Tony Avent: the Howard Stern of horticulture?

This past week I had the absolute pleasure of meeting Tony Avent, founder of Plant Delights Nursery in Raleigh, North Carolina. Tony is a renowned and dedicated plantsman who, like many of us plant geeks, is fueled and fascinated by the odd, the dangerous, the bizarre, and the gorgeous. Relentless and unapologetic in the garden, Tony waves his hand at hardiness zones, adventurously daring to plant, and grow, the unthinkable. With 18,000 plants and counting in his collection, Tony's botanic garden in Raleigh is the 4th largest in the nation, and is neighbored by some of the best gardens in the country: JC Raulston Arboretum, Duke Gardens, and the UNC garden at Chapel Hill. Tony's sweet tea timbre only enhances the enthusiasm he has for the plants he loves. And his humor? Who hasn't seen the provocative and hysterical covers of his famous mail-order catalogs? Well, for those of you who haven't, take a look at the latest:

Oh, and there's more!!! Instead of wasting time on YouTube and Facebook, scroll through the hate mail that Tony receives regarding his catalog, and that he unashamedly shares. Now that's a guy with character. 

So how did this happen? My friend Darrin Duling organized two lectures at the Garden Education Center of Greenwich, CT where this event was graciously hosted. We heard Tony advocate his most notable plants suited for Connecticut gardens on Tuesday evening, and vicariously journeyed with him on his plant explorations on Wednesday, where Tony explained the process of how plants go from the wild into your hands.

Oh it sounds just lovely doesn't it? Let me break the still water with this:

We horticulturists are dirty, there's no other way to say it. We gladly live in a world dominated by loose and promiscuous pollen, where flowers seduce insects making them drunk on their juices, and where plants engage in acts of bondage then slowly swallow their partners, where ovaries swell with the seed of another, and . . . 

Anaïs Nin or Nature?  Maybe a little of both. Either way, Tony Avent is one of us. Just as Howard Stern is a pundit on pornography, Tony turns up the heat describing new plants and hybrids in such a way that plant sex has never sounded so good, so natural, so right.

I think after spending a few hours with Tony, the crisply coiffed chatelaine's of Connecticut have been deflowered of the gentility of gardening.  While they may never admit that they furtively look at plants online, or that they might keep a few catalogs in their nightstand drawer, the facade has been breached!

What could be better than hearing Tony burst about 'late night rendezvous under the cover of darkness', and the morning-after shock of a night of 'wild plant sex'? If you're into hardcore plant sex as much as I am, you'll know that Baptisia 'Purple Smoke' was soooo worth it (and she's disease-free)!  

It wasn't all hanky-panky, though.  Tony brought to light some poignant perspectives on plants, gardening, and the world as we know it.

Let's begin at the end. Tony let out a few great closing remarks that I thought were important to share:

"If you are not killing plants, you are not growing as a gardener."- Tony, quoting  J.C. Raulston. Tony says he won't give up on growing a plant unless he has killed it at least three times. The lesson here is don't be discouraged by your garden failures. The epiphanies learned in a garden cannot be taught in a book.  So go, kill your plants; find out what works to keep them alive and thriving. 

"Plants don't always grow best where they are found in the wild". This next example is a bit of a shocker. Sarracenia sp./pitcher plant. Typically pigeon-holed as a "bog" plant, Tony has somehow realized that they flourish in his mixed borders, even under his peach trees. WHAT? Yeah. Peach trees. Basically, just because a plant is found growing happily in a ditch (or a bog), doesn't mean that it won't reward you for moving it and providing it with a few different variables. Don't think (I don't commonly suggest this): just DO. Throw the plant tag away, and experiment! If you lose the plant, refer to the above quote.

"You do not learn duplicating what you already know." Priceless. This is permission to be creative, try the absurd, challenge the book-logic, and GROW: as a gardener, as a person, as a creative force. For further clarification, refer to the above two quotes.

