Dabs and Dribbles

'Cole's Red' Quince

Spring, this year, is a fight within our witness, a struggle by life to leave behind the cold winds of February and March and move to sunlight.   There has been no knockout blow, no sudden blitzkrieg of either heat or snow to change the fortunes of garden and man, but the to and fro, the feint and parry, of the seasons continues with no easy end in sight.   We will not see spring, I fear this year, in broad strokes of pastel color, but in dabs and dribbles, slowly meting out its glory in smaller packets of pleasure.

'Betsy Ross'

It is both dry and cool now, continuing the pattern of past weeks and it seems, promising the weather for weeks to come.   The sky has not provided enough moisture to yet ignite the irrepressible forces of life, nor has the sunshine been overly generous with its sustaining energy.   It benefits me little to blame the cheerful weatherpersons for the slow strides towards summer, nor do I deign to fret over the millions proclaimed to be in severe weather danger each day, not while I'd happily risk bad storms to quench the thirst of the ground.  I wait instead, patiently, for these pictured buds to open and clothe the garden and world with beauty.

'Annabelle'

The quince alone is fully open and meeting my lust for rusts and reds, Chaenomeles japonica ‘Coles Red’ in this instance, pictured at the top.   I appreciate quince but it struggles here, the prairie a smidge drier than it likes, the winters and deer a little harsh for its full comfort.  Stronger for us are the lilacs, but they are still biding time this year, afraid perhaps to fully commit lest a late snow or freeze catches them in full exposed blossom.  It would not, of course, be the first time I've seen snow on lilac panicles.  Naked and afraid, 'Betsy Ross', above, and 'Annabelle', here, are providing only a glimpse still of the promising maidens they could become.  One night in the next 10 is presently predicted to be below freezing, so I am content in this instance to indulge their teasing and patiently await their full exhibition.

In similar fashion, the red horsechestnut leaves remain tightly furled, the rough, prehistoric texture safe from frost and marauding deer, and my beloved red peach is mightily trying, but failing, to become a beacon of spring for the neighbors.   It is covered, as you see below, in buds, but yet to glow, the cloudy skies and brisk winds battling against its nature, its reason for survival, those buds to become seeds, those seeds to be trees.

Red Peach

And so, I wait here, still wait this Easter, for the annual rebirth, the rebound of the world.  With Easter comes promise, a guarantee of life's return, a revival, not promised this year perhaps in trumpeted herald, but softly spoken in dabs and dribbles.  Regardless, I close singing in full voice along with Sara Evans, her lyrics:  "Hallelujah, a little revival....amen to love."

Excuse My Untidyness

Finally, finally, finally, a small start to spring.   I found this first Magnolia stellata bloom on April 1st, and today on April 10th the bush is starting to look at least midway to peak bloom.   Late, but luscious, I inhaled all the musky scent this flower could give me as I dreamed of more to come.

You'll have to excuse me for the straggly appearance of this brazen forsythia, in full flower finally today on April 10th.  I have at 5 different cultivars of Forsythia out in the garden ('Spring Glory', 'Meadowlark', 'Show Off', an unknown gift shrub, and several 'Golden Tines') and this single 'Golden Tines' is the only one to bloom with any show this year.  Why this one?   The others are straggly at best, almost barren at worst, so thank God for this front and center golden jewel.    Yes, I didn't trim it last fall, didn't remove the long shoots of late summer, for I planned to bring those inside and force bloom this spring.   Obviously, the cold and winter doldrums kept me from following through on that well-intentioned plan.   And I'm ashamed of the unclean bed around the forsythia;  I just haven't gotten even the front landscape bed ready yet for spring.

While I do hope for a bold yellow forsythia bloom each spring, I'm never surprised when the "pink forsythia", Abeliophyllum  distichum ‘Roseum’ blooms only sparsely and briefly,  This year it lived down to my expectations, barely attempting any blooms and showing none of its usual pink blush, white fragility in the flesh.  I've had this shrub for 13 years, so it is hardy here, but certainly not vigorous and it hardly provides any show, early bloomer that it is.   It was already at peak bloom here, on April 1st this year, and already nearly barren as it yields to the rest of the garden.  Sweetly scented if you get close, Abeliophyllum is a distraction for me, the earliest shrub to flower and the only one until the M. stellata gets going.  I keep it for that reason, something for my soul to grasp onto as I desperately wait spring.

