Showing posts with label hideous horticulture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hideous horticulture. Show all posts

Thursday, August 02, 2007

Fashion victim

I try to focus on the stylish side of Mother Nature here. She's a pretty eco-chic lady, what with heirloom species, xeriscaping, and locally-grown produce. But sometimes Mother Nature receives some very bad fashion advice. The result may be visually unbalanced, horticulturally inappropriate, or just plain ugly.

Others have posted rants railing against such offenses as red mulch, gum-drop pruning, and unnecessary tree removal. Here's my addition to these blights . . .



While driving around town the other day, I was lightning-bolted by this sight. What botanical vision spawned this monstrous candy-striped worm of a flower bed? As if petunias, impatiens, begonias, and other "public garden" plants don't already have a bad enough reputation!

Then, on the way home today, I encountered a less lush but equally stripey version. What part of this looks good? It's painful to think that such an ill-conceived design was any gardener's goal. Another benefit of annuals: a short season.

Saturday, February 24, 2007

Double take

I have strong recollections of my mother's garden. I remember in particular one bed that edged the driveway was planted every summer with a line of red salvia. (Maybe those horticultural horrors contributed to my decision to leave home.) So when I chanced upon this photograph, it brought back memories of the technicolor 1970's. Those ghastly salvia look like the flames of hell. But what would an Antarctic explorer, Washington lawyer, former debutante, and unidentified fellow traveler be doing in a sulfurous place like that? (Drinking bourbon and branch, I suspect.)



So imagine my surprise when I saw another photograph of the same flower bed taken earlier in the same year and from a different angle.



I don't remember any irises in that garden--but there they are--and blooming a cool, subdued shade of lilac. I do recall a dark red peony--and, there is it, too--but when I asked my mother many years later if I could have a division from that plant, she didn't remember it in her garden. Memories can create their own gardens, I guess.