Where to go, what to do?

I have a trip coming up at the end of June.  My dear friend from grammar school is touring Scandinavia with her husband and their friends.  Then, she's flying in from Copenhagen to join me at Charles de Gaulle airport.  From there, we're going somewhere for two days before we take an apartment on the Ile St. Louis in Paris where we'll stay a week.  I like being with Linda in Paris, because she goes her way, and I go mine.  However, we go off on a lot of adventures together, too, so it is the perfect set-up.

Since I want to see gardens, I'll probably take day trips from Paris.  Pictured above is a path at Giverny.  I will go there again, but I'll probably sign up for one of those day trips on a tourist bus to get there.  When my daughters and I went to Giverny in 2006, it was in May (I think towards the end of the month).  It was so crowded that it was almost unbearable (check over to the left of the photo to get an idea).  We ate a terrible meal with terrible service at a huge price at the restaurant there, so I won't do that again.  Also, the line to visit the garden took at least an hour.  I'm sure it's always crowded in summer, but it will be fun to see what's in bloom at another season.

One place I want to see is the Roseraie de l'Hay.  I'm hoping it will be a cool spring and the roses will hold off until I get there.  But, that will be a day trip, as it is just outside Paris.  (An aside here:  I was in Paris in the summer of 1968.  My friend from college was there because her father, who later became Secretary of State, was involved in negotiations to end the Vietnam War  - which obviously didn't work.  There was a terrible heat wave.  My other college friend and I had planned to take courses in Paris for the summer, but it was so hot, we jumped a train to Scandinavia where it was sleeting and proceeded to go all around Europe and to England, Wales and Ireland, ending up in St. Tropez.  I could write for days about that crazy trip, but suffice it to say, it can be blisteringly hot in Paris in June.  I hope this won't happen again and ruin the roses).

But back to the question of where to go for those two days.  I've rented cars and driven in France and Paris before, but I don't like driving when I have jet lag.  Getting on the Paris peripherique is a nightmare anytime, but I can't imagine tackling it if I haven't slept.  So, we could take the fast train somewhere, but where?  Of course, I have gardens on my mind, and I'll be making that the focus of the trip.  Linda is agreeable to the idea.

I've never been to Brittany, and there's a garden I'd like to see there.  The catch is that it is closed on weekdays.  Even if I could get them to make an exception, once we got there by train, we'd still have to rent a car.  Linda's never been to the Loire Valley, but that would also involve a car.  Biarritz is another place I haven't seen, and there's a fast train to Bordeaux, but I don't know.  That seems too hurried.

I do have a book given to me by a French friend that lists gardens that are open to the public.  I need to study that for ideas.  I will report later when we decide where to go and what to do.

Where to go, what to do?

I have a trip coming up at the end of June.  My dear friend from grammar school is touring Scandinavia with her husband and their friends.  Then, she's flying in from Copenhagen to join me at Charles de Gaulle airport.  From there, we're going somewhere for two days before we take an apartment on the Ile St. Louis in Paris where we'll stay a week.  I like being with Linda in Paris, because she goes her way, and I go mine.  However, we go off on a lot of adventures together, too, so it is the perfect set-up.

Since I want to see gardens, I'll probably take day trips from Paris.  Pictured above is a path at Giverny.  I will go there again, but I'll probably sign up for one of those day trips on a tourist bus to get there.  When my daughters and I went to Giverny in 2006, it was in May (I think towards the end of the month).  It was so crowded that it was almost unbearable (check over to the left of the photo to get an idea).  We ate a terrible meal with terrible service at a huge price at the restaurant there, so I won't do that again.  Also, the line to visit the garden took at least an hour.  I'm sure it's always crowded in summer, but it will be fun to see what's in bloom at another season.

One place I want to see is the Roseraie de l'Hay.  I'm hoping it will be a cool spring and the roses will hold off until I get there.  But, that will be a day trip, as it is just outside Paris.  (An aside here:  I was in Paris in the summer of 1968.  My friend from college was there because her father, who later became Secretary of State, was involved in negotiations to end the Vietnam War  - which obviously didn't work.  There was a terrible heat wave.  My other college friend and I had planned to take courses in Paris for the summer, but it was so hot, we jumped a train to Scandinavia where it was sleeting and proceeded to go all around Europe and to England, Wales and Ireland, ending up in St. Tropez.  I could write for days about that crazy trip, but suffice it to say, it can be blisteringly hot in Paris in June.  I hope this won't happen again and ruin the roses).

But back to the question of where to go for those two days.  I've rented cars and driven in France and Paris before, but I don't like driving when I have jet lag.  Getting on the Paris peripherique is a nightmare anytime, but I can't imagine tackling it if I haven't slept.  So, we could take the fast train somewhere, but where?  Of course, I have gardens on my mind, and I'll be making that the focus of the trip.  Linda is agreeable to the idea.