Despite my earlier whining, my Puschkinia finally did bloom, shown here in a front bed near the edge where it begs you to bend over and look closer.  Alongside the Scilla, it raises my spirts for a few weeks as I drive home for work each day, right by the garage pad where it can catch my glimpse and welcome me home.

Closeup 'Abeliophyllum distichum'

Outside today, it's warm at least, climbing about 70ºF, but yet I'm not outside clearing beds or doing useful work.   The wind, a southern wind, is moving along at a brisk 20mph pace and I just don't feel like fighting it with every step I take.   No, I'll stay mostly inside today, waiting fitfully for the lilacs and redbuds to begin the real spring season.   My redbuds are slowly showing some color in their buds, but they are reluctant to join in yet to the seasonal celebration.  For reference, in my seasonal notes going back to 2004, the daffodils and Puschkinia were behind this year, while the redbuds are even with some years, behind others, but only in the very cold spring of 2008 did they definitely bloom later than this year.   So, I'd say that we are late, but catching up.   Too slowly, however, for my taste.  My father always says it won't be spring until Easter and with the late Easter this year, once again, he's right on target.

Two Weeks Later....

Two weeks later...and spring feels barely farther along that it was.   Oh, there are subtle signs; an early daffodil or two, lilac buds swelling green from their previous hard brown shell, a glimmer of action in the sprouting of daylilies.   But here we are March 27th, a week past the equinox, and the best that my Star Magnolia can conjure up is this single bud at the top of the bush, partially open and singed from the last frost.  That magnolia scent though, that sweet musky odor, was already present as long as I was willing to chance my nose into the bud.  And I was (willing). 

Dressing later to go to a movie, I splashed on a little aftershave and later, smelling it on my hand, I realized for the first time that the Brut® that I've used all my life has a strong aromatic resemblance to magnolia musk.  Musky, earthy, heavy, the scent of magnolia reaches deep into my id and presumably that of others.  Not stupid those aromacologists, those noses that know the attraction of certain fragrances.  Males of my generation shy away from sweet flowery scents, but throw a little musky magnolia scent my way and they have a customer for life.  Well, that, and that's what my father always used.  Shades of Oedipus, is that heritage from a generation ago the reason for the long survival of that brand in a crowded market?  Is America and civilization-as-we've-known-it safe as long as Brut® sells well at Christmas?

This French Pussy Willow 'Curly Locks' (Salix caprea) is also ready to open up and have its early way with the gardeners affections, but it, too, is late and slow to reach the climax of its bloom period.  As I search my records, there was only one year in the last 10 that Magnolia stellata first bloomed this late.  Most years, on March 26th it reaches peak bloom and it has bloomed as early as March 6th.  Similarly, in most years, forsythia is already blooming well and this year it shows no signs of breaking dormancy.  I wish I could tell you the normal initial bloom date of the Pussy Willow, but sadly, I've seldom noticed or written it down.  Please do as I say and not as I do and be consistent in the plants you keep notes on annually.   For me, the only consistency is the Scilla and the Star Magnolia, both because of their timing and their annual show.

There are other signs of spring life on the prairie, however, and most notably the spring burns have started.  I took this picture yesterday as I arrived home from errands standing on the garage pad looking west.   Many times, I see these tall clouds of smoke billowing when I'm leaving work or on the east side of town and I'm calculating where these clouds lie in relation to my own house, praying that the neighbors haven't gotten out of hand.  This one, however is far away, on the hills to the southwest of town, near the airport, 4 or 5 miles away as a crow would fly.  Prairie fires always strike a little fear in my heart, but they provide comfort too, comfort that the world is normal and spring approaches once again.

Vainly Searching

By "vainly searching", ProfessorRoush means that he is searching futilely, fruitlessly for spring, not that I'm boasting or conceited or vain about my search.  We had the largest snow of the year last week, on March 9th, 5 inches of snow that fell overnight and melted completely away under the 69ºF temperatures of today.  At least we received the moisture, badly needed moisture that will start the prairie grasses under the path to summer.  But most things are buttoned up tight, the lilacs showing no hint of green under their hard buds, and even Magnolia stellata, pictured at the right, shows no signs of spring, the fragrant flowers still tightly cloistered within the hairy buds.

