The hummingbirds have left now for their journey south, but they were here all summer, daily, hourly, piercing the bells of the Nepeta siberica, of Agastache, the lovely orange one called ‘Apricot Sunrise,’ dipping into the upside-down lampshades of abutilons, whizzing over to drink from the racemes of Salvia guaranitica ‘Black and Blue.’ I see them as I eat breakfast looking out the door onto our catmints, hear their distinctive humming, whirring sound as I deadhead in the cutting garden and they flit from stem to stem, from each tiny funnel or bell to another. [Read more…]
It is almost a year since I last posted. We have moved into Church House, mostly unpacked, and settled into our new nest. Today, the 4th of April, it is snowing. Nature playing its tricks.
Our beautiful shads are about to bloom and temperatures tonight and tomorrow will be in the teens. I am prepared for the fact that we might lose their bloom this year, and that the crabs and apples will get nipped.
The daffodils are bowed down with the weight of the snow, their stems frozen, and I can only hope that these tough blooms will survive this Arctic plunge.
They are one of my favorite flowers. We have been enjoying them in pots the last few months, forced into flower after several months buried in a coldframe that we bought last fall. This one is ‘Minnow,’ a small, late growing variety that forces well.
My head is spinning with heady visions of shrubs and trees, perennials and annuals to plant this spring. I have ordered a number of species roses–I cannot live without some roses–to clothe the fence around the little cutting garden we have dug behind the house.
I have put stakes in the ground on a slope near the house, thirty feet apart, in rows, for a small apple orchard, another feature in the garden I am unwilling to live without. We have two wonderful old apples here already, and an orchard seems appropriate to the place.
I will try to be better about posting and write about the plantings as they happen. The adventure begins.
We are having such fun watching Spring progress around our new house, not knowing, in the case of crabapples, lilacs, and peonies, what colors they would be, delighting in the smattering of varieties, grateful to be inheriting some loveliness.
Two standard shads (Amelanchier species) by the front door of the house were the first to open, along with a grove of multi-stemmed ones along the beginning of our drive. I find it thrilling to have these lovely trees up close where I can see at eye level their slender pinkish buds open to fragile white flowers and now begin to form fruit that the birds love.
We have two apple trees with great age and soul, their heavy branches wavily reaching outward from solid trunks. When they were in bloom, a pair of Baltimore Orioles, black-headed with blazing orange coats, chirpped from their branches as I weeded in a bed near by.
Crabapples too, pink budded, opening to white, an old one by the house and five planted at a distance in front of some tall spruces. And down in the boggy woods, I spied an old crab, brilliant red in bud, fading to pink in flower. I cut branches of it to bring indoors and mix with lilacs.
After thirty-three years of living at Duck Hill in North Salem, New York, creating, working in, learning from, and loving the garden there, we said goodbye in December and started a new adventure. The idea was to simplify, to leave Westchester County and its high taxes behind, to have a smaller garden that we could maintain more easily. We fell in love with our new home, in Falls Village, Connecticut because of its land–high fields, handsome old trees, a view of the Berkshire hills, and acres of rocky woodland, some high and dry, some wet, even boggy.
The house, which was built in the 1790’s as a meeting house for the Methodist-Episcopal church, and dedicated in 1840, was finally abandoned as a church in 1900, when its congregation decided to build a new church on Main Street. Since then, this small, simple house with its high roof has had a sporadic history of residents, many only weekenders. We are not living here yet, as renovation and the addition of a living room, screened porch, and mudroom take place. But we live in a friend’s guest house 1/2 mile away and go everyday with our lurcher Posy to walk on the land, start clearing paths in the woods, note the different habitats, dream and scheme.
The old apple trees and crabapples have been gently pruned, and we wait with excitement for trees and shrubs around the house and in the woods to bud, flower, and leaf out. Sometimes change is thrilling.