"Gardens are about anticipation." This I relate to 100%. Every day now I go outside and silently beg my Crocus 'Jeanne d'Arc' to hurry up. Classical music calls them 'movements', and the garden equivalent is something I call 'moments'. A garden is a relentless crescendo of moments that is planned and planted for in anticipation of the unfolding drama in the season to come.

A theme through both lectures was plant origin. Whether a natural hybrid, a selection from an intensive breeding program, a chance seedling, or a cutting from a foreign plant, the question that Tony invariably knows the answer to is: who's your Daddy? Origin in terms of "how did this this plant get into my car", Tony uncovered some interesting criteria a plant must meet to survive in the nursery industry. 

Overall, I was privileged to listen to Tony's adventures, and to be introduced to some of his favorite plants. I was fascinated by his extensive knowledge of breeding and plant parentage, and his experience in this industry that spans many, many years. 

Please visit the Plant Delights Nursery page to read up on Tony's many plant collecting excursions, and articles.  Also, while you're there, sign up for the email updates. Oh! And of course, lose yourself in the pages, pictures, and descriptions of the odd, the bizarre, the dangerous, and the gorgeous.

Darrin, thanks so much for giving me the head's up about Tony coming into town. And to Tony, I genuinely look forward to seeing your garden soon.

Heale House: welcome for the winter-weary

Before I arrived in England, Sarah told me that we would visit a little-known garden gem on our way to Dixter: Heale House.

"Of course," I said.  I am always up for anything, especially when a (now) local is suggesting it.

After passing the sublime megaliths of Stonehenge, morosely cordoned off by the macadam of the A344 and the A303, we drove on to Heale House.  Located off one of the many quaint and charming roads of Wiltshire, only a little sign indicated we'd arrived.

Heale House has been around for a while: due to some major military blunder in 1651, King Charles II crept clandestinely across the countryside in an effort to escape to France.  He arrived at Heale House, and while hoping to evade recognition, the lady of the House distinguished who he was and made arrangements for his protected stay.  Not too shabby of a hideout.

In early spring now, there are millions, no BILLIONS of little stowaways haunting the grounds of Heale House.  Small and forgotten until they demand your attention, the season of snowdrops and winter aconite bring them all out in full and glowing spectacle.

Galanthus. Commonly known as snowdrops, the lovelies of this genus are the very earliest of spring geophytes to brave their will against a reluctant winter. Cheery hope, these little flowers are.  Forget the groundhog: if I was hibernating for months, I would want to poke my head up and take a look around as well. His shadow is neither prophesy nor gospel; it's nature.  Get over it, PA. Although, through some stroke of coincidence, there is a correlation between America's Groundhog's Day  and Candlemas day, both celebrated on February 2nd. An old folk name for Galanthus is Candlemas bells, signifying the peak of the bloom season. (I am still eye-rolling the groundhog.)

Now THAT is telltale spring. Call me a plant snob; I am more willing to accept Galanthus as a harbinger of spring, however long the season actually takes to arrive.

Others like me, well, more obsessed than me, take Galanthus very seriously. Within the 19 species that represent the genus, there are innumerable natural hybrids and named cultivars. The real challenge is telling them apart or tracing parentage.  Regardless, each species, hybrid and cultivar are exceedingly charming in their own ways, even though they may all look just like pretty and dainty white flowers. Maybe that's all we really need to know.  Here are two varieties that stuck out to Sarah to and me:

Galanthus 'Dionysus' 

The second little beauty of the late winter landscape is Eranthis hyemalis winter aconite.  A minor bulb with a discerning fashion sense, its cup of sunshine is collared by a very distinctive ring of green bracts.

Now just imagine standing in this pool of light . . . I asked Sarah how long it would take to establish a self-sown population like this.  Apparently, Eranthis take many years to flower from seed, so I could only imagine how many years this stand has been slowly increasing in size.

It certainly was my pleasure to see it now, however long ago the first bulbs were sunk into the soil.  It was  so charming to see the drifts of white and yellow intermingling along the paths and hilsides . . .

