A Love of Flowers

I have [somewhere] a vintage black and white photo taken on my 4th birthday. I am sat on the front steps of Grampa Mac's house, legs clad in the long brown stockings my mother favored for everyday warmth, long-sleeved jerseys layered over a woolen skirt. Mid-March after all, is still cold in Vermont.

My gaze is fixed on a pot planted with crocus.

My Mother's notation records that I paid scant attention to my other gifts, being taken up with the pot of blooms.

Elm Row Farm, Grampa Mac's home, was one of the older properties in town, the original house built in 1794. The strip of garden beyond the seldom-used west door had likely been enjoyed and tended by several generations of farm wives. It was anchored at one end with an ancient apricot tree, at the other by a bush honeysuckle which sheltered a carpet of lily of the valley. Thriving on neglect in the narrow grassy strip were lemon lilies, pale lavender iris, red peonies and a tidy shrub rose with pale pink flowers. My Mother recalled the rose, 'The Fairy,' was acquired by her grandmother in return for boxtops cut from cereal cartons and sent off with a fee to cover postage. 

I spent long quiet hours in that shaded garden, singing to myself, lost in imagination.

During the years that Jim and I with our two children shared a big farmhouse with his parents I began to learn more about plants and gardens from his mother. Nana's preference for summer flowers once the blooming of lilacs and peonies were over leaned toward begonias and 'double-ruffled' petunias set about in tubs and large planters. Though never a fan of petunias I did learn from her the skills of starting seeds, transplanting and nurturing, caring for houseplants and garden perennials.

I've left gardens behind in the many places we've lived, only occasionally being able to dig up and carry away some special treasure.

I've learned its not always wise to inquire the fate of a left-behind garden plot.

Each new location brings challenges and rewards. Delphiniums that survived through below zero New England winters languish in the humid heat of Kentucky; hollyhocks planted here succumb to rust. Still, a butterfly bush will make it through most winters, wild daffodils throng roadsides and meadows in March, pansies and violas seed themselves and cheerfully bloom after a February snow. 

My aging bones now protest strongly at hands and knees gardening, but the foxgloves, pinks, coneflowers, and Michalemas daisies started from seed several years ago are happily thriving and spreading without too much intensive labor on my part. There will always be weeds, but thus far the flowers prevail.

In 2020 I bought seed for several varieties of foxglove listed as perennials. Not all proved hardy, but some have thrived, dropping seeds which produced dozens of new plants to be lifted and cosseted in my tiny greenhouse until ready to place in the garden.

Clematis Jackmanii in bloom on the trellis son-in-law Matt ordered made for me. 

Poppy, 'Lauren's Grape' has moved with me through several locations. 

Beautiful and ephemeral.

A lone poppy seeded itself into a large tub of nasturtiums. When the tub was moved to its winter location by a corner of the barn, seed heads shattered and blew across the open sliding door. A plantation of poppies is ready to bloom on the barn threshold and inside on the gravel floor.

Note Willis-the-cat peeking at the edge of the door.

David Austin rose 'The Poet's Wife' blooming in spite of being pummeled by torrential rains.

A small shrub rose, name-tag faded and eventually lost.

This rose was struggling where it had been planted too close to the foundation of our Amish farmhouse. It spent several seasons in the rough strip where it was hastily interred here in late autumn 2018. Last summer I moved it to the raised planting at the west of our current house, replacing David Austin 'Roald Dahl' which succumbed to the brutal freeze early in 2023.

There was no tag on the rose when I rescued it, although it resembles a shrub rose called 'Cameo.'

Nigella--'Love-in-a Mist'--once planted a garden will never be without it.

My family members know that container plants, gift certificates to my favorite garden nursey, flats of annuals from the local Amish auctions, will be gratefully received. Several tubs remain to be filled.

Clematis 'Edita' has overtaken her companion 'Samaritan Jo' on the wonky fence.

Flowers for Mother's Day and beyond. Hot-house bouquets, garden flowers, wildflowers--all bring joy that outlasts their days of bloom.

Rosie-cat shares my appreciation of flowers--although she must sometimes be reminded that a vase of blooms is not there for her to rearrange.

 

Green Darkness

Rain and wind moved in early Friday evening. This photo and the one below were taken within minutes; I'm not sure why the light looks so different. It was one of those times when the air goes strangely still and the sky seems to drop low overhead, just before wind begins to stir the trees and rain pelts down.