I have a fondness for snowball viburnums, in full dress right now. They are showy in an old-fashioned way, and are marvelous for cutting. At Duck Hill, we have the compact-growing ‘Newport’ with beautiful baseball-sized white flowers and ribbed leaves, and the flashy ‘Popcorn’ which is about 8 feet high and almost as wide, and littered with 3″ rounded white clusters all up and down its branches. It’s a “wow” shrub, wonderful for bouquets, with a bonus of coppery tinged leaves in the fall. But my favorite, swoon-inducing snowball type is ‘Mary Milton,’ a deliciously-hued soft pink sort with handsome leaves that are tipped with bronze in the spring. All three of these viburnums are members of the doublefile family, V. plicatum var. tomentosum, but in their plumpness quite different from the elegant lace-cap classic called ‘Mariesii.’
The brilliant flowers of Adonis amurensis have opened despite the ongoing cold, and winter aconites (Eranthis hymelis) are a puddle of sunshine under an apple tree. These two stalwart beauties–one a perennial, the other a bulb–flower with the same determination as the snowdrops, and are in their prime right now. So many years ago, almost thirty-four, I dug up a tiny clump of winter aconites from my old yard and brought them to this new home, planting them under an ancient apple tree along what became my woodland path. Maybe four or five flowers bloomed that first spring. I knew aconites spread through seeding if they are happy. And so they did, year after year, spreading and multiplying slowly but steadily. For some years I counted to see how many new ones flowered–but when there were more than 50 I gave up. Now there is a great pool of these buttercup-yellow flowers opening wide above their Elizabethan ruff of leaves intermingling with snowdrops. A few have even cropped up on the other side of the path several yards away, and I hope they will carpet the ground there one day too. The adonis was a new plant to me a few years ago– a gift from a wonderful old-time gardener who has since died. Seeing their bold yellow buds thrust through the leafy brown debris of the woodland and open wide with a hint of warmth seems a tribute to our friend.
Clethra alnifolia, or summersweet as it is commonly known, grows wild in deep, wet woods around here. It is an exceptionally fine native shrub, one of my favorites–and, even now, in the dead of winter, it is beautiful with its arching seedheads, right now capped with snow.
Although its natural habitat is low damp forest, clethra fares just as well in rather dry woods such as ours, and flowers in shade or sun. What’s wonderful about its flowering is that it happens in August, when not many shrubs are in bloom besides hydrangeas, and, as a bonus, the white bottlebrush spires are sweetly fragrant and provide nectar for butterflies and bees.
It is a graceful shrub that suckers and colonizes into an attractive billowing clump, growing about 6′ in height. If you are so inclined to get out your shears, clethra takes well to pruning into tight cloud-like shapes.
In October, the leaves of summersweet turn a lovely butter yellow, as you see here in the background to the left of the herb garden arbor where a small colony flourishes.
A charming pink sort, introduced by Broken Arrow Nursery, is called ‘Ruby Spice’ and is smaller in growth.
The branches of clethra flowers cut well for bouquets and I like to mix them with summer composites like Helianthus ‘Lemon Queen’ and at other times with hydrangeas like ‘Limelight.’
The only small drawback of clethra–and I am quibbling–is that it leafs out very late in spring. There is a moment in late April when you wonder if the bush is dead. But by early May the leaves unfurl, and handsome and healthy they are, providing a quiet screen until August when we are rewarded for our patience.
At holiday time, I am sorry we don’t have more conifers at Duck Hill. Not because I want to see them in the garden particularly (most conifers seem to me out of place here), but because I wish I had them to pick for bouquets and wreaths and mantels. I make do with what we have, namely hemlock from our boundary hedge and yew from a conveniently overgrown specimen that was here when I came 32 years ago. Thankfully, we have broadleaf evergreens that offer branches and sprigs–boxwood, pieris, leucothoe, inkberry, rhododendron, and skimmia. They are the saving grace now, offering welcome patches of green in the gray and white winter landscape. And here and there, we have dashes of holiday red–berries, fruit, and branches, to cut for indoors or just savor their brilliance as we walk in the garden.
The winterberries, varieties of Ilex verticillata, have been especially floriferous this year, which is surprising when you remember how dry our early fall was, and knowing that their natural preference is for damp ground. I catch glimpses of their scarlet-studded branches in low-lying woods as I drive the country roads around here. But they seem to survive well enough in drier ground, as is the case here. Usually a flock of birds, often robins, has stripped our bushes by now, but this year they are still vivid with orange and red berries.
