Waving the flag

It may be a day before the real flag-waving, local parading, and fireworks launching is celebrated, but there is no holding back these blue flag irises (Iris versicolor).  Last year--after four increasingly exasperating years of watching only foliage--these clumps kicked up a single bloom.  This year, I had about a dozen beautiful blue violet blooms.

These plants are located at one end of the rain garden in an area that captures the downhill flow of water.  Although the clumps of tubers ride high above the level of pooled water, the entire spread remains damp 24/7.  In order to encourage the even and generous distribution of water along the length of the rain garden and to remove the encroachment of other wet-footed plants, I clean out along the borders of this bed about once a month. It's down and dirty work.

But these blooms, they make me feel like all of it--the watching, the waiting, the muck slopping, and the weed pulling--is worth it.  A little quiet flag waving.

Winning a reprieve

It's been four years since I started to make a raingarden out of a wet corner of the backyard.  The first plants stuck into that mucky mess were blue flag irises (Iris versicolor).  Winter, summer, spring, fall: there has always been plenty of green spiky iris foliage but never, ever, any flowers.  This spring, I was becoming so exasperated with the lack of bloom performance that I was wondering exactly how bad it would be if I replaced these blue flags with yellow iris (Iris pseudacorus).  Yes, my line of thinking/rationalization went, yellow iris is listed as an invasive by the USDA and prohibited as a noxious weed in Massachusetts, but they look so lovely blooming in May and June along the margin of our town pond.  So, if yellow irises are flourishing on town property, how bad could they really be?

Thankfully, I was saved from sliding down that slippery slope by a single blossom.  At last, the blue flag sent up a flower.  And it is beautiful.  So, no doubt, this iris wins a reprieve.

Okay, I was so surprised to see this blue flag that after I uttered, "What the what?!" and caught my breath, I had a little episode of photographic mania.  I just had to document the event . . . again . . . and over again . . .  Now, if I could only figure how to spur more blooms.  

Jumping in with both feet

This weekend, we dug out the little stream that drains into the raingarden, laid some stones and planted a few ferns, grasses, and flowers in the muck. Yeah, it's kind of a hot mess. I have absolutely no idea how this excavation will affect our soggy hillside. The plan here is just to shut your eyes and jump in with both feet (or maybe, more accurately, follow the Leeroy Jenkins strategy).

Several hundred pounds of wet gray clay were replaced with a mix of peat moss and composted cow manure.  From one of my favorite small providers, Lazy S's Farm Nursery in Virginia, I ordered some marsh ferns (Thelypteris palustris), variegated sweet flags (Acorus gramineus "Golden Ogon") and dwarf goldenrods (Solidago x "Little Lemon").  They are now settling into their new home.  Hopefully, this little spray of goldenrod buds means they plan to stay. 

Damp drought

Although we have been suffering through a string of blastingly sunny hot summer days, one corner of the garden is absolutely flourishing.

The raingarden is over-flowing with black-eyed Susans (Rudbeckia fulgida "Goldsturm"), Joe Pye Weed (Eupatorium maculatum "Gateway"), and Northern sea oats (Chasmanthium latifolium).

And that's because even during this drought, we have plenty of water running through this area. Our two-year old French drain is very effectively catching water as it flows down the back hillside. By the end of each steaming hot day, the standing water in the raingarden has evaporated, leaving just a margin of damp silt.

But by the next morning, water has pooled again.

Despite the French drain, the grass downhill is damp and squishy. And water is rising to the ground surface just uphill. What to do?

I am thinking that this hillside stream might have to helped along: removing the sod, inserting a series of flat stones to ladder and guide the flow, and edging the course with some marsh ferns (Thelypteris palustris), a low growing goldenrod (Solidago canadensis "Baby Gold"), and a dwarf sweet flag grass (Acorus gramineus "Golden Ogon").

This re-visioning was totally inspired by (soggy feet every morning and) a recent ramble through a profusion of Joe Pye Weed, goldenrod, cattails and loosestrife in the wetter parts of our local conservation land at Rock Meadow.

Yellow, purple, green, and pink. I'm in.

Spring's spring thaw

Here's the first part of the yard to thaw: the spring that rises on the back slope and flows into the rain garden (and forms icy puddles beyond). Snow cover doesn't last long over this spot. Every year the configuration of damp ground changes in this general area. This year, there seems to be more dampness and more ground involved.