The landscape of new spring green was vivid in spite of cloud cover.

I rushed out to salvage peonies--their opening signals rain every year.

I think this is the vintage variety 'Maxima.'

Hawkeye Belle

Howard arrived Thursday evening with a load of compost from one of the area Beachy Amish farms. I've used the black nursery bins to over-winter excess plants, some set into the soil, others ranged in pots. The plants all had to be hoicked out so the bins could be topped up. Some had rooted in so deeply that Jim had to lift them with a broad-tined garden fork.

I was concerned that disturbing and resettling the plants would result in wilt. Rain during the night refreshed them.

David Austin 'Queen of Sweden ' on the left and 'The Poet's Wife' on the right. Both are in exuberant early bloom in spite of some leaf damage from sawfly larvae. 

The dark iris planted by a former owner of the property flanked by peonies.

Today has brought more rain, sometimes in heavy bursts, then sun emerging from billows of cloud. There have been occasional rattles of distant thunder.

I walked the meadow loops in fresh-scented dusky evening--trailed by cats.

I came inside for scissors and clipped two more bouquets of roses. 

Rosie-cat is intrigued by flowers in a vase; I always have at least one feline in residence who is compelled to prod at flowers, spattering water and strewing petals across the table.

Damp feet--yet another pair of 'rubber' boots that have sprung leaks at the seams. These were cheap ones purchased a year ago. I've had pricier 'wellies' which did no better.

Wet feet distress me!

I remember my Dad patching our boots when my sisters and I were children. He had a 'kit' with cloth backed patches which could be cut to size, a little tool for roughing up the area to be repaired, a tube of rubber cement. 

More rain is forecast for the week. I think I will repair my boots with duct tape--futile frugality!

 

"April With Its Showers Sweet"

Whan that April with his showres soote

The droughte of March hath perced to the root

The first phrase of the Prologue to The Canterbury Tales has stuck in my ragbag mind, yet I had to search to remember the source.

[Did we struggle through the 'tales' in the Old English or in a modern transcription? That I can't recall. At least it was a more edifying assignment than the bloody Beowulf!]

I have marveled through the years at the phrases that have taken up lodging in my mind, words that swirl and surface when least expected: disconnected bits from English literature; a line from an old hymn; the annoying repetition of a song blaring from a radio; sonorous phrases from the King James Bible.

We have experienced an early spring this April in south-central Kentucky, gentle rains, warm days and only a few very light frosts that haven't blighted the first rush of leaf and bloom.

Walking the loop of the upper meadow, down the grass-grown lane past the small old barn we call the 'snake shed', back to the house, changes are almost daily evident. 

Mayapple emerged along the edges of the south ravine, tight green parasols that thrust upward in spreading clumps to shelter the single white blossom that huddles at the base of each stem.

Dogwood bloomed in a petticoat froth as redbud faded to a pale pink haze; now the white petals drift down to lie lightly on the mown grass.

Spring is a fickle season, seeming to advance in fits and starts of chill sparkling mornings, afternoons that hint of summer heat. Hummingbirds arrived on April 14th, bluebirds, goldfinches and cardinals are busy. 

 

From the ravine the distinctive voice of the pileated woodpecker is interspersed with his determined hammering on a dead tree. For a few days I could sometimes catch a glimpse of him, now his activities are screened by the leaves of tulip poplar, sycamore and maple. 

Swallowtail butterflies appeared in time to drift over the blooms of lilac and hybrid magnolias; they linger to enjoy the flowering sage. Small blue butterflies dart up from the meadow grass, light on the swaying clumps of pink-stained fleabane.

Along the east boundary fence and where the south ravine widens into a deep gulley, blackberry brambles and wild rosa carolina edge into the verge that Jim attempts to keep in check. Walking at twilight the perfume of their delicate blossoms almost compensates for their invasive ways.

I carry my camera or my phone as I trudge along the paths, recording the daily changes: the wild blue phlox that bloomed in a tangle of under-story brush then disappeared without a trace; spiderwort in the deep shade, a swath of lyre-leaved sage just beyond the shed, the stiff papery blooms of the tulip poplars.

Of all the seasons spring is the welcome time that finally arrives after the long dormancy of winter, the season that rushes headlong into the humid heat of summer. 

