Fathers Day lesson: time is the greatest gift

My father was most definitely a self-made man: striving, thrifty, hard-working, and devotedly civic-minded.  His internal engine ran on the energy of personal improvement. One of the first financial lessons that my father taught me was the value of long-term planning.  "When it comes to saving, time is the greatest gift," he would said.  As a graduate student, I plowed my fellowship and teaching stipends into a long-term IRA, even at the short-term cost of a diet based on lentils, peanut butter, and rice and living in the sort of housing that rents for $86.63/month.  It might seem crazy for a 22-year old kid to be saving for retirement, but I'm glad now to have started my nest egg way back then. That compound interest thing is kind of amazing.

The same gift of time applies with dahlias.  An over-wintered row of plants is now in bloom.  The burgundy blooms of "Arabian Night" are leading the show.  "Pattycake" is following fast behind.  

In comparison, the "Rose Toscano" tuber that I planted in late May is just breaking the soil.  Flowering is a long time off.

The gift of  time given to those over-wintered dahlias, along with some peony foliage and Alchemilla lady's mantle, pays off with a Father's Day bouquet. And at a price that my frugal father  would definitely have approved!

Good thymes

Anyone who ever read Edward Eager's "thyme" travel stories as a child appreciates all the magical possibilities of this herb. I still wonder, like the characters in Eager's books, if I crush the scented leaves of creeping thyme (Thymus serpyllum Coccineus), will I find myself transformed into a baby crawling on all fours?  And a sniff of orange thyme takes me where? To a fruit farm in California or Florida? What delicious adventures are hinted by pink lemonade thyme, coconut thyme, or lime thyme?

Carefully stewarding my youthful sense of wonder, I remain open to the possibility of a flight of fantasy from my workaday world.  So my garden always has space for thyme.  Right now, a blooming carpet of creeping thyme is cascading over the front stone wall. Around the back, common thyme (Thymus vulgaris)  has settled in next to a bed of mint. (I like pretty shiny sparkly things just enough to enjoy that time trip.)

And a little clump of lemon thyme (Thymus x citriodorus) is flourishing in an herb pot. 

I'm not big on garden ornaments, but how wonderful would be a sundial with some cryptic horological inscription--"Heed also the shadows which inform the light" or my personal motto, "Festina lente"--to convey oneself back to a leisurely childhood afternoon of reading fantasy books on the lawn. Or maybe a sundial reading "Knowledge is the sun of youth's bright day." 

Bees: Les liaisons dangereuses

Let me start off by saying that I am extremely allergic to bees.  Like emergency room visit, full body hives, childhood marked off by weekly desensitizing shots, and Epi-Pen kind of allergic. So gardening brings along with it a certain amount of danger. I take great care to avoid all Hymenoptera--bees, wasps, and yellow jackets alike--and to not put any body part into a place where it is likely to be stung.

But sometimes bees make hives in the last place that you'd imagine. Over the years, we've had plenty of nests snuggled in behind shutters or angled into the corners of window jambs. That's where I expect to see their light brown papery houses and, during the summer, I keep an ear out to pinpoint their buzzing along the favored south side of the house. But where I don't anticipate a bee's nest is inside a pot of living plants.

Anyway, about a month ago, I had quickly dug up a clump of over-wintering sedums into order to plant several Coreopsis verticillata "Zagreb."  Rather than transplant the sedums into their summertime pot right then, I simply tossed them into the container, doused them with water, and figured that they'd hang on just fine until I had a chance to do a proper re-planting.  Yesterday, I was finally ready to compose my summertime succulent table centerpiece.

As I was lifting loose bunches of sedum from their temporary resting place, I grabbed a most peculiar plant from underneath the soil. At first, I thought that it was a downwards-growing spore sac or some crazy mixed-up version of hen-and-chicks, but as soon as I saw bees swarming, my own crazy mixed-up neurons began to fire in the most precise survivalist way, and I realized that I was holding a bee's nest.