Besides this spring display, there were many more features about this garden that had no other choice than to stand out. 

These raspberry-veined Hellebrous stopped us both in our tracks.  There are so many color variations in the new hybrids, but sometimes, just one will be enough to make you look twice. The fact that the open flower is somewhat upwardly angled is also a bonus.

The river Avon has been divided into 3 channels coursing through this property.

Oh, what a parade of the Victorian age to have a peacock loitering on the stoop.  By the way, those are not sheets that blew off the line; those are used to protect tender plants from any damaging environmental conditions of late winter/early spring.

As we made our way out, I literally drew in a deep breath  as I saw this Cedrus libani/Lebanon cedar. How majestic is this tree?  Pruned to keep this shape, its umbrella canopy swallows that VW Rabbit.  Then again, from firsthand experience, anything is bigger than a VW Rabbit.  I do love those Euro headlamps!

A perennial garden designed by on of England's well-known designers, a charming (everything in England is so charming; it's kind of annoying!) vegetable, fruit, and herb garden, and an authentic Japanese tea house also grace this estate.

Thanks, Sarah, for taking me to Heale House to see that amazing display of minor bulbs. It was a perfect start to what may have been the longest (definitely memorable) day of my life!

Pruning: the slowest of the performing arts?

It is early spring, and despite the damp and the chill that characterizes an English winter, I have returned to Great Dixter. 

It was mid-spring when I first arrived last May. Blue skies were the backdrop to the thrill of my experiencing Dixter for the first time. Here I am now in early spring where the skies, a bit cloudier, suspend the damp air within my expanding curls. I haven't had one good hair day since I've arrived!

This visit differs in a very meaningful way. First of all, I got to see my friend, and astute plantswoman, Sarah Carter Roberts. Former Curator of Herbaceous Plants and Outdoor Gardens at the NYBG, she is now living it up in Tidworth, England with her new hubby Giles. Every week she travels to many of the outstanding RHS gardens within her radius to study and learn what makes English gardens tick. She collected me from the airport (the term 'red eye' doesn't do it justice), and we made many lovely detours on our way to Dixter. After a giddy evening, we enjoyed the luxury of working together in the garden the next day.

With what time I have at Dixter during this visit, I too, am taking in all that I can.  What I am appreciating now is seeing how the garden is setting itself up to unfold for the upcoming season. All throughout the garden beds can be seen the very first layers of bulbs clustered above latent perennials. 

Without the perennials and self-sown volunteers disguising their backbone, visibly outstanding are the evergreen plants and shrubs that hold the garden erect.  

The real reason I am here is not to muse about the early signs of spring (big perk, though). I am here to learn more about restricting that explosion of new season growth through thoughtful pruning. There is a graceful art to achieving a vigorous, healthy, and well-shaped plant despite its age or character, and this art deserves consideration. As I instinctively knew, and am discovering here, there is so much more to pruning than what the books say.

At its very basic, the practice of pruning involves removing any DDD (dead, diseased, dying) and crossing branches, or following the thumb rule that declares that no more than 1/3 of the plant is to be removed each year (about the latter: "Rubbish," Fergus says). If you are happy with the basics, great.  But if you desire to work a little deeper than what the basics will yield you, the reward for your efforts will be a fine specimen tree, shrub, or vine.

The pruning of woody shrubs is a fascinating endeavor. I will never admit who told me that "horticulture is the slowest of the performing arts", but it has always stuck, and thoughtful pruning is the poster child for that truth. So as you gaze at your shrub, sharpened Felco's or loppers in hand, ask yourself: WHY am I pruning? WHAT am I hoping to accomplish?

(A word on goals: Unless we are talking about boxwood, "Meatball-ing" is an unacceptable pruning goal. We've all seen it, and some of us might even be guilty.  Amnesty is available, though, even to people like my father who would annually bring my mother to hysterics because he insisted on "pruning" the Forsythia.)  

