Kiss the Earth

A getaway weekend is a lovely idea. Too bad it's such a pain in the neck getting away these days. Driving up the East Coast - often horrible. I wish there were cops every two miles to nab all the idiots. Flying? The worst. There ought to be a law forbidding airlines from loading the plane, taxiing out on the runway and then sitting there for two hours. Trains are looking better and better.

This past weekend found us way up at the tip of Boston's North Shore for a family reunion in Ipswich, Mass., where my father grew up and where I went every summer of my youth. Our family never went to the Jersey Shore. Our "shore" was Crane's Beach. No crab legs and salt water taffy for me. Give me a nice big "lobstah" and an order of "steamahs."

But I hadn't been back in years.

What fun to see all the cousins again, and to visit my grandparents' house where one cousin now lives, and to meet everyone's children, who look remarkably like us at that age! Isn't that the funniest thing.

We played horseshoes and Whiffle ball, watched old home movies and talked till we were hoarse. So much fun and some sadness over who couldn't be with us and how time is flying by. I never thought a reunion would make me melancholy, but this one did, just a little.

The setting for our get-together was a very old part of the country. Ipswich has almost 60 homes - still occupied - dating to between 1625 and 1725. So, too, Rockport, just to the east and right on the water, is a very historic place.

One morning I slipped out early from our B&B in Rockport to take a walk down the main street and smell the salty air. As I made my way down to the harbor, it amazed me to see the window boxes, containers full of flowers and old-fashioned roses woven through the white picket fences. These, by the way, were authentic wood pickets. Can I just say that there's nothing, nothing, like a real wooden fence, even if it's chipped and peeling.

Our innkeeper Kathy Fitzgerald, who with her husband runs the 1832 Sally Webster Inn in Rockport, said John occasionally complains about having to paint the wooden fence. "Let's get plastic," he suggested. Kathy exercised her veto then and there and I'm glad she did. Her fence is the real deal. Anything less in such a historic setting would look fake. All wrong.

Another thought that came to me as I walked along is that no matter where you go, flowers by the front door or the window or the sidewalk or gate make such a difference to the entryway. They're a gift to passersby, something some of us may remember always.

On a weekend when I was re-establishing connections with family and my own childhood, I realized that the times spent in this place were among the happiest in my life. And I do remember the flowers and greenery from those days - the lilies in my grandparents' yard, the white picket fence out back with the rose-covered arbor, the meadow beyond that with the path mown through it. Sadly, all gone now.

But as I think about these things, I can almost hear the kids yelling during our games of tag. I can feel myself running away from my brothers and cousins. I can just about smell the flowers and the grass. And I can remember the feel of lightning bugs in my cupped hands and the sting of those wretched greenheads on my legs!

Flowers, on this trip, evoked memories of a time when my parents were young and healthy, we kids were innocent and carefree and summer was a time to play outside - fearlessly - till it got dark.

The flowers I met on this visit, though different from those childhood blooms, were a comfort and a pleasure. They made me grateful, and added another dimension to a trip already filled with happy memories.

My neighbor Susan bought a plant at the supermarket, never thinking it would turn fabulous. She has no idea what it is. With its golden petals and dark center, it looks to me like a member of the Rudbeckia family.

Whatever it is, all day long people stop to look at it.

If you know its official name, let us know!

Don't these purple coneflowers look like badminton shuttlecocks? So big, with the downturned petals. I'd never bat them around, but they sure have that look.

This photo really shows how the Echinacea purpurea will fill a spot in your garden over time. I planted a few of them here three or four years ago and the bed is almost completely covered. To do this, you'll want to deadhead all summer, to keep the blooms going, but towards the end, let a few (depending on how many you want next year) go to seed.

I like these flowers at every stage of development, from bud right through to seedhead. The other thing that recommends them is their desirability to wildlife. Last summer I raced inside to get a camera when several brilliant yellow butterflies landed on them. They're popular with butterflies and goldfinches, and they don't require a lot of water, which makes them a good garden plant whether you're in the city or suburbs.

Lately, you practically have your choice of colors, from cream to rose to orange to yellow. Whatever you do, be sure to plan a big group of them and try for full sun. That's how they look and do their best. Supposedly, you can cut them and they do well in a vase but - sigh - I've never had much luck.