I dropped the nest and stepped away so my non-allergic husband could take charge.  Oh, yeah, there was a little hootin' and hollerin' involved. The hive fell to pieces; the brown paper walls and base shook loose from a neat little comb. Smoke from a small fire kept the bees away while the situation was assessed. In the end, we bagged up and discarded the comb. I am sympathic to the plight of honeybees, but a live comb was going to interfere with my future plans . . . like having a future . . .  and I didn't like the idea of tossing the comb where some other possibly allergic soul could stumble into an accidental encounter.  Meantime, a lone bee kept returning to the scene of the crime, buzzing low, and speeding away. Something poignant in his search . . . but, sentimentality aside, he was probably just flying on hard-wired autopilot.

Finally, the pot of succulents was assembled: hen and chicks Sempervivum sp., Sedum x "Vera Jameson," Sedum spurium "John Creech," and Sedum rupestre. Bees are welcome to visit. 

Garden goalroll, 2012

For several years, I have run a garden goalroll. This is my place to scribble horticultural marginalia and to post reminders about what needs doing when. Or to record what I still haven't done.  

June

Move potted amaryllis bulbs outdoors and feed regularly with liquid fertilizer.

Edge garden beds.

Continue to prune into shape front foundation plantings and yews along side property line.

Scratch 1 1/4 cups of RoseTone around the roots of "New Dawn" climbing rose now monthly through the summer; be sure to stop feeding by August 15 in order to prevent developing new growth that will not have time to harden off before fall temperatures drop. Done June 2.

After flowering, shear Amsonia hubrichtii by 1/3 of its height to promote better form. Done June 10.

When it is 3 feet tall, cut Joe pye weed "Gateway" back to half its height to encourage dense growth. Done June 2. 

Stake dahlias when the tubers are planted and again and again as they grow. Stop dahlias by pinching stem back to four pairs of leaves. Ongoing.

Pinch back shasta daisies to 6".

And stake, stake, stake!

July

Yes, it's dreadfully hot and humid, but pour yourself a tall glass of iced tea and get out there in the early morning cool to prune the "New Dawn" climbing rose.  Cut it back hard.


Late August/Early September

Separate Siberian irises to left of kitchen door and along left side of back bed (Eric the Red).

Columbus Day

Add more miniature daffodils and 100-250 allium "Ostrowkianum" to beds by side of front walk and at least 50 more wood hyacinths "Dainty Maid" to old back bed. 

Order 12 or more hyacinth bulbs, at least 25 paperwhite narcissus bulbs, and 2 amaryllis bulbs for indoor forcing.

Dig in bone meal around peonies.

Lightly feed evergreens along front of house with Holly-Tone.

Move potted amaryllis bulbs indoors and chill in refrigerator.

Veterans Day

While daytime temperatures are still above 40 degrees, spray an anti-transpirant, like Wilt-Pruf or Wilt Stop, on "Sky Needle" hollies to prevent winter kill.

Top-dress beds with composted cow manure.

Thanksgiving

Winter-sow larkspur seeds.

Late December

Start planning plant purchases for 2013.

Suficiente Hyacinthoides hispanica

Last fall, I planted 50 bulbs of  Hyacinthoides hispanica "Dainty Maid" in a partly shady garden bed along the side property line.  My idea was to use these Spanish hyacinths as replacements for a scatter of rabbit-ravaged tulips.  

Come May, the Spanish hyacinths are in bloom. They do supply a modest flecking of pink between a couple of ripening peonies and a blue-budding Amsonia hubrichtii.  Nothing spectacular, nothing as bells and whistles show-stopping as a spring stand of Darwin tulips--just an adequate bit of color.  Suficiente. 

And that's quite okay.  By this time of year, I'm not so visually starved that I crave the big bright gulps of color offered by garish purple, orange, and red tulips and acid-yellow daffodils.  My palette is now able to appreciate a more delicate and frothy confection.  Sufficient is just fine.