In the garden, I had to search a long time for any sign of spring at all.   Not even the snow crocus have yet made any appearance that I've detected.  I can only share these first sky-blue buds and yellow shoots of Scilla, just breaking the surface on the sunniest and warmest slope in my garden.  There are a few brave daffodil fronds pushing up here and there, but no peonies, no Dutch crocus, no Puschkinia.  Nothing but the squill to assure me that spring is coming or that the Earth has succesfully made it once again all the way around its star.

All of this is to say that I think spring will be late this year, or at least start up closer to average.   In 2012, I found the first Scilla blooming on March 7th.  In 2016 it was March 6th and the Star magnolia was blooming along with it on that date.  We are going to be later this year than earlier, compared to my notes of the past two decades on this spot of ground.  

So, I have only the garden of my mind at present, and this week it was outwitting squirrels.   No, I don't mean I have a squirrel infestation here at the end of winter, I am referring to Anne Wareham's Outwitting Squirrels (and Other Garden Pests and Nuisances).   I learned of the book on Garden Rant, where it was noted that it's not available in the US at present.   But, Amazon, came through with a paperback copy for me last week and I've been learning about "Weeds You Don't Want", and ridding my garden of cats.   Anne, thank you for a delightful, humorous, and easy read, short quick chapters in an older text of yours (2015), but new to me.   It brought me one week closer to spring.

Hortus Populous

ProfessorRoush was in Washington DC this week, normally my favorite city to visit, particularly if I have time between conferences to hit the mall.   I've been there a number of times and have visited almost every monument and museum, some in the days before terrorism and nannyism ruined access to them.  I have walked the steps of the Washington Monument to the top and yet lived to tell the tale.

On the plus side, the weather was decent in the early part of the week and, as you can see from pictures, I did get an afternoon to wander about, visiting a number of my favorite monuments and the Museum of Natural History.  

In fact, I ran flat into the FDR Memorial, not previously knowing it existed, and I was moderately impressed by the mountain of red granite moved for its creation into the former swamp of DC.   Certainly and appropriately the most ADA-accessible monument, I recommend walking through it, particularly spaced where it is on an almost direct line between the Lincoln and Jefferson memorials.

On the negative side, I was, as usual, too early for the cherry blossoms, seeing only a stray early bloomer or two in a protected depression near the Constitutional Gardens.  And it turned cold and windy during the latter part of the week, and I learned that the cold winds of Kansas have a rival in the winds coming off the Potomac on a cold day.

Most exasperating, however, was discovering that the United States Botanical Gardens conservatory has been closed to the public for over 2 years, at least according to its website.  The outside gardens are open, but not the USBG conservatory.  When I go to DC, I always check the schedule of lectures at the USBG, just in case I get lucky as I did when I once saw Roy Klehm lecture.  This time, however, the website has not been updated for quite some time and there is no mention of a reopening date.  It seems that the USBG is within the "U. S. Capitol campus" and the fools on Capitol Hill, elected and despotic, are deathly afraid that perhaps a massive revolutionary coup will be staged from within the Children's Garden or perhaps the Orchids Room. Good grief.

My dear Representatives, Senators, Supreme Court Judges, and Executive; 

When in the course of gardening it becomes necessary for peoples with calloused hands and sunburned faces to dissolve the political idiot-cracy and allow visitors to the public gardens to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitles them, it is our right, nay our duty, to throw open the gates and allow the people inside.  Hortus Populus, Mors Tyrannis (Let the People garden, Death to Tyrants)!  You are right to fear the peasants who are most familiar with the proper use of pitchforks and shovels. Let Freedom Grow!

Indoor February Color

February already?!   It feels like Christmas has barely past, that 2021 was still a newborn just past the birth canal of 2020, let alone now a senile monarch passing the throne to 2022.  We have yet to lock horns with winter, a few days of snow here and there, fleeting and flown, but soon I expect crocus and Scilla and budding daffodils raising their heads.  

For now, it remains the duty of the Christmas cacti, or Thanksgiving cacti, or whatever the things are, to bring color to a brown landscape and brighten the morning.   My collection, as it could be termed, of Christmas cacti expanded yet again this year, with the addition of a pale yellow cultivar to the whites, reds, and pinks, and one beautiful new small plant that bears blossoms of an unmistakably orange hue.  

All are blooming again, now for the second time this year, with the exception of two.  One is the orange variety which sulks in the kitchen where Mrs. ProfessorRoush has not allowed it enough sunlight.  It is, I'm sorry to say, a Schlumbergera which is...slumbering...in a post-gluttony phase of bloom.   And I'm chagrined because I was sure I had a picture of it, taken at the peak of color, but, alas, the picture is gone, lost I say, to the silicon and ceramic wafers of computer memory.   I'll try to edit this post later as it blooms again and add it in.