Coneflower is one of those plants that you see all over the place, which might make you think they're ordinary .. Would you say that about a rose?

I think we have a winner in the mystery flower contest. A blog-reader named Terry identifies it as a Gloriosa daisy, the cultivated version of the Brown-eyed Susan. (See earlier post: Name that flower)

Gloriosas are very tolerant of heat and humidity. They love weather like this, in other words.

True enough. My neighbor's patch of Gloriosas looks fresh as ... a daisy, while so many other things are shriveling up. I thought of taking pictures of my dessicated hydrangeas, but how depressing would that be?!

I know rain is coming, but I couldn't stand it anymore and yesterday headed for the hoses and started watering. It's best to do a deep watering, so as not to encourage shallow roots, so I resigned myself to a couple of hours of standing there holding a hose. Two hours later - boy, did the time go fast - at least one part of the garden was looking peppier and this morning, despite the already stifling heat, everything was still looking good.

All the experts advise against planting or transplanting in such heat, but I had a plant that was nagging at me to move it. Not sure whether this sunflower was one I planted from seed in May or one "planted" by a bird who fed from my late-season sunflower-seed buffet last year. In any event, a nice strong sunflower popped up along the walkway in front of a whole host of shorter things.

In the best gardening tradition, I made a mental note (gotta move that thing) and then ignored it until it threatened to get so big it would obscure all else. Yesterday, in the afternoon's final burst of energy, I gingerly uprooted it and moved it to the middle of the garden, amidst a sea of now-shoulder-high cleomes. Water, water, I gave it plenty.

It seemed a perfect place. It would immediately draw the eye as you enter the garden and wouldn't blot out anything else.

This morning I reflected on how dumb it was to move it yesterday. I was almost afraid to look at what I had done. Figured it had wilted overnight, rebelling against both the heat and my insistence on uprooting it on the hottest day of the year. But there it was ... perking right along, leaves upturned, asking for more sun, more heat, more dry weather.

Even as we humans are clamoring for artificial air-conditioning and complaining of the heat and humidity, the humble sunflower not only tolerates. It thrives.

Sorta like the Gloriosa daisy.

Gardening lately has been a guessing game. How long till it rains? Should I water now - or take a chance? It's cruel, watching flowers curl up in this heat.

Some stuff still looks great. I've never planted cannas before, but put a few yellow and orange ones in my new patio containers. A couple were blooming beautifully this morning, looking especially radiant in the relative darkness of this cloudy day. This is a photo of the dwarf 'Orange Futurity.'

But the tomatoes ... and the sweet peas ... definitely looked stressed. Even the zinnias were looking bedraggled. All this makes me wonder how I ever went on vacation B.G. - before the garden. Two or three weeks of this and my gardens would be a dust bowl.

First thing I checked in the morning paper (now what would that be?!) was the weather, so I've not shared a drop of water with any plant today.

And until the boss gets here, I'll be looking out the office window ...

Lady Bird Johnson isn't someone I've spent much time thinking about over the years. I remember knowing about her when I was a kid, even the wildflower part. But for those of us in the plant and flower world, today she is certainly someone to celebrate. She died yesterday after a long and interesting life. She was 94.

In our lifetime, she was an early advocate of highway beautification, something we don't acknowledge until we're driving on either a really ugly highway or a particularly beautiful one.

On my recent trip to Massachusetts, I was astounded to see the wildflowers planted en masse along the Mass Pike. They were head-turners in gold, orange and purple. Then again, take a drive - if you dare - closer to home, on Roosevelt Boulevard. Your head will turn, all right - away, in disgust. Not only does this Death Road lack pretty plantings, it's lined with trash and garbage.

(I'm with Ray Nagin - this town is gross. Not everywhere. Center City usually looks pretty good. But travel the city limits and you'll get an eyeful.)

While enjoying the rain-revived flowers in my garden this morning, I sent Mrs. Johnson a silent salute for her environmental advocacy and her love of wildflowers. For all the talk these days of our role as "stewards of the land," she was one individual who truly earned the title.