Rejuvenation, increased flower or fruit production, specific training (pollarding, espalier, hedging), reduction of size, encourage ornamental foliage . . . these are all specific goals that, when pruned with that goal in mind, your plant will respond to. Before cutting branches without intention, really LOOK at what you are about to do, and before you cut, ask this: What will happen next? And in the season after that? Even 10 years down the road? Every pruning cut illicits a growth response from the plant that you can anticipate, learn to envision, and plan for. Cause and effect matters here. Is that dead horse beaten enough? PETA may agree. 

Here are the basic principles that I took home as my souvenirs:

  

1.) Fergus was careful to guide my first cuts (this is Great Dixter, not my backyard) by asking me to remove the most obvious and benign material first. This consisted of removing any and all spent flowering stems either completely, or cut back to a new strong shoot. STOP, and look.

 

2.) Next, remove any dead, weak, or insignificant twiggy junk that is growing off of the  stems and larger branches.  This "opens up" the negative space so that you can now more clearly see the inner structure of the stems and branches. STOP, and look.

2a.) You will notice lots of thick old wood, weak and spindly growth, and you will see strong new growth. It is that vigorous new growth that will keep your plant young, that will flower best, and will produce the growth that will contribute to the following year's framework. You may be tempted to cut all the wild new growth down in favor of the older structure that is already there. I've done it, let me admit it! But that is for the short-sighted, which I am no more.  

3.) Identify all the weaker wood, branch by branch, and cut remove that weak wood to the most vigorous shoot. Clean up the stem or branch of any weak wood/stems to ensure that all the plant's energy goes into the desired growth.  This part takes the most time and thought for me. The goal is balance: not just in the actual perception of the shape, but also, a balance of old and new wood.  You can easily remove too much new wood sacrificing flowers and/or fruit. 

About rejuvenation: Keeping the old growth encourages an old and weak shrub. When old growth is judiciously removed according to your rejuvenation plan and vital growth is encouraged, that plant will literally be a fountain of youth. Check this out: just guess how old this Weigela is?

I was astonished (and a little scared, as this was one of my pruning assignments) that it is the oldest shrub in the Long Border, and is at least 60 years old. It has form, it has shape, it has vitality. Fergus keeps these enduring gems in a constant state of rejuvenation--the only way to sustain the valued pieces of this garden's history. 

The difference below may be subtle, but this Weigela is on the 10-year plan.  It will flower well this year, there is a lot of vigorous growth, and the non-productive has been removed. 

Same principles apply to this Viburnum.  The difference is the age and character of this shrub.

After all the flowered,  twiggy, and non-productive wood is removed, a much more open an healthy shrub is achieved.  

What about general maintenance? Let's say you have a vine, such as the Lonicera below, and you want to make sure that it flowers as best as it can. How do you even go about unravelling this puzzle?  It can be overwhelming if you are not clear on WHY and HOW.

Thankfully, the same principles apply: take out all the spent flowering stems (muddies up the form), little twiggy junk (sucks energy away from flowering), and view what is strong and best (new growth with lots of flowering buds).  In the case of this honeysuckle, the growth that is strongest, is also longest.

You can see how much material was actually removed by comparing the two photos. Fergus then loosely tied up the outward-reaching stems to the post using tar twine. This keeps the stems trained, and when in bloom a graceful and arching effect is achieved.

I suppose for me, a few key lessons where learned that have successfully changed the way I think about pruning:

1. Have a plan, and know for what objective you are pruning.

2. Do not be scared.  It will--hopefully--grow back. 

3. You control the plant, the plant does not control you.  This is the essence of ANY gardening, for gardens as we know them would not exist without that crucial human element.

4. Think ahead.  Any pruning cut will have a consequence (desired or not) that will be seen next year, and in following years.

