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As winter releases it’s cold and bony grasp, and we look forward to warmth in the presence of May, I most look forward to, above all else, the return of the lilacs. Hundreds of cobs of bloom appear over smooth, gray trunks, signifying both rebirth and renewal. I do not know of any other flower with a scent more powerful or intoxicating. Their trusses make for the most glorious bouquets, and freshly cut lilacs are quickly becoming a much anticipated spring ritual for me. The genus Syringa contains twenty-three recognized species, and I could probably find good reason to grow every single one if I had the room. For it is difficult to choose between flowers that range from the softest of pinks, the bluest of skies, the richest and deepest of purples, or the palest of yellows. As with all lilacs, they can and will grow to produce impressive clumps that resemble a giant mass of stems and twigs. I prefer to single out three to five strong stems and remove the rest making for a more structural plant. I have learned that lilacs prefer my spring cleaning through bouquet-making, as they begin to produce flower buds from late summer through fall. Pruning too late will spoil the show for the following year. For a long-lasting indoor arrangement, pound the ends of the stems with a hammer or rubber mallet, which will improve their ability to take up water. Native to Europe and Asia, the oldest living lilacs in North America are thought to be those at the Governor Wentworth estate in Portsmouth, N.H., believed to have been planted around 1750. This makes me think about the hands of the person who planted them, and the eyes of those who have admired them. In pastures among ruins of homes long abandoned, there still stands lilacs marking the lives of those who shared happiness, sorrow, hope, and despair. I wonder about their adventures, and where they went. And, I wonder if they considered that the lilac they planted would still be standing, some three lifetimes later.
Zonal denial is defined as attempts to grow plants which are normally limited to milder winter hardiness zones. As our gardening palettes grow, and we become more enthusiastic gardeners, desirable and “must-have” plants begin to become an obsession. After moving to Vermont from the Pacific Northwest and obtaining my empty landscape, I began to dream about the amazing plants and trees that would be filling it. As I set out to begin planting my garden, I paid particular attention to plant labels listing a plant as hardy to zone 4. I dreamt of plants and trees listed as hardy to zone 5 or even 6, but did not give them much more than a meaningful and wistful glance, figuring that they would never survive my climatically challenged garden. As I read various gardening books and resources hungry to learn anything and everything to do with gardening, I discovered that the hardiness maps are not set in stone, but merely a guide. There are many other variables such as micro climates, soil quality, drainage, mulch, and winter protection all of which would help me in pushing my zone to new heights. Although winters in Vermont are undeniably cold, there is reliable snow cover that insulates the ground protecting the roots and crowns of plants. I have posted before about my faithful use of a product called Wilt-Pruf that is sprayed on evergreens to prevent windburn and winter kill. It works by keeping moisture in the leaves. It is a wonderful product, and one that is totally organic and biodegradable. It is best applied after the first hard frost, when moisture has retreated to the plant’s root system. And best of all, if you are a complete procrastinator, as is the case for me this winter, you can also apply it during the January Thaw. When we discovered our property, it seemed to us nearly perfect as it is situated on the top of a ridge and tucked into many surrounding trees. The only thing I could find that we were lacking was a fabulous view. I later learned that this would prove to be beneficial because without a view, we get very little wind which is certainly an enemy to hardiness. I am convinced that the surrounding trees provide us with our own micro climate of zone 5, as frost happens later for us than for those living at the bottom of the ridge, and while it is snowing here, there is nothing happening just a few short miles from us. And, while there are certainly times that I balk at the biting and bitter cold winter days, our climate does afford us opportunities to grow some amazing plants such as Meconopsis betonicifolia, or Blue Himalayan Poppy, and Cypripedium, or Ladyslipper Orchids. Soon after we purchased our property, I found myself with ornamental grasses on my mind and paid visit to a couple of local nurseries. I found myself heartbroken after visiting the first when the employee offered to go out back and get their grass expert, who then came to me with a pot of blue fescue and informed me that this is the only grass that is hardy in Vermont. (How can you be a grass expert if you only sell one type of grass?) Thankfully, I wasn’t about to take her advice whole-heartedly. She could very well have been educated on a variety of grasses, but I think her zoning information was a bit batty. So, I will continue with my wish list containing dreams of Japanese Maples, Magnolias and Witch Hazels, some of which I hope to plant this spring. And, I will continue to take delight in my window shopping of magnificent mail order nurseries such as Seneca Hills Nursery, located in upstate New York. They are certainly not shy when it comes to pushing the zone. As is stated on their website: ”A good gardener experiments. A good gardener kills a lot of plants.”
My mother is the one that infected me with this addiction to gardening. As a kid, I remember she would often be in the garden from the time she got up until it was too dark to see anything. Her rose garden, filled with Floribundas and Hybrid Teas, held magic for me as I strolled along its snaking pathways, examining each flower for its scent and its beauty. The pathway was just wide enough for me and my doll buggy. As we walked through, I would ask my mother to name each rose. Mister Lincoln, Judy Garland, and Queen Elizabeth were there, and you couldn’t help but admire their elegant flowers and intoxicating fragrance. At the time, I didn’t understand why she had so many roses, 48 to be exact. But, the reason is apparent to me now, as I have learned that once you fall in love with a particular genus, there comes a deep desire to collect every species within it. My garden today holds a few of the English roses, mainly as a tribute to my mother’s garden, and the fond memories it holds. But when June arrives, and the roses come into bloom, I always find myself aching for more. I do not remember my very first plant, but three years ago, when I began a garden of my own, one of the first things I planted was an oriental poppy called ‘Patty’s Plum.’ I watched with complete wonder as the crinkled, purple-soaked petals emerged. I was hooked. A second oriental poppy followed, named ‘Beauty of Livermore’, with blood red petals surrounding the most amazing ornamental center. This love of poppies now includes a late winter or early spring scattering of seeds for the black, peony-flowered, and purple-violet blooms of the opium varieties, Papaver somniferum. With over seventy species, I doubt that I could ever grow tired of their beauty. The reasons why I garden are numerous, though I suppose they could be summed up in one phrase: I garden because I simply cannot imagine my life without it. I love the excitement I feel when I wake to a warm, sunny day with no agenda other than to get my hands in the soil. The dirt under my fingernails gives me a feeling of being connected with nature, a sense of accomplishment, and absolute satisfaction. In the garden, the noise in my head is quiet, and the rhythm of weeding and pruning is meditative. In the garden, no one cares what I’m wearing, whether I’ve bothered to put makeup on my face, or if my hair is combed. In the garden, I can completely be myself. |
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It is a beautiful spring day in 1980. I am perched on the old oak window-seat that borders our dining room, studying the mass of white that carpets our backyard. It is not snow, but the fallen petals of my mother’s magnolia tree. Behind the magnolia, arranged in drifts, are daffodils, tulips, and crocus – a sea of color for my starving eyes. Sunlight streams in the windows, casting shadows on the walls of the various potted plants scattered about the house. There are jade and ficus trees and numerous ferns with orchids tucked in between. All are contained in beautiful antique pots, never plastic.
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