In her honor, I offer this photo - taken at Welkinweir, the public garden in northern Chester County last week - of a vibrant orange butterfly weed. (Story to come in the paper on Friday, July 20.) It was one of many wildflowers growing in a meadow down by the Great Pond. if you look closely at my not-so-great photo, you'll see about a dozen butterflies.

They - and the wildflowers - were splendid.

While lots of folks are headed to the Shore for the weekend, I popped down to Ventnor this morning for a few hours to visit with Jude Yost, who has a lovely garden on her corner property a block from the beach. She told me people stop her all the time to admire it, and sure enough, while I was there, someone did that very thing. And no wonder.

It's a pleasant little space, abuzz with bees and the first Monarch butterfly either of us had seen this summer. Jude's very artistic, and what she lacks in formal horticulture training, she more than makes up for with an adventuresome spirit and an eye for color and form.

I'll be writing about Jude's Shore garden in two weeks, but wanted to share these photos ahead of time. One fun feature in her garden has to do with sunflowers, which are always a cheerful addition. But she rarely has to plant them anymore. Birds and wind off the ocean spread seeds - and not just sunflowers - all over her garden. Some years she has so many sunflowers she has to pull them out!

It sounds rather haphazard, but I assure you, the effect is smile-inducing. Sunflowers are scattered throughout, along the fence and pathway, here, there. Other things are spread that way, too, which might confound a gardener with a spirit less free.

Though I know this sort of thing can take a bad turn and fill the garden with unwanted plants, I kind of like the idea of birds and wind spreading things we like. As Jude says, if you don't like their handiwork, you just take it out and do your own thing.

With thoughts of birds and wind and free spirits, I wish you a great weekend, everyone, Shore or no Shore.

To read about Jude and Clyde Yost's Ventor garden, go to: http://www.philly.com/inquirer/columnists/virginia_smith/20070727_In_Ventnor__N_J___a_couple_restore_a_run-down_century-old_home_and_garden_with_oblivious_and_frenzied_energy_.html

Wasn't much to recommend this morning. It was stinky hot outside by 7:30 and stuff looked like it hadn't had any sleep. I did manage to find some bright colors to cheer me up, including this rogue morning glory that popped into a container uninvited. Once there, it began its climb. You have to admit. As much as these things are considered a pest - some community gardens won't allow gardeners to plant them - taken individually, or as an avalanche, the blossoms and heart-shaped leaves are quite nice. Love how it picks up the red of the cardinal climber to its left.

I think this is Ipomoea purpurea 'Grandpa Ott's,' an heirloom variety that I planted when my garden was new three summers ago. It's reappeared ever since, sometimes in odd places, which is part of the beauty and the frustration of these unusual blossoms.

That first year, 2005, I had these purple morning glories and the sky blue 'Heavenly Blue' on trellises that got morning and afternoon sun. They bloomed like no tomorrow, dozens and dozens of flowers every morning. They were such a cheerful hello each day. Mysteriously, none of the blue morning glories has reappeared. Only Grandpa, and not in any invasive way, just a vine here and a vine there.

This is a valuable exercise. Instead of whining about how terrible everything looks, I can share things that even in dry heat, bring joy. That makes for ... a glorious morning.

This past weekend three gardening friends came to visit on three different days. This is the season for snooping and chatting and comparing and learning by talking and seeing what others do in their spaces.

Two were city friends, one from a close-in suburb, and they all know much more than I do about gardening. But we share the love! I learned something from each.

The Big Lesson in the world of gardening is that friendships flourish when you share this crazy affinity. It's usually described as a passion or an addiction, so in the interest of finding a non-cliched way of expressing it, I'll say affinity. But that has a rather clinical sound to it. If you are reading this blog, surely you know what I mean.

With each friend, I walked around the garden. We talked and talked in a language that non-gardeners would never get. (Sorta how I feel when my brothers start talking sports. Huh?!)

Where did you get that? one asked. I have that in my garden, said another. You could plant this and this and this in that space, offered the third. I should've taken notes.

They helped identify a plant that went in three summers ago but only broke ground this spring. It was such a fun surprise to see it, but I had no idea what it was.

They helped me realize I've planted a few things in the wrong place. They're small now, but destined for greater height and width, meaning they'll need to be moved.