5. Know whether the shrub or vine you are pruning blooms on OLD or NEW wood. 

6. Work slowly--smallest to largest, from the inside out, and in some cases from the bottom up.

7. Really, work slowly.  Resist the urge to get in there and yank out the branch that looks like its "in the way".

8. Do not fight the character of the shrub.  If it is twiggy, it will always be twiggy. 

9. Feeding goes hand-in-hand with pruning.  Ring the base of the newly prunes with a generous amount of compost.

10. Make sure you ladder is secure.

Early spring is the best time to prune plants that bloom on old wood (last year's growth). To all the meatballers of the world--STOP! Once your nausea subsides, sharpen your pruners, and untangle yourself a renewed, vigorous, and well-shaped plant!

Hypertufa: there is no cure

I've been pretty obsessed lately.  I have been introduced to a world of cement, acrylic, and plywood, and I just cannot get enough of it!

My friend John Holm, horticulturist, former coworker, and fellow alumnus of the School of Horticulture, has taught me and my good friend and co-worker Kim,  how to make hypertufa alpine troughs.   

Before we talk about the how, let's touch on the what and the why. The trough is a shallow vessel for growing specialized rock garden plants. Being separate from the larger garden bed, a trough allows the grower to customize the soil and create an environment that does its best to replicate natural conditions for particular species. Alpines are remarkable species native to high-altitude conditions requiring very specific soil and growing conditions to survive and thrive. 

See, alpines are the little plants that could. Alpine plants survive many challenges with some pretty cool adaptations.  They cling precariously to sheer rock despite the vagaries of a windswept cliff. They survive inhuman winters (like this one) without a shiver. How?  Go ask Carlo Balistrieri about tight buns. Seriously. Alpine plant morphology is highly specialized. Leaves and stems are reduced into very specific forms enabling them to adapt and survive in harsh conditions: buns (told you), mats, and cushions make it happen. Basically it's a mini plant with HUGELY disproportionate flowers.  A big topic for another day. In the meantime, here's an alpine sunflower, Hymenoxis grandiflora, native to the peaks of Colorado: 

So to grow and display these tenacious gems, the gardeners of yesteryear found a new use for an old thing: the hand-hewn stone watering trough.  Left abandoned on old farms and pastures in England, these were the perfect (and very heavy) growing solution for resourceful gardeners. Charming in all the right ways, these containers have been worn, weathered and adorned with lichens and mosses. Finding these originals today is possible, but will require you to either a.) give up your firstborn, or b.) hand over a small fortune, neither of which I have.

But HYPERTUFA!!  Ahhh, hypertufa.  Lightweight, frost-resistant, and a deceptively accurate substitution for those lacking progeny or profit.  So when John invited us to come over to get our hands dirty, how could I resist? 

It was late December when John showed us how to construct forms, proportion a good mix, and how to prepare, pack, and cure a proper trough. John had set up a very functional work space in the basement of the greenhouse; he is a very neat guy, and this is a very messy process. 

After the work space is ready, make some molds. This is 2" thick insulation board.  It's easy to score and cut to whatever dimension you want to make.

Longs nails are pushed into the sides, and duct tape is wrapped around the mold for stability.

Secure the mold to the table so it doesn't shift while packing in the hypertufa mix.

Here is one way of making sure drainage holes are present. John uses PVC piping cut to the thickness he wants the bottom to be.

Here's the mix:  peat moss, perlite,Portland cement and plastic fibers (last two can be located at a masonry shop).  The proportions differ from person to person.  Like any recipe, really. To make one "batch" John uses 12 parts peat and perlite, 8 parts cement, and a handful of fluffed fibers. Just as in baking, thoroughly mix all the dry ingredients together before adding any liquid.

Add water and liquid acrylic.  Use a 1:1 ratio of water to acrylic, then add more water to reach the desired consistency.  Think cottage cheese, but a touch drier. Once you have that down, time to pack!  Pack in the bottom and corners really well.  This stuff has to be very densely packed down, otherwise the integrity of the container can be compromised.  