Our American cranberrybush, Viburnum trilobum, drips with lustrous fruit until sometime in dead winter when birds polish them off. Our bushes, planted as a screen by the road, are five to six feet in height, arching in habit, and decorated with these scarlet drupes starting in late summer. I love to cut sprigs to add to small bouquets of roses or dahlias.
The showiest of viburnums this time of year is V. dilatatum. This is a big shrub, to about seven or eight feet, rounded in habit, with masses of tiny deep red berries from early fall through much of winter. This is a stellar viburnum where you can use a big shrub, with handsome heart-shaped leaves, showy discs of white flowers, and then this painterly haze of red. I pick branches of the berries to mix with hydrangeas for bouquets in the fall and now to compliment those broadleaf evergreens.
Most of the hips on our roses have been gobbled up by now, or have shrivelled and turned brown. But a few still hold their brilliance–are they not as palatable for some reason?
I love the color of the shrub dogwoods in the winter garden–yellow-twigged, flaming orange, dark crimson. One small, shrubby tree stands out along our woodland path for the same reason. It is a maple in the moosewood family, called Acer x conspicuum ‘Phoenix,’ with rather spectacular white-striped, coral-red winter twigs. It isn’t big enough to dream of cutting. But I puposely take the path where it stands back to the house each afternoon to see it shimmer.
Happy New Year from Duck Hill.
We have been blessed this late September and early October with soft, warm, sun-lit days, time to savor the last blooms in the garden. The dahlias have been brilliant dabs of color in the vegetable garden, begging to be picked for bouquets.
Soon, one cold night they will be blackened with frost, and that will be that. Carefully the tubers will be dug up, dried off a bit and packed away in boxes within nests of vermiculite or peat moss, stored in the garage until next spring.
Meanwhile, asters have been the stars in other parts of the garden, livening the flower borders with rich purple and lavendar, turning the woodland into a fairyland of white, and, in the meadow, playing counterpoint in all its cool hues to the plumes of goldenrod. I can’t have enough of these native fall flowers–notes are jotted in the garden journal to add more to the meadow, more to the flower borders, pink and palest blue, and violet.
The last of the sunflowers is blooming now, tall and waving, humming with bees, a lovely graceful thing. It is called Helianthus ‘Sheila’s Sunshine,’ a pale butter yellow, small single flowers in great abundance on 8′ stems. Helianthus ‘Lemon Queen’ is now tinged with brown, but its seedheads still offer meals for the goldfinches who frequent its bright yellow flowers on willowy branches all summer.
One of the delights of June and July at Duck Hill is the flowering of clematis vines as they scramble through roses and weave up and over our wire-faced paddock fences that enclose the meadow and pool area and the vegetable garden. We grow mostly the small-flowered sorts, the viticellas and texensis varieties and a few of the curious species, for they fit well with our rather wild and unpretentious garden. One of the deservedly better-known viticella hybrids, ‘Betty Corning,’ is seen in the picture above, covering a part of the vegetable garden fence with its masses of pale lilac bells. It is a “doer,” never failing to bloom in abundance.
Clematis ‘Alba Luxurians’ is a curious viticella cultivar that I am fond of. It has pinwheels of nodding white flowers tipped and notched green at the ends of the petals, their white often tinged with the palest violet blue. It has dark, purple-black stamens.
Clematis triternata ‘Rubromarginata’ is the mouthful of a name for the lovely little violet and white species that has been flowering delicately for weeks now. It is one of my favorites.
Another odd little species at Duck Hill, Clematis viorna, drapes its reddish-purple bells along the meadow fence. Also called leather-flower, it is native to our southeastern states, found on stream banks under trees. The little flared bells are edged in yellow.
Soon the cultivars of Clematis tangutica will be blooming, and, as the viticellas and earlier species succomb to our summer heat, the golden clematis will carry us through the rest of summer. Even after they finish blooming, the swirled, silky seed heads are magical in the garden and wonderful to cut and mix in small bouquets.
As for pruning: we cut all of the clematis vines mentioned above down to about a foot from the ground in spring. Then we dress the base of the plants with compost and ashes from the fireplace (they like that touch of lime) and keep them well weeded and watered. Our reward is this charming yearly display.