Despite the snow and ice, the blue flag irises seem to love this cold muck. Who knew you could be so happy standing outside all winter with your feet in icy water?

2009 plant orders, the first installment

A foot of snow over the holiday weekend means it's time to think about plant orders before winter craziness sets in. Stat!

Therapy for today:

1. Lobaugh's Dahlias: Rose Toscano (2 tubers), Rae Ann's Peach (1), Karras 150 (2), Park Princess (2)

2. Bluestone Perennials: Chasmanthium latifolium Northern sea oats (2), Aster novae-angliae "Purple Dome" (3)

3. Select Seeds: Sweet pea "Old Spice" (err, seed)

More later.

Why it's called a raingarden

How, you might ask, has the raingarden been handling this wet, wet summer? Absolutely thriving. During a recent sunny interval, it was strutting its stuff. Yes, that's water from a recent shower pooled along both edges. This near end with the blue flag irises is definitely damper than the far end that's anchored by Joe Pye weed. An underground stream keeps this corner wet even without rain.



Okay, the shape of the bed is rather too angular and plants look young. But after all, they are just getting their feet wet this first summer. I'm simply pleased that it is possible to grow something flowery in such a damp, poorly drained place. Only one plant hasn't flourished--my mallows are just a blink bigger than when they were transplanted back in May. A few more leaves, perhaps, but not much taller. A purple lobelia might be substituted next summer.



For height, I have to rely on this Joe Pye weed "Gateway." Like a gangly teenager, it's a little scrawny now but should fill out just fine. I'm ready to push this experiment further.

Raingarden in action

Showers over the past few days have put the raingarden through its paces. The verdict? It works. At this early stage, it may not look like much--a little trench of muck holding rather ungraceful lines of irises, marsh marigolds Caltha palustris, mallows, and a scattering of black-eyed Susans Rudbeckia fulgida var. sullivantii "Goldsturm"--but there is greenery, growth, and even a few flowers.



These Siberian irises "Butter and Sugar" are lighting up one end. They were the more plebian but who-cares-because-they're-blooming substitution for the exotic but oh-so-unavailable-from-any-nursery "Aichi no Kagayaki" cross of Iris pseudacorus x Iris ensata that I had planned on planting.



Another eco-system joins the little patches of meadow and woodland in my backyard.

Raingarden revisions revised

Showers are forecast for four of the next five days, which leads me to think about plans for my raingarden. Here is a revision that incorporates my first plant order of the season.



Can't wait for the weather to warm, skies to clear, snow to melt, and winter to be gone!

Plant order, the first installment

Another happy winter activity: placing the first plant order of 2008!

If you have acute vision, it might just be possible to read the chart below. Or just click on it to open the chart in a larger window.



Here are some highlights of that small print . . .

Joe Pye weed "Gateway": Last summer, when collecting my son from a day of labor for his aunt's landscape gardening company, I saw this dramatic plant growing in a client's yard. The dark purple stems topped by lilac flower heads produced no ordinary Joe Pye weed: it was architectural when still and graceful when stirred by a breeze.

Dahlias: I admit that I am powerless over dahlias. And I am definitely not interested in joining a 12-step recovery program. Last year, I imbibed slightly with three tubers; this year I'm buzzing with eleven. One group of purple-flowering dahlias should link visually with the purple stems of the Joe Pye weed "Gateway"; another will blend tones of apricot, orange, and dark red.



Iris ensata "Aichi-No-Kagayaki": This soft yellow-flowering hybrid combines the elegant form and refined behavior of a Japanese iris with the palette of the rambunctious yellow flag Iris pseudacorus.

Writing from his big office with a view of Mount Fuji, VPS, Jr., tells me that this cultivar's name translates as "shining iris from Aichi": Kagayaki "means shining and can be used as an adjective in reference to the sun or to flowers or even pretty girls." Sweet.

Marsh marigold: I indulge my sentimental side by incorporating plants in my garden that share names with family members--Phlox panticulata "David," Peony "Sarah Bernhardt"--and this marsh marigold evokes my Aunt Mary's maiden name. Its cheerful disposition is as "Kagayaki" as was hers.

Witch hazel "Diane": I've been battling my attraction to these fiery crimson blossoms since encountering this cultivar in full show last year at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. Last week at Tower Hill was more compelling.