They laughed with me when I described some of the dumb things I've done - and confessed to their own mistakes.

They answered my questions about dividing perennials and which roses might do well in which spots. They've been at this a long time, so I figured, this is my chance!

They loved the grapes and the giant hibiscus buds. They liked the look of lavender bee balm next to a tall variegated grass. Never seen meadow rue with such a big spray of purple flowers. They were amazed at how much sun I get. They offered suggestions for shade plants.

I know they have beautiful gardens, so I was happy they could enjoy mine. And then I hemmed and hawed at how shabby the vegetable garden looks. I need to rip out the bolting lettuce, I protested, and everything is so dry. A few weeks ago it looked smashing, but not now ...

What am I doing?! Everyone's garden is dry. Everyone's garden - unless you're employing an army - is looking a little piqued after the sprint through spring.

Relax! This is an "affinity," remember? This is fun.

I know that I know a lot more than I did a year ago and that I'm learning every single day. Friends can help. In the meantime, we enjoy each other's "affinity."

No, we're not talking Phillies here. I'm talking zucchini. Whew! Is your squash patch the Land of Titans right now?

All week, I've been studiously checking under those grand umbrella leaves to see how big the squash and zucchinis are, how much they've grown, monitoring, monitoring, for just the right moment to harvest. It's recommended that they be picked when they're three to six inches long, so tender, just right for sauteeing, and thus far, the yellow squash is cooperating.

But for some reason, despite my conscientious oversight, I now have a collection of green baseball bats. The zucchini are growing six inches overnight!

They're good for a laugh, at least.

Jumbo zucchini beasts aren't as tender or tasty as their more delicate siblings, but I have a hard time throwing any fresh produce away. I could toss them into the compost pile, but at this rate, they'll take 10 years to break down.

What happens, then, is that I give all the delicate young things to friends and neighbors and keep the baseball bats for myself. Oh, the self-deprivation of it all!

I suspect in another few days, or maybe hours, friends and neighbors will start looking the other way, or not answering the doorbell, when I approach with my bag of bats. If that's the case ... it may be time to hit the compost pile.

But not before I saute one more of those supersized babies ...

The first morning you see a new flower blooming is always exciting. Today, in my garden, it the hibiscus' turn. I have several hardy varieties and even more tropical, which live a rather dreary existence inside over the winter before they're liberated each spring and placed outside on the patio.

For those of you who're knowledgeable - and crazy - about hibiscus, you know that the hardy ones look dried up and dead till mid-summer and then almost every day you see dramatic growth. I love these flowers because of that drama. A lot of gardeners dig them up and toss them away because they look so dreary, not understanding that this is a requisite phase for being glamorous later on.

This photo is of 'Plum Crazy,' which isn't the biggest hardy hibiscus bloom I'll have this summer ... can't wait for the "dinner plates" ... but it's the first. The petals feel like delicate crepe paper and last only a day. If you deadhead these - and they're so huge, it almost feels like murder! - you'll be rewarded with another giant one in a few days.

In the meantime, the growing bud is a thing of beauty, too. I hope I never get so old and jaded that I can't marvel at and appreciate the phases of growth of these incredible plants. It is perpetually amazing to me how intricate and lovely they are. And while I've never seen them blooming up a storm in the tropics, I hope to someday. Perhaps I have seen them, without knowing it, in a previous level of consciousness - B.G., Before Gardening.

Then there's this pretty thing, below, the first bloom on one of the tropicals that lived indoors all winter. Every one of its peers has flowered already in orange, red and apricot, but this guy was behind the pack. He looked ragged and unhappy for the longest time, but in the last couple of weeks, his leaves came out in full and turned a healthy shade of green and he budded right up.

This morning, victory.

Yesterday was a beech day in my household, time for a long hike in the Wissahickon and a trip to visit the Great Beech tree, more than 300 years old, up by the Tree House off Forbidden Drive. This tree is magnificent, more so on a lovely summer afternoon like yesterday.

There's much to recommend this kind of beech day. I'm sure The Shore was a good time this weekend, but I prefer the green and the solitude of the trails high above the Wissahickon Creek. It's surprisingly quiet and peaceful up there, except for the birds, and nicely deserted, though we did meet up with two women on horseback. Their mounts were friendly mares named Cocoa and Classy, and they were interested in apples, carrots, anything edible. Alas. We had nothing to offer but they let us pet them.