The second current nonbloomer is the very fuchsia variety I've had for a decade.   It has also bloomed, and is in bud again, but I've stolen the picture here from an earlier blog entry; purloined electrons to jog your memory.

For now, veuillez m'excuser, but you must content yourself with the white, yellow, red, and fuchsia varieties.  The reds and fuchsias are, I recognize, only distinguished from each another by subtleties, small differences in the percentage of white on each petal or the shade of carmine or cardinal it most resembles, but I celebrate the individuality of all.   The reddest is at the top of this blog entry, while two other varieties, each a little more white to the petals, also vie for the "best Christmas colors" display.

Ladies and Gentleman, I give you the colors of February, hues of life to carry you through to that first glimpse of yellow daffodils....

Near Sunset

Sometimes the "near" sunset on the prairie is more stunning than the sunset itsel

Creatures Gonna Creep

Creatures creep in my garden fair,

They sneak and crawl, go here and there.

They run, they jump, they eat, they fight,

They wander there most every night.

I think my garden mine alone,

They think the garden theirs to roam.

When nighttime falls, then out they come,

They're feeding off of my green thumb.

Deer and skunks and squirrels and coons,

The garden mine in afternoons.

At night, the garden, creatures own,

They sit upon my garden throne.

Share I must, I must not kill,

The creatures linger out there still.

I surrender all to them each night,

They cede the garden, mine each light.

ProfessorRoush collected his game cameras last month and I was surprised, as always, by the life of my garden at night.   I was less enthused at the skunk that made an appearance, but she seemed to be just wandering through.   The coyotes  are the most frequent visitors, patrolling the beds for rodents and generally just slinking around every night.   

But, I recognize that life in the garden is fleeting, here one minute and gone the next minute, just like the sudden starlings in the photo above and the empty ground a few seconds later of the photo below.  Notice the time stamp on these two pictures.  Life is fleeting in the garden.

 

Sounds of Sage

Oh, how ProfessorRoush misses the garden.  I wandered out today, warmed prior from indoor exercise and enticed by sunshine.  The air seemed warmer than its measured temperature of 23ºF at 1:30 p.m., and yet it is all still and damp out there, snow drifts melting away to a frozen ground beneath, brown and tan foliage remnants of past plants as far as I can see beneath clear blue skies.  Bella, too, misses our moments of exploration, glued to my side as she sniffs for changes and danger in her garden.

I can only offer you garden pornography today, the photos here taken in the high moments of summer, the prickly white poppy a beacon of delicate lace and yellow pollen and Russian sage drawing in bumblebees frantic to store food then for this month, this season right now.   These photographs of a garden now dead, now stiff remnants and seedheads to mark their passing, these are all I have for you, memories of a world months past.

Where are, I wonder, these bees today, happily buried in warm nests, or dead husks beneath the snow?  I don't know enough about the life cycle of these corpulent flying workers and I should; I should know enough to help them survive and thrive, being that knowledge is power and all that.  I have a "bee house" up, an artful name for a board with 1/4" holes drilled in it, and some of the holes are plugged with mud suggesting the hope of pupae inside, but am I a helper or hindrance?  Truly, in gardening and in our relationships with nature, we can never have enough knowledge about the world around us.  There are surely been enough blunders and unintended consequences of well-meant but unenlightened action.

Oh, what I'd give today to hear the buzz in this Russian sage (Perovskia atriplicifolia), black and yellow busy-ness flitting among the light blue flowers.  The 'Champlain' rose at its feet is shockingly red, screaming for attention, but the honeybees ignore the sterile rose, it  lacks the attraction of the dusky sage above it for the bustling insects.  Here is my Sunday epiphany, this cold Sunday of beginnings and doorways, of Janus: We gardeners, we think of flowers as silent, as colorful or artful elements to arrange over our gardens, but sage is more, sage is noise, the buzzing of a hundred visitors at once, the transformation of color into motion.  Today in memory I can recall the flowers, but I miss the sounds, the sounds of vibrant life now absent in this cold season, the sounds of sage trading pollen for propagation, the garden fertile and fecund. 

