seasons

The back yard

Seven summers ago, I started a new life devoted to writing, in Provincetown. Naturally, I wanted to distract myself. My apartment was surrounded by growth. The front garden was tamed by the former tennant, an admirable writer, who grew epic tomatoes and many herbs.  I was told repeatedly, though,  that nothing would grow in the back, though; too much shade, poor soil; wind.

Nothing motivates me more than a gardening challenge. I researched Cape Cod garden peculiarities, studied books on soil improvement, and shade gardens all winter long. In the spring, I got to work.

The back had two bare plots, divided by a common gravel path.  The north-facing cement wall, aka foundation,  featured a tangle of wires and meters, and wooden fences ran along the east and west sides.  The front was seperated from the wetlands by another gravel footpath.  It wasn’t a secret graden, or a reading nook to escape with a book and tea.  Without privacy, the backyard became a place to landscape and learn.  The nooks and bits of garden I’d had before mostly consisted of pots, and not much dug into the ground.  So, right off, I bought a shovel, pruners, and a rake, and the first in a series of garden hoses.   The pruners especially rusted magnificantly.    

Two hostas already grew along one fence, so I took the cue, and planted a few more. I found cinnamon fern, dicentra, astilbe, Forget-me-not, sweet woodruff, and huchera in the local nurseries. I added that year’s star perennial, geranium Rozanne, and some annuals, guided by garden catelougues, books, and sales.  

2012

Things grew slowly that year, but steadily. Clematis came next, and buddleia. I tried a potted dahlia, trout lilies, and to my surprise, I had a volunteer Joe Pye’s Weed. The latter was good for the bees, my gardener friend told me, and she gave me some monarda to plant as well.

2014

I kept trying new things, like margoton lilies, heirloom glads, snake’s head fritilleria. Some plants reassuringly appeared year after year, while others, like the trout lilies and buddleia, last only a five years. One year, the cinnamom ferns kept having babies. But the garden feels incomplete. It lacks a sense of sanctuary, a sense of safety. It looks good in parts, but does it have a sense of harmony? I have my catelogues and graph paper out. I’m watching garden shows and taking notes. If you have suggestions, I’m listening. (Below the next two photos is a slideshow.)740″] Fern explosion, 2017?[/caption]

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Editing

Indira Ganesan, Trio, 2015

Indira Ganesan, Trio, 2015

 

I think it’s been said before that weeding a garden is like editing, getting rid of what is excessive, creating more room for the essentials to grow.  I first heard the editing metaphor from a wise friend who applied it to her home.  Instead of using the trendy concept of “decluttering,” editing her space made it sound more mindful, more serious.  So, I edit the garden as autumn comes with its cool weather, right on time.  The geese, the ones who leave, have returned, and primary colors of summer are fading.  So much in the garden was attacked by downy mildew and black spot.  I let the crabgrass alone, and it grew in a verdant lush.  So today, I waded in, and pulled out dying purple-flowered mint lookalikes, and pushed upright the oregano which was beaten horizontal by a storm, uncovering tender rosemary and chocolate mint.

The previous gardener planted the oregano, the sage, and thyme.  I added dill, more lavender.  The bees, honey and bumble, are feasting on the oregano flowers, and the catmint.  After the oregano dies back, I am thinking of clearing some to plant another rose, a strong scented one like Gertrude Jekyll, or Jude the Obscure. I think I’ll add more white flowers next , for the effect at night.  The success I had with white cosmos planted with seed my first summer has never been repeated, and I think I will move on.

Editing.  What can be reined in, what can expand to fill the bare spots? And how will the end match the spontaneity of the spring, the opening?  I would like to bring in some orange for the autumn.  There is an American beauty dahlia that is quietly blooming, and the purple Diva made its emergence last week like Barbara Streisand at the Harmonia Gardens restaurant staircase in Hello, Dolly!

Maybe, next time, a grouping of one kind of dahlia, instead of lonely specimens.   Geraniums in the front.  The experimentalization giving away to the tried and true. For a kind of subconscious closure, I planted some sweet peas among the morning glories, and they are about six inches tall, their tiny tendrils looking to grab onto something.

It’s all about death and dying and rebirth, isn’t it, the seasons, and literature?

 

Seasonal Change

red-autumn-leaves-free-beautiful-wallpaper-download-for-your-desktop-20140809182600-53e667b84982c

red-autumn-leaves-free-beautiful-wallpaper-download-for-your-desktop-20140809182600-53e667b84982c

The leaves are changing.  More and more

I see red patches over-taking the green, even as the Google Doodle

has let us know, for two days now,

that autumn is here.

How fresh the green was

back in the spring, how voluptuous

the reds and purples of summer.

Autumn  delivers fire to burn away growth.

Winter will cleanse out the palate,

give us a blank slate

to rest our eyes.

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