And when you are done, it should look like this! My very first hypertufa trough.  I was so proud! The walls should be thick; no less than 1.5".

So now wrap it in plastic and store it at about 60F for 24 hours.  This is the first cure.  

When you return to the trough, you can unwrap it and "finish" it.  Literally, put a finish on it. Scratch it, scrape it, abuse it . . . anything that will add to the weathered worn feel that would otherwise take many long seasons to accomplish.  When you have finished, spritz the entire container with water, cover it, and let it sit for one month.  This is the second cure.

When you return after a month, unwrap it, and allow it to sit uncovered outside.  This allows the alkaline and caustic qualities of the cement to dissipate prior to planting.  This can take a couple months.  That is the final cure.

It seems tedious, but once you have a system, it all goes quite smoothly.

How will I use what I learned here? Me being me, I cannot just limit this craft of trough-making to the narrow usage of alpine troughs.  Traditionally, the hypertufa container is made for growing alpine plants. But I am always looking for ways to give a fresh face to a familiar facet. 

If you'd like more details, check out this book Creating and Planting Garden Troughs, by Joyce Fingerhut and Rex Murfitt.  Essentially the trough bible. 

In the meantime, my troughs are wrapped and waiting. Stay tuned for photos of the finished results!!! 

To mulch, or not to mulch?

mulch  (mlch)

n.

A protective covering, usually of organic matter such as leaves, straw, or peat, placed around plants to prevent the evaporation of moisture, the freezing of roots, and the growth of weeds.

A Sonnet for Seasons

Naked mounds of summer, exposed and cold,

Their sultry display now a memory.

A modest shawl too soon could not be sold

To cover a promise so savory.

The weight of winter falls dark upon them.

Subterranean now, the stage is set 

To keep awake many a gentle gem

With the simple act of a coverlet.

A hidden sleep until the sun comes back;

If I could, I would make the clock tick quick.

Precious they are kept under the dark black 

Until soil swells warm and roots become thick.

Before the spring dew can be rolled away

Let those stirring gems see the light of day!

- Erika Hanson

 

Because Shakespeare gardened--I'm convinced all inspired people do--I'll bet he mulched too.  

Here in the New York, we got our first great snow dump.  Near 12" which ain't too shabby this time of year.  Even though an arctic chill has settled in, I am warm and toasty in the thoughts of my garden beds.  

Each year in December, I do a little something special for garden function and aesthetics.  After cutting back perennials and cleaning up, I place upside-down spruce boughs over my plants, making sure to cover and layer the boughs over the soil as well. The boughs are my winter mulch offering my dormant plants moderate insulation, an effective wind-break, and a very festive winter blanket. When the snow falls, as it did this past weekend, the garden beds are now perfectly insulated from any drop/raise in temperature. A temperature-controlled cocoon is created that keep the bulbs from heaving, or the less-established perennials from freezing, and generally keeps everybody happy. While this practice is just short of epiphany, I find it absolutely essential. 

Now, the definition of WINTER MULCH: it's a mulch that is applied after the first frost.  This moderates the soil temperature, and keeps the soil from freezing and thawing.  This freeze/thaw is what causes perennials and newly planted bulbs to heave out of their planted spots. The mulch is applied thickly but does not cover the crowns of perennials, nor does it cover the lowest stems of shrubs or the bark of trees.  

Feel free to use "regular" mulch if you feel a heavy winter mulch is something you need to do. If you planted some marginally hardy bulbs or perennials, this is where a thick, heavy mulch would be appropriate. But here's the catch (and why I use spruce boughs): winter mulch should be removed in very early spring (and spruce boughs are really easy to pick up). Because  mulch is so good at keeping the soil at a consistent temperature, if the mulch is not removed, it will keep the soil cooler for a longer time come spring. As a result, bulbs and perennials alike will take much longer to emerge. If you are like me, I can't wait for my gardens to warm up in the spring.