Okay, I give up. Must have.



Daylilies: The bed along the house took some heavy hits during French drain construction. I'm shopping around for tall varieties in clear colors: "Bright Apricot"? "Benchmark"? "Chicago Regal"? Other suggestions?

Rain garden under the snow

My daughter, catching a glimpse of last spring's rain garden design,



and knowing that under its current snow blanket the area actually looks like this,



remarked in that sweet and spicy tone most sharply inflicted by a teenage girl, "How's that working out for you?" Yes, how indeed?

Well, as this plot had a French drain incised through its middle in early fall, the rain garden installation stalled. Back-hoes and bob-cats meant that the few plants previously put in needed to be moved or, if left in situ, they disappeared during construction. The big mystery after this hydrological project, of course, is how will the drainage be affected this spring? Will there still be standing water for the clumps of Iris versicolor? What about adding other moisture-loving plants, like Joe Pye weed (Eupatorium maculatum) "Gateway" and ornamental grasses, such as Northern sea oats (Chasmanthium latifolium)? They could bring some movement, verticality, and complementary colors to this sorry corner of the garden.

So, here's a preliminary revision of my previous poorly implemented design.



I say "preliminary revision" because, looking out the back window, the area seems much larger than a few colored circles on paper would indicate. Anticipate fine-tuning. After my brief exposure to Japanese irises this past summer, I plan to enjoy the buzz from this winter's flurry of glossy catalogs--a diversion that I am postponing next year, when horticultural delirium tremens will send me jonesing for a shot of foliage and flowers. Oh, next year begins tomorrow. How convenient.

My fenway fearful

Fenways fearful, where flows the stream from mountains gliding to gloom of the rocks, underground flood.

The rains last week forced my hand. I know that this is not the way that the suburban gardener is supposed to install a water feature, but the boggy backyard cried out for attention. The 1' x 2' patch of mud, on occasion, now holds standing water.

What's the cause? Our weather has definitely been wetter this year: we have received 15.71" precipitation to date as opposed to 9.63" at the same time last year. Removing the water-loving plants in the adjacent hedge hasn't helped either.




So, with nothing to lose, I stuck eight plants of Iris versicolor into this mire. No water filtration system, no pump, no lining material, no nothing but nature. But isn't this how plants are supposed to grow?

Fairest fields enfolded by water, set, triumphant, sun and moon for a light to lighten the land-dwellers, and braided bright the breast of earth with limbs and leaves, made life for all of mortal beings that breathe and move.

Rain garden

Basement flooding + a damp spot in the lawn + visiting gardens in Japan last summer + hedge removal = rain garden

Over the past two years, a boggy spot has developed in the back lawn. The turf seems to float on a bed of water. Step down and your foot sinks several wet inches. When cutting the grass, the mower blade slows to a paddle. All signs are trending swampy.



In researching what to do before beloved family members, lawn furniture, and visiting wildlife became trapped in this quagmire, I came upon several articles about rain gardens, specialized gardens designed to mitigate stormwater run-off and reduce pollutants in the water. The Brooklyn Botanic Garden is a particularly concise source of information.

So now I am thinking about how to create a new bed extending from the side property line to the boggy area.



However, because a French drain may have to go in next to the house in late summer, I will probably have to restrict myself this year to a few plants along the property line . . . though I can't resist sticking a few Iris versicolor smack into the boggy area. The tightly-mown lawn will be sporting a goofy cowlick!

Down and dirty

This weekend, a little late season neighborly fence construction had me and DRS back in the yard.



This thicket of bushes, originally a stand of mock orange, offered asylum to errant maple seedlings and invasives such as Japanese honeysuckle (Lonicera japonica) and Japanese knotweed (Polygonum cuspidatum). It sloped down over underground springs. Birds nested inside the mess of branches.

However, in order to put up a fence, the thicket came down. An expanse of root-riddled muck and a single mock orange remain. DRS and I dug up quanties of fibrous stumps, slipping down the muddy bank as we pulled and pried. It was one of those afternoons when the notion of a lady of leisure cutting perfect flowers from her bountiful garden is very much at odds with the down and dirty reality. Come spring, DRS and I will be back to rooting out the last vestiges of the invasives and, eventually, to planting a row of water-loving summersweet (Clethera).



Come spring, come spring . . . the first snowfall of the season came this morning.