Cherry blossom time

Tidal Basin view, 2011

Growing up near the nation's capital, cherry blossoms were the joyful harbinger of spring. Even though the trees encircling the Tidal Basin are the best known blooms, there are masses planted throughout the area.

By the Basin, 2011

With these other trees, you could celebrate your own private cherry blossom festival: flowering branches arched over the sidewalk on the way to school, trees lined the streets of a nearby community, and a specimen brightened the backyard. If you climbed to the top of a tree in bloom, you would find yourself floating on a frothy pink sea. The fallen petals could be tossed like confetti.

Somerset Elementary School, Chevy Chase, 1998

It felt like old times to catch a glimpse of these pink flowers on a recent trip to Washington.  But then, on returning home to Massachusetts, I realized that I keep a reminder of a mid-century Maryland childhood on the walls and in the curtains of my bedroom and master bath. These cherry trees are always in bloom . . . and, marvel of nature, fruiting at the same time!

Schumacher and Co. cherries

Spring, snow and ice

On this first day of spring, the little hillside behind our house is still harboring a few patches of snow. A line of hemlocks and a spirea hedge shields this area from sun and wind. A few bulbs have started to poke up through the frozen crust. I'm betting that these pale chartreuse leaves belong to the appropriately-named "Ice King" daffodil.

Across the yard, snowdrops blanket a sunny slope. Now, this looks like spring!

Defense in depth

Back in the day, when I was struggling with the Spartan children model of British university education, typologies of crossbow brooches, and living quarters warmed by a single coin-operated electric heater, I ran across Edward Luttwak's provocative book, The Grand Strategy of the Roman Empire: From the First Century AD to the Third.  The basic thesis of this book was that by the fourth century, the Roman army had abandoned a forward defense along its imperial frontier and instead employed a military strategy called "defense in depth." This involved delaying barbarian attacks, in part by dotting the countryside with minor forts.  (Remember that opening battle scene in Gladiator? Those guys weren't interested in stopping for anything.)

I'm implementing my horticultural version of defense in depth here.  To combat these last days of winter, flowering plants are being forced throughout the house.  Those springs of forsythia last month are leafing and flowering in the living room.

A big tray of L'Innocence and Gipsy Queen hyacinths is set out on the dining room sideboard.

Last weekend, all the amaryllises were removed from their refrigerator dormancy, potted up, labelled, and stuck in an upstairs bedroom window.  The radiator should provide some warmth from below and spring should bring in more sunlight through this south-facing window.  Here's hoping!

And always, and on any spare surface, there are Ziva paperwhites.  And more Ziva bulbs tucked away in a cool dark closet, waiting for their roots to form before being brought out into the light.

I know that my side is going to win.  Eventually.

Weapons of Mass(achusetts winter) Destruction

I'm crawling, bare-knuckled and teeth-gritting, towards spring. To battle those terrors of frigid temperatures, dirty piles of snow, and black ice, I have these weapons.

Who can resist in the face of shamelessly over-the-top roses?  I love red.  And anything that comes wrapped in tulle and ribbon.

 

The butterfly petals of a white cyclamen always look clean and fresh, even on an overcast day. Yes, there will be sunshine and spring breezes, eventually.

 

This "Novella"amaryllis keeps me going until the rest of my bulbs are ready to come out of the refrigerator, get themselves planted, and start blooming.  Hey, it might just be that time!

A straggly forsythia Lynwood Gold, transplanted a year ago, has finally sprung shoots for flower forcing.  What a struggle up the backyard hill in knee-high snow just to snip some twigs!  This plant is not exactly burdened with branches, but hopefully a few won't be missed.

And within 30 seconds of cutting the ends of the forsythia twigs under warm water, this little twist of leaves had unfurled.  Even if they don't bloom, that sight was worth the inconvenience of snow down my boots and icy hands.  But, oh, I do hope that they will flower!

But to really arm myself against winter, I spent a few hours in the the 19th- and early 20th-century greenhouses at the Lyman Estate in Waltham.  There, the weather is always balmy, the bouganvillea is in bloom and, through the glass panes, the skies shine a sunny blue.

 

And there were gazillions of orchids to see and sniff. And what doesn't combat a New England winter better than these? 

Midwinter moonlight gardens

A girls-only trip to western Florida last weekend landed me at the Edison winter estate in Ft. Myers.  In addition to the glorious orchids nestled in the boughs of mango trees, heirloom roses embellishing the grounds, and banyan trees dripping with prop roots, this romantic little private garden was a heart-stealer.

Designed by Ellen Biddle Shipman in 1929 for Edison's wife, Mina, this moonlight garden was restored to its intimate, contemplative beauty in 2006.  The diminuative outdoor room, extending from the back of Edison's "Little Office," is enclosed on its other three sides by a deep green hedge topped by scarlet-flowering bougainvillea, "Barbara Karst."  An antique white climbing rose, “Prosperity,” sprawls up the Little Office's chimney.  Between the white Chinese paper lanterns ringing the garden perimeter are more white flowers: Pentas lanceolata, star-like Vietnamese gardenias, and Begonia odorata "Alba." What glorious scents there must have been at night!

In the evening, strings of electric lights would have been reflected, starlight-like, in the pool below.  This is one of those thoughtful gardens which succeeds as much because it aligns perfectly with the personalities of those for whom it was designed as for its own gentle charm.

Returning up north, I peaked out at my own moonlight garden last night.  Here it is, shivering in the frozen, snow-covered midwinter darkness. How much longer?