Their owners described the many deer they run across, and a park employee's declaration that she'd seen three coyotes recently, one carrying a dead groundhog across a field. I'm glad we met up with only horses and birds!

Besides the beeches, we saw a giant cucumber tree (Magnolia acuminata for you purists), which is a large native forest tree, a stand of bamboo, wildflowers and evergreens, and more wild raspberries than we could eat. I didn't feel guilty sampling these tart little wonders because there were lots more for the birds and animals.

It's clear Friends of the Wissahickon has done a great deal of trail work and because of that, we gracefully navigated the Judge Harold D. Saylor trail - it was during his watch as president of the Friends group that the Wissahickon Valley was declared a National Natural Landmark in 1966. This ensured that the valley would remain protected for future generations and we salute Judge Saylor and all involved!

But more work needs to be done on those trails. All I'll say is thank goodness it was still light. We wandered around for a good while. Things could be worse, of course, than wandering aimlessly around these leafy trails on a pleasant summer afternoon. I get it!

So that was my day at the beech. Tree, I mean. I highly recommend it.

This is the lovely Mary Previte in her Crows Woods community garden in Haddonfield. Photo was taken by her daughter Alice. If you look closely, you can see a bee on the tall pink zinnia. Major zinnias, Mary! And big-time sunflowers behind you.

I have both in my garden. The sunflowers are different sizes, nothing in bloom yet, and the zinnias are colorful but quite small. Next time I'm thinking negative thoughts ... everything's fading, the best is over ... I'll think of Mary's zinnias and sunflowers. They're so colorful and cheerful.

Like a lot of flowers, the zinnia has an interesting - you might say bizarre - history. It was named for Johann Gottfried Zinn, a professor of medicine in Gottingen in Germany, who was well known for his detailed description of the anatomy of the human eye. The iris - of the eye, not the garden - was a particular fascination of his, as were orchids and other flowers.

Linnaeus named the zinnia, originally from Mexico, in his honor. Now you know. This is quite a bit of baggage. Might've been better if he'd had a daughter named Zinnia.

Kind of a cute name, don't you think?

This may sound like heresy, but I'm not all that keen on getting the latest breakthrough plant. There are lots of gardeners out there whose pulses quicken at the thought, I know, and I also know this is human nature. Gardening is as competitive as anything else, and having the hot new thing on the market is as desirable in this arena as it is in the world of sneakers and iPods.

Still, it seems to me that this is a slippery slope. Like having the hot sneaker or electronic device, you can be be sure that as soon as everyone else has one, yet a newer version will appear on the horizon. It's no different with plants.

So I read the emails and scan the catalogues, taking note of the newest this or that, and listen with quiet amusement as other gardeners go crazy over them. I find plenty to learn and explore without taking on new stuff!

But every once in a while, a new thing comes on the market that strikes me as a find, something nice to look at and extremely practical. This year, I planted some SunPatiens (Impatiens xhybridus), which is the first impatiens on the market to take full sun and all-day heat. We've all used these little tried-and-trues to color up our shady spots and they perform admirably ... what a great idea to have one for sun.

I've had impatiens fatigue for many years, though, given that most garden centers sell acres and acres of them and most gardens seem to have them. You see, I don't have to be the first on the planet to try something. I just don't want to be one of billions!

When I saw the SunPatiens, the idea of having something bright, whose color wouldn't fade in sun, was appealing. Long about now, a lot of perennials in the garden are blanched and frazzled, especially if you don't get around to deadheading every day.

These new impatiens, which are a hybrid or combination of regular impatiens and the - I think - prettier New Guinea impatiens, come in lots of colors (white, red, lavender, salmon, etc.) and are supposed to be available at Home Depot.

I've done a lot of reading, talking and thinking about native plants lately, part of the job, and these are definitely not natives to these parts. So don't plant only SunPatiens in your garden, please.

But for a splash of color that won't wilt or fry, provided you do water once in a while, these are hard to beat. Hmmm. There's that competitive thing again ...