'Slow down! Wait! Give us a few more days to notice and enjoy!'

Scrolling through my photo record of an April quickly receding into time and memory the words of a Psalm drift to the surface.

"As for man, his days are like grass; As a flower of the field, so he flourishes.

For the wind passes over it, and it is gone, And its place remembers it no more."

Dogwood in bloom.

Dogwood petals strewn on the grass that borders the south ravine.

Wild rose.

False Solomon's seal.

Lyre-leaved sage.

Peony buds.

First rose of the season, Hawkeye Belle.

Centranthus ruber/red valerian.

Pinks and foxglove, grown from seed and spreading. 

Clematis Samaritan Jo and Candida, tied now to the fence and trellises but overlapping in territory.

Clematis Arabella, peeking between leaves of Candida.

Arabella.

This nameless survivor of the bargain plants from Spring Hill. It resembles Candida.

Standing on tip-toe to capture Candida at the top of the trellis.

Samaritan Jo.

 

April Flowers

Redbud in bloom--now only a memory until another spring.

I don't recall that yellow violets were in such profusion during other years. These flourished through cold and rainy weather. 

Oxalis--it opens in the cool of morning, folds its petals during sunny afternoons. 

The green umbrellas of May-apple. I noticed today that the small white blossoms are beginning to open--they grow at the base of the plants, difficult to capture in a photo.

Like the redbud, the lilacs have had their brief and fragrant time. 

Long-spurred violet, viola rostrata. This is the first year I've found these on the property--a clump of them in the wooded edge of the north ravine.

Oxalis, folded for the afternoon.

Iris opening outside the lower level window.

Clematis Dr. Ruppel in first flush of bloom. 

Clematis, Samaritan Jo

My favorite, vintage Candida.

Photos taken and loaded into a draft a week ago. I intended being more faithful to the blog this month, especially as April brings such exuberant bloom to our area.

I've been taking photos with my new iphone 11--the process of transferring them to a post was a mystery. These are from my faithful point and shoot Canon.

Thanks to the tech expertise of my grandson, I may be advancing on the learning curve and hope to share better photos.

 

Kildeers

Kildeers arrived from their cold weather habitats while it was still officially winter here in south-central Kentucky.

By February they were in evidence as I walked along the gravel lane that connects us to the main road.

They swooped low over our neighbor's cow pasture, alighting to strut along the verge of the lane uttering their distinctive cry, 'Peent, peent!'

Watching them I hoped  that avian wisdom would caution against eggs laid in weather that would surely drop below freezing.

During the past two weeks the warning cries of the kildeers have become more strident, their zig-zag flights more pronounced whenever I walk along the lane or in the adjoining meadow.

Friday as I walked along the freshly graveled portion of the lane, a kildeer flew up from the bank screaming frantically, doing the classic 'broken wing' maneuver in front of me.

Stepping cautiously along the stony edge of the bank I discovered the nest--if it can be called that--eggs deposited in a slight depression in the rough ground.

I fetched my simple camera from the house, trudged back to where the kildeer once again went into defensive display.

The nest contained four or five eggs, several of which were split open with baby birds motionless amidst the shattered shells. One egg had only a hairline crack. I suspected that the tiny birds were dead.

When I returned in the evening there was no sign of broken eggshells. One baby bird was on the ground, legs tucked under its body. I touched it ever so gently with one finger and it stirred.

Jim and I walked that way at about 6 Saturday evening. 

I had built a small cairn of light colored rocks to mark the place.

Several kildeers swooped about us, following us to the mailbox, but there was no frantic diversionary display or interest in the spot where the eggs had been.

No baby bird remained, there was nothing to indicate that the spot had been a nest site.

Standing quietly by the fence we observed the tiny birds scuttling around a tussock of grass at a little distance, while the adult kildeers circled nearby, vocalizing.

A google search informs that kildeers spend 22-28 days incubating their clutch of 4-6 eggs; kildeer chicks hatch fully feathered and as soon as the feathers dry they are ready to toddle about.

It is estimated that only 53-60 percent of the hatchlings fledge.

This is the second kildeer nest I've discovered here; kildeers apparently don't choose nesting spots with safety in mind. Their distinctive markings and behaviors make them an interesting addition to our rural landscape. Of my several efforts to zoom in on mother kildeer's protective antics, I'm pleased with the photo below.