S'now a New Year

...and a happy snowy New Year!   I got my Christmas wish answered a little late, in the early morning hours of the new year, but I'm still happy to see it arrive.   ProfessorRoush is, by no means, a snow creature, but I do like to see one snow a year, a nice white snow to wipe the slate of summer clean and cover the debris of fall.  This front came in a little growl-ley, a little blizzard-y, but off the Rockies it came, sweeping the plains of Kansas clean.

But once a year is enough, dear Old Man Winter, so stopping it here would be fine, mind you.  The same scene as above, taken yesterday and shown below, is bland for a winter view, but quite desired over the arctic alternative.  This past weekend, outside in 60ºF and cleaning up the crushed remains of my trellis, I was eyeing the perennial beds and thinking I should get a start on them and get ahead for the season.   Today, and probably for the next month, I won't be thinking that again.  I like to see snow, but too much cold weather and I start dreaming of retiring south, a South home of my imagination at present, but I see no reason to spend a winter hibernating once my days of employment are past.  Someday, I want a home up north, here perhaps, perhaps closer to my boyhood home in Indiana, and I'll wait until the first snow fills that empty spot in my soul and then I'll skedaddle south without bothering to shovel the walk.

This little angel of mine, a gift from my father many years back, sits by the front steps, blessing visitors as they pass.  It's seen better days, a wing knocked off by an errant child or pet and glued precariously back, but it has good days yet ahead of it.   Dusted by the storm, it seems to welcome the sunlight of the 2nd day of January, the warm Kansas sun out to begin to melt that snow down into life-changing moisture for the prairie.  Or was it merely watching over me as I cleared the walk, protecting this old man from the strenuous shoveling demise that fells so many?

One the other side of the house, my terra-cotta maiden faces unflinchingly east, a little rouge from her core showing on her weathered cheeks, but otherwise protected from the northern blizzards and drifts that the angel faces.  She doesn't need to look for Gandolf to come from "the east on the first light of the fifth day," for the sun rose here at dawn on the 2nd day of 2022, beginning the cycle of thawing.  The maiden faces a new year, a new fresh garden to grow again, bones in place, awaiting warmth and flesh and moisture to grow and flourish in another year of summer.




  

Trellis Overboard!

 I'm sure a few of you caught the national news about the little blow that swept through Kansas and Nebraska on December 15th.  This was my radar picture at 5:35 p.m. as it was about peak, just about an hour after the storm ahead of it, the latter accompanied by a tornado warning for Manhattan.  I've seen a lot of radar pictures over my years in Manhattan, but that long very narrow rain front stretching from northern Oklahoma into South Dakota and the wind following it was unique.  And scary.

I'm also sure a few of you are wondering what this has to do with ProfessorRoush's garden?   There seemed, on the surface, to be little damage from the 70-80mph sustained winds both here at home and in Manhattan, primarily lots of small limbs down and lots of broken pieces of roof shingles laying around here and there.   But, when it warmed up a few days after the storm, when I got out and actually wandered around the garden, I saw that it had taken down my long-standing wisteria trellis.   I know this thing was old, but breaking off 4 six-inch treated posts that were cemented in the ground was not a trivial piece of damage.   Thankfully, I had already taken down the Purple Martin houses earlier this fall or they would have been in Missouri, or the Atlantic ocean.

I took this damage casually with a shrug of my shoulders, but already lamenting what will surely be an abbreviated wisteria showing this spring.   To disentangle this maze of vines will be impossible, so I'll be forced to merely chop the wisteria vines wherever they enter the trellis.  I'll undoubtedly end up with a 5-foot tall pair of wisteria's, and I'll have to decide about building another trellis.  This one was placed to be a "gateway" into or out of the back area of the garden and I've gotten used to its presence so I'll probably do something there.   And also the wisteria have to have something to grow on.   Normally, I'd put the cleanup off until spring, but since it is sunny and supposed to reach 65ºF this Christmas Eve afternoon, I can already hear it calling me.

Here is a picture of the trellis in its better days, already old in this 2019 blog post it came from, but certainly functional and beautiful in a light-lavender sort of way.   I thought the frame was unbreakable, but clearly I was flat-wind wrong.  The lattice-work was decaying when this picture was taken and I think I replaced it that year, but the posts, in cement, should not have broken down.  Or so I believed.

ProfessorRoush will have to up his engineering game for the next trellis.   I'm thinking maybe steel I-beams extending down into the bedrock might actually have a chance at standing longer than a decade?

Token poinsettia picture to wish everyone holiday cheer!

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to everyone!