Spring uncertainties

I'm thinking of Robert Frost's "A Prayer for Spring" on this early April day:

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Pansies and tulips last week . . .

Because with the uncertainties of a New England spring, it's difficult to look beyond what blows in with the next change of weather.  Thoughts of harvest are very far away on this snowy day.



The same, today

Geraniums: celebrating the commonplace

Until a couple of years ago, I had always lumped geraniums into that group of trailer trash flowers--carnations, impatiens, petunias--that Big Box stores and uninspired landscapers inflict upon horticulturally sensitive souls. With such diversity of plant life available, why bother with geraniums? They are boring and clichéd. And they smell funny.

But then I went to France.  Specifically, I went to Alsace, the eastern region of France that borders the river Rhine.  This is the country of geraniums, half-timbered buildings, and Riesling wine. Geraniums could be found in every window box: sometimes the classic red flowers, other times shades of pink, coral, or white.  There were grand blossom-loaded shows as well as more modest displays.

Clockwise from upper left: Colmar, Abbey Mont St. Odile, Riquewihr, Abbey Mont St. Odile, Colmar, Hunspach, Colmar; Center: Colmar

And the bounty was not limited to private houses.  In the Alsatian countryside, even farm wagons, cemetery crosses, and memorial chapels deserved a decking out.

Clockwise from upper left: Aschbach wagon, Oberroedern cross, Aschbach chapel 

So I kept this celebration of the commonplace in mind when I was setting up my containers this summer.  By the back door--the private area that's just for friends and family--I tucked together a big pot of zonal geraniums. A deep red glazed planter now holds a load of Tango Salmon geraniums. Somehow, this tidy, hard-working, and proudly unimaginative display feels right (and, dare I say, stereotypically Alsatian).

Transitions

Cleaning up hurricane damage this weekend started the transition towards winter.  The weather was cold and clear, the skies were sunny, and there was such a lot to do!

Cross off the seasonal chore list:

1. Cut "New Dawn" climbing rose to 6' tall young-middle aged canes and temporarily secure with stakes and twine; cut and bag the rest of the foliage for removal
2. Empty containers: harvest hot peppers, transplant herbs, and compost everything else
3. Plant 50 "Queen of the Pinks" Spanish hyacinth bulbs
4. Cut down peonies and clean away dead foliage; still need to apply bone meal
5. Pull up and discard faded annuals
6. Mow lawn: cut short and chop up fallen leaves

Only that little bit was accomplished? Geez . . . this transition needs to slow its speed . . . 

Harvesting surprises

This year, I limited my edible garden to a big container of Sungold tomatoes. Three plants yielded a couple of handfuls of little yellow tomatoes each week.  There were just enough to graze through when working in the garden, but not enough to pick for cooking.



 

 

But you'll notice that in addition to the yellow Sungolds in the photograph above, there are some bursting at the seams red grape tomatoes.  Oh, those bad boys! These muscley guys sprung from a rogue plant that either self-sowed from last year's tomato crop or sprouted from a topdressing of spring compost.

 

 

 

Either way, this rambunctious tomato plant is busy growing up and over a nearby peony. I don't think that this is what is intended by the current fashion of interplanting flowers and vegetables but, hey, until the first frost clips the harvest, this unruly jumble of vegatation and little fruiting flowers is good by me.

 

 

And also good by me are these ripening ornamental peppers, a bonus from a more decorative container. Don't think that I'll be grabbing a bunch for casual snacking any time soon--hopefully, they're hot enough to add a spicy kick to whatever's cooking!

 

 

Sungold harvest

This year, I planted two pots of "Sungold" cherry tomatoes, along with the usual container of "Sugary" grape tomatoes.  The good news is that we now have lots of cherry tomatoes, even after the low-hanging fruit has been harvested by the local bunnies.  This plate is holding about half of what ripened up over the Labor Day weekend.

The not-so-good news is that in comparison with the sweet grape tomatoes, these cherry tomatoes taste bitter. Maybe it wouldn't be noticeable if there was only one crop but with the sugary competition, these cherry tomatoes are also-rans.  And, while the tomato fruits are perfect saffron-colored spheres, the plants' growth habit is slovenly, sprawling, and downright shabby.

A few are being eaten straight off the vine (by humans), but most have been regulated to cooking tomatoes.  They are serving in pasta dishes and ratatouille and as salad garnish.  Did I mention that we now have lots of them?  Oh, yeah. Maybe next year, we'll have none.

Yellow flowers in containers

This year, I replaced the succulents in my outdoor table centerpiece with a slew of yellow flowering annuals-- Osteospermum "Lemon Symphony," Calibrachoa hybrid "Yellow Chiffon"--accented with blue flecks of Ageratum "Hawaii Blue" and Nemesia fruticans "Bluebird."



Another container boasts a host of yellow flowers that will soon ripen into vegetables. These summer-promising "Sungold" cherry tomatoes were transplanted just a couple of weeks ago.

Of baby birds and their mothers

Every year, I fill up a big bowl with various low growing succulents, like this Sedum spurium "Fuldaglut," and every fall I transplant them to a spare corner of the garden to over-winter. Come spring, these succulents don't look like much, but after returning them to their bowl and providing a few months of motherly care, they make quite an acceptable centerpiece for our table outdoors.



Hen and chicks, Sempervivum sp., is very happy in this company. Every year, it shoots out bunches of little offsets, like those to the right of the picture below.



Mature plants send up a column topped with tiny spectacular flowers. This current display of little stars marks the grand finale. As the blooms fade, so will the mother hen.



Today, I discovered that we have another family of baby birds in the back yard. This nest of robin chicks, spotted while cleaning gutters, is tucked up in the rose arbor outside the kitchen door. I'm hoping that the mother bird plans to be around for awhile.

Happy Mother's Day

Because my mother-in-law is such a culinary wizard, Mother's Day means a big pot of chives, thyme, rosemary, parsley, and oregano.



Unfortunately, I am away on business travel this week--missing several glorious days of gardening and Mother's Day celebrations. Sigh.

Drops in a bucket

I returned home from a week on the road to find the garden essentially unchanged. It must not have rained a single day! Now drought, before flood.

This was a challenging year for container plants. The sedums have happily survived the summer's fluctuations in rainfall, thanks to a well-drained clay pot.



However, an iron planter of Salvia farinacea "Blue Victoria" never had an opportunity to flaunt its drought tolerance, being totally flooded out in early summer. Wetter and wiser, I switched to clay pots, just in time for this change in the weather.

Surviving on the front step is this pot of purple fountain grass Pennisetum setaceum "Rubrum," assorted coleus, fuchsia "Gartenmeister Bonstedt," and the barely in control sweet potato vine Ipomoea batatas "Margarita."



I have very strong opinions about what plants belong in containers--no, nyet, nein to the cliche of red geraniums or big blossom petunias. Don't get me started. The growing season is too short!