common as dirt.
But today, by golly, they were stars.
This column, published a few years ago, came to mind.…
High summer. Higher heat. I was deep in the garden in late afternoon, blackened knees the evidence of my down-and-dirt-y hunt for weeds, houttuynia, and the ever-sneaky lily-of-the-valley, which burrows into my flowers’ beds from the other side of the fence in the dead of night. I’d rather fight a hundred weeds than have to pry out just one of those deeply rooted, lovely invaders. Once they settle into a disciplined garden, they’ll never leave, so beware. Shrub-crawls are a good way to spot them before they mature and multiply. I aim only for control. (My latest strategy for licking ‘Valley girl’ is to tear off her lush leaves. Perhaps in a few years she’d get tired of being stripped bare, and concede. Or not.)
Anyway, I was poking around under a large hydrangea yesterday when a sixty-something man lowered himself to the grass and peered at me through its sun-dappled leaves. “Toodleloooo – I’ve a recipe for you.” Mystified, I extracted myself and took a good look at the guy. British, I decided. He wore a neatly trimmed gray mustache; fringed hair was tidily combed over his wide forehead. Knobby, grass-stained knees emerged from wrinkled khaki shorts, and he wore a pale yellow tee shirt picturing an owl wearing glasses. His own wire spectacles sat crookedly on a long, distinguished-looking nose, and of course, they were too loose: his right index finger had full-time employment as an adjuster.
“I hope I haven’t disturbed you (yep, English), but when I saw all your lovely feverfew I wondered: are you, by chance, bothered by migraine headaches?” He pronounced it the British way- mee-graine.
“Used to be,” I replied, intrigued.
“Well,” he ventured, “I’m a herbalist (typically, he’d pronounced the ‘h’); feverfew’s leaves often arrest migraine pain. They resolve headaches of the ordinary sort, as well. In case you, or a friend, should ever feel adventurous, I offer the recipe for feverfew tea, best enjoyed by adding a touch of honey.”
He pressed a rumpled sheet of paper with scribbled directions into my hand. I peered at the small print.
“Oh, thank you! I’ve known that it’s medicinal, but never have followed up. I’ll brew a pot, should the need arise. It’ll be interesting.”
He adjusted his glasses and smiled. “I’ve truly enjoyed your garden, with its many herbs.”
We exchanged smiles, shook hands, and off he went.
Huh. I had scads of feverfew, which grew where it pleased. It’s easy, though, to pluck out a plantlet that might settle where it isn’t wanted.
The other day a scowling lady asked why I allowed so many of ‘these weeds’ to propagate. “Because,” I said, mildly, “they delight me. Nothing eats them; nothing makes them sick. Besides, I think they’re beautiful.” She sniffed, shook her head and left, radiating disapproval.
“Flea-bitten old grouch,” I muttered, uncharitably. I couldn’t imagine my garden without feverfew.
Just before closing time a young neighborhood child popped in to ask me if I could spare a flower for his visiting granny, who was in the park across the street feeling gloomy. He looked shyly hopeful.
Ha! I had a ‘Bingo!’ moment. “You know,” I said, pointing to the nearest bunch, “feverfew has an interesting sniff, and its daisy flowers seem to last forever. It earned its name because in the old days people who had headaches or fevers found that brewing a tea, using feverfew leaves, would help; aching heads felt better and fevers were fewer!” He giggled. “Best of all, it’s impossible to look at all those bright flowers and not smile. They’re the perfect ‘cheer up’ gift!”
He grin spread.
I ran into the house, fetched a little baggie, filled the bottom with cool water, trimmed a cheerful clutch of sunshine into a bouquet and zipped-locked their stems inside. He yelled his thanks and dashed off, clutching his treasure.
What fun! Normally these pert plants register only in peoples’ peripheral vision, as I suppose they are as common as dirt.
But today, by golly, they were stars.