If it isn't too late to put down a winter mulch where you garden, I suggest you try it.  If anything, the spruce boughs will give you a little lift instead of staring out at a sea of desolate frozen soil. There's nothing more depressing than a garden-turned-tundra.  On a lighter note, it's almost January, and spring is not reeeaaallly that far away.

Farewell Martha . . .

So much to say . . . aaah, so much I am not legally permitted to say.

But this must be said:  it's over.  

Working for Martha Stewart over the past 3 years has been the most serendipitous trajectory of my young career. I remember the many hours spent in the student room of the School of Professional Horticulture searching, searching for 6-month internships. I had one set up with the Royal Botanic Garden in Scotland, but then my School's Director slipped me a piece of paper. Martha's head gardener was looking for an intern, and I had been recommended. 

So began my time at Martha Stewart's garden-estate in Bedford,  NY. Ambitious, energetic, conscientious, and willing to raise my standards beyond her bar, I spent April through September absorbing it all. Greenhouse plant collections, organic vegetable growing, propagation, woody plant collections; it was a veritable botanic garden in the making, and the perfect setting for me to stretch my skills after being cooped up in school. 

Eventually I was asked by MS herself to continue working for her beyond the timeframe of my internship.  Dry humor intact, I told her I would consider it.  Who would have suggested that in the next 3 years I would be featured on 8 television gardening segments, many Sirius 112 radio interviews, the Martha blog, and styling props and floral arrangements for MSL photos shoots?  

The experiences and lessons learned have been invaluable, and memorable.  Best of all are the relationships I have founded on boundless laughter, endless humor, and tireless hard work. My love and thanks to Andrew, John, Jodi, Kim, and George.  And Laura, for her cappuccino's.

And what now? I am blessed to have lots of support, blazing ambition, buoyant energy, and white-hot optimism. Kinda like having rocket fuel coursing your veins. My company, Living Colors Landscape and Gardens,  has officially launched and is orbiting an atmosphere near you. All I can do is honor my roots, my education, and my experiences and pass that on to the public with services that are horticulturally correct, that support organics and biology, and are über creative.

Carpe diem!

If they ain't in by now, just wait till next week!

Well, our weather is wacky, for sure.  

Just as I finished the last of my bulb-planting, and slipped under the deep-freeze in a roll-tuck-007 move, I hear its gonna be lovely and warm, and isn't spring is eternal.

Um, thanks. Now this screws up not only me, but my bulbs as well. Overly optimistic leaves push up through the cold-cracked soil, the party in their pants will go from a wild spring burst to a brown and frost-bitten disappointed false start.  

It's ugly, but not entirely devastating. Don't mind me, it's my Scandinavian genes that are screaming for more sunlight. That's what's responsible for the general malaise in my "voice".

Really though, bulbs are tough jewels. Think diamonds. Can scratch glass and still shine. Bulbs are similar. I have planted Narcissus in the depths of December, and they forgave me willingly.

I finishing my frenetic planting last Saturday and pondered the kind of obvious euphemism of 'buried treasure'. I thought of how dogs, and squirrels bury their most treasured items underground. We do too: the people we love the most, most of them, we lay gingerly under soil. Just interesting, that's all.  

I used to get very impatient with bulbs. Planting, not knowing exactly how or where they will mix with their neighbors. Ya just wanna clean up the garden and go back inside where the tea kettle is warm. But now, it's different. I love setting these dense promises into the dark, burying them alive. They vibrate with excitement for me, keeping me in suspense, just can't wait to meet the individuals inside.

And then of course, the physical geophytes themselves are just fascinating. Their shapes, colors, their clothes, their smells! Oooohh, the scent of Fritillaria is enough to make my eyelids shut with the deepest inhale I can muster. Haha, I remember a couple Fritillaria maxima rolling around my truck (Hey, Feleppa, can you confirm the status of my vehicle?), and it smelled like a combo of pounds of dank trees and a road-killed skunk. I prefer the smell of skunk.

I have so much anticipation for my bulb combo's this spring. I can't wait to see what happens!