Front paged at My Left Wing
Good morning, and may it be memorable! Welcome to Saturday Morning Garden Blogging.
After last Saturday and Sunday's gorgeous warmth, on Tuesday it turned cool and rainy, and stayed that way until yesterday. It has been a very wet year, starting with the string of post-Christmas storms, and moving on through the early spring months.
What's been planted in the veggie patch is growing like mad; unfortunately, not everything has been planted. Still don't have the corn, kohlrabi or beans in the ground. I had planted the cucumbers, but the hail did them in, so I must start over. I've also had a slow start with the zucchetta, caused by poor germination — a new batch has been started.
And it's a marvelous year for flowers. My favorite penstemon, Pikes Peak Purple, is in full splendor.
My thoughts have been lingering much this week on my flower garden. While I do love the seasonal treats of just-picked snap peas, and corn that go from stalk to cooking pot in less than a minute, my true love in gardening is directed to the flowers.
My choices are made for differing reasons. I like cranesbill (hardy geranium) for its long blooming season. I have a couple of low-growing ones, while this Johnson's Blue holds its nodding blooms on foot long stems. By mixing long-blooming perennials with annuals and perennials that have successive bloom times, from spring through fall, one can achieve a constant floral display from March to hard freeze. I've been asked how I manage to have something blooming from the first crocus on through the summer and fall months. It took many years to get a good combination, and I'm always tinkering with it, but when planning in during the winter months, search through those catalogs that start arriving at Christmas, paying particular attention to bloom times.
I grow other flowers simply because I love their showy blossoms, or because I am fascinated by the variety of form and color available. Penstemon fit this category, as do dahlias. The blooming period for penstemon is quite short — just a few weeks in May and June; most dahlias don't give up the goods until at least July, if not late August. Kind of like the "summer season" being defined on the calendar as beginning on Memorial Day, and ending on Labor Day, the summer growing season is bracketed by "penstemon season" and "dahlia season".
But my true love in the flower garden is for scented blooms. Thus, I adore dianthus — pinks, carnations and Sweet William. I love the way they look, and I love the spicy, clove scent that blends beautifully with sweeter fragrances. I have planters filled with annual dianthus. I have dianthus ground covers. I'm constantly on the look out for new forms.
Last year I bought a large collection of dianthus from Dutch Gardens, and this year they are coming to fruition. The plants are now large and full, and loaded with buds — some of which are starting to open. This beauty is Laced Romeo, small blooms of marvelously complex mixed raspberry shades.
In my family, my mother was the vegetable gardener, and her choices were pretty mundane: the standards of shelling peas, snap beans, tomatoes and corn, largely grown to can or freeze for the winter. And gawdawful red potatoes — sunburned and with a strong, bitter flavor. I hated those things, and still can barely tolerate red potatoes.
But when we moved to Oregon in 1969, my dad discovered flower gardening — he'd never shown much interest when we were living in Colorado. Oh, how I remember him out in the yard every weekend and of a summer evening, fishing cap covering his bald head, mowing his lawn (no one else ever touched the lawn mower) and tending to his beloved flowers. Dad loved his roses — he especially lavished care on a peace rose bush — and he fussed and frittered over his gladiolas until they looked like florist-grown stock: huge swords of blooms on perfectly straight stems.
The weather this week has matched my mood, and I've been thinking a lot about my flowers. I've been wondering if I could possibly achieve gladiola perfection here in Denver, like Daddy did in Oregon.
On Thursday, Dad developed a bladder infection and another round of pneumonia. On the advice of his doctors, and after careful review, we, his children, put his living will into effect, and stopped all treatment excepting for palliative measures. His kidneys are shutting down, and he is now in a hospice facility, waiting to leave his failing body, and his failing mind, behind.
I do not feel great grief at this point. My beloved Daddy, a man who could fix anything and grew remarkable gladiolas, had, over the last several years, been replaced by a shambling replicant who bore little resemblance to a once-vibrant man.
That's what's happening here. What's going in your gardens?