I could hardly wait to get to work this morning - this is ridiculous! - to write about the amazing concert last night in the middle of the gardens at Morris Arboretum in Chestnut Hill. A couple of friends and I packed a picnic supper, grabbed some wine, some chairs and a blanket, and headed over to hear Cintron, a Latin soul and jazz band that does salsa, R&B, pop, beaucoup, beaucoup!

You ain't heard nothin' till you've heard a Latin version of "Take the 'A' Train"... it rocked!

It was hard to guess how many folks turned out last night because we were spread all over the Azalea Meadow, but the arboretum staff reports this morning that they counted 675. For the first concert on July 12 - the Ambler Symphony Orchestra - about 800 people showed up. And best of all, the event is free with admission or, if you're a member, free, period.

It was a mellow crowd, and evening, with mild temperatures and beautiful vistas. The sun set, the moon peeked out, and the music was fabulous. And the food? We feasted on a array of cold salads, fresh fruit and chilled wine. Some folks came extra early and set up their outdoor dining rooms and savored a leisurely dinner.

We saw people with hoagies and pizzas and closer to the stage a group sipping Champagne from flutes. Whatever you like.

Next week's concert features Philly Gumbo, which combines New Orleans funk, blues and reggae. I can't wait to go. The final concert is Aug. 9 - the Arpeggio Jazz Ensemble.

Concerts start at 7 p.m., end promptly at 8:30 p.m. For those who can get to the garden earlier than 7, there are free beer tastings from 6-7 p.m.

Morris director Paul Meyer says the arboretum has sponsored outdoor entertainment before, with music or Scottish dancing, but that the idea was hard to market because the offerings and audiences were so diverse. This "Groovin' in the Garden" concert series appeals to lots more folks and is easier to promote.

And one more thing. For those of you with young children, feel free to bring them along. For those of you without, have no fear. Last night the kids raced around and had a fine time and never once drowned out the music. As I said, very mellow.

And quite a setting. Dragonflies were darting here and there, the flowers are (still) remarkably lush - even the Rose Garden looks good. I'd like to see the arboretum's water bill!

My friends and I are already plotting our return next week.
Hope to see you there.

Morris Arboretum isn't the only public garden in the region offering outdoor music events this summer, and I hope to get to some of these, as well. They're at Swarthmore College's Scott Arboretum, which has a stupendous outdoor amphitheater, and at Longwood Gardens, too.

Both are lovely venues for musical performances, and you can get there early and wander the grounds. For a nice summary - a summery summary - go to:

http://www.greaterphiladelphiagardens.org/column.asp?ColumnID=29

Rose Bochansky isn't a rose gardener - yet. But she's grown just about the biggest tomato I've ever seen - a luminous gold one that would take at least three hands to hold.

I met Rose over at Harriton House, where she works as the assistant to Curator Bruce Gill. I'm embarrassed to admit I'd never heard of Harriton before now, but it's definitely going on my list of must-see places. It's a house, garden and 15-acre park in Bryn Mawr, of all places, that dates to 1704 and was once home to Charles Thomson, the first and only secretary to the Continental and Confederation Congresses.

The original owner, Rowland Ellis, received the nearly 700-acre property from William Penn and called it "Bryn Mawr," which means "high hill" in Welsh. Today it has a community garden on the site and an apiary, which is what drew me there. I hope to write a story on this lovely place in the weeks to come, but meanwhile, take a look at http://www.harritonhouse.org.

Here's Rose. Believe it or not, this is her first vegetable garden ever. It's huge!
I think she's showing me her borage in this photo. Borage has a yucky name but tastes like cucumber and is irresistible to hummingbirds. Rose has even made borage tea from the leaves. "It has a very clean taste," she reports.

Apparently that's also what birds and insects think of borage. Rose says they're all over it.

That's not something you hear much about - borage - but, like Harriton House, it's well worth trying. It has pretty purple flowers and dark green leaves, and it's a self-sowing annual considered a good companion plant for tomatoes. It's advisable to plant it close together - we urban gardeners like that advice! and some say it improves the flavor of tomatoes growing nearby.

I imagine Rose's golden globe is probably the tastiest tomato around, but given that she's growing borage all over her tomato patch, I'll go out on a (short) limb and speculate that that title's a lock.