I've never been to Brittany, and there's a garden I'd like to see there.  The catch is that it is closed on weekdays.  Even if I could get them to make an exception, once we got there by train, we'd still have to rent a car.  Linda's never been to the Loire Valley, but that would also involve a car.  Biarritz is another place I haven't seen, and there's a fast train to Bordeaux, but I don't know.  That seems too hurried.

I do have a book given to me by a French friend that lists gardens that are open to the public.  I need to study that for ideas.  I will report later when we decide where to go and what to do.

If at first you don't succeed

"

Every Sunday morning, for about 15 minutes, I am highly entertained by 98-year-old (she will be 99 in early May) Margaret Suddereth.  I pick her up for Sunday School at her high-rise apartment building on Peachtree Street, and she regales me with stories of our church, Peachtree Road United Methodist, where she has been a member since 1943.

Margaret is responsible for the garden you see above, which was originally conceived as a memorial to a minister's wife who died.  Apparently, the garden had languished over a period of years until Margaret, who is a go-getter and driving force behind fund-raising for many of the buildings at our church, took over the garden in the 1970's.  

"We've had every landscape architect in Atlanta out here trying to get it right," she said.  "It's been nothing but trial and error.  We've planted and then taken out I don't know how many times."

The garden has some disadvantages.  One, it is enclosed on all sides by buildings, making air circulation a problem.  Secondly, it's sunny and hot in most areas and shady in others, so watering requirements are different.

Margaret says that at one point, dogwoods (a symbol for our church is a dogwood blossom) were planted, but they performed poorly.  What did do well, however, were foster hollies, which got out of hand and eventually reached 25 feet in height.  No one could keep up with the pruning, and so they were cut down (I remember thinking this was a bad idea; I loved them).

The decision was finally made to create an all green and white garden.  Thus, some pink George Tabor azaleas were removed and replaced with 'White Empress' camellias (you can see their dark foliage up against the far wall).  The dogwoods were replaced with 'Natchez' crepe myrtles, and despite the poor air circulation, the latter have actually thrived.

On the sides, someone had planted 'Otto Luyken' laurels, which were spindly at best.  The dark green leaves looked like they'd been shot with bullets, there were so many holes.  Those were replaced with gardenias, which have yet to get white fly (I'm crossing my fingers).   The gardenias are special, because they are named for a nephew of our long-time fomer minister Don Harp.  Still, those vigorous bushes must be pruned after they bloom each year, but they do perfume the garden in June.

All sorts of ground covers have been tried, but dwarf mondo, pachysandra and ajuga have survived.  Other successful shrubs are Osmanthus fragens, the tea olive.  I love walking through when they're in bloom.

What you can't see is a raised semi-circle with a statue of St. Francis.  Margaret says this was originally a pool, but smokers would throw their cigarette butts in the water, and "it looked like a floating ash tray."

The hurdle now to overcome is the state of the American and English boxwoods.  They need good drainage and regular watering, so they've had problems.  I've suggested trying Korean boxwoods.  I feel they can withstand the extremes and grow well in planters and in the ground.

Even now, Margaret directs what should be done.  She can name every plant that's ever been in the garden, even the various annuals that have been tried over the years.

Margaret is one of those people who won't tolerate it when something doesn't work. She's ruthless.  If a plant languishes, it's removed.

"With gardening, you just have to keep trying until you get it right."

I think she has a great point.

If at first you don't succeed

"

Every Sunday morning, for about 15 minutes, I am highly entertained by 98-year-old (she will be 99 in early May) Margaret Suddereth.  I pick her up for Sunday School at her high-rise apartment building on Peachtree Street, and she regales me with stories of our church, Peachtree Road United Methodist, where she has been a member since 1943.

Margaret is responsible for the garden you see above, which was originally conceived as a memorial to a minister's wife who died.  Apparently, the garden had languished over a period of years until Margaret, who is a go-getter and driving force behind fund-raising for many of the buildings at our church, took over the garden in the 1970's.  

"We've had every landscape architect in Atlanta out here trying to get it right," she said.  "It's been nothing but trial and error.  We've planted and then taken out I don't know how many times."

The garden has some disadvantages.  One, it is enclosed on all sides by buildings, making air circulation a problem.  Secondly, it's sunny and hot in most areas and shady in others, so watering requirements are different.

Margaret says that at one point, dogwoods (a symbol for our church is a dogwood blossom) were planted, but they performed poorly.  What did do well, however, were foster hollies, which got out of hand and eventually reached 25 feet in height.  No one could keep up with the pruning, and so they were cut down (I remember thinking this was a bad idea; I loved them).

The decision was finally made to create an all green and white garden.  Thus, some pink George Tabor azaleas were removed and replaced with 'White Empress' camellias (you can see their dark foliage up against the far wall).  The dogwoods were replaced with 'Natchez' crepe myrtles, and despite the poor air circulation, the latter have actually thrived.

On the sides, someone had planted 'Otto Luyken' laurels, which were spindly at best.  The dark green leaves looked like they'd been shot with bullets, there were so many holes.  Those were replaced with gardenias, which have yet to get white fly (I'm crossing my fingers).   The gardenias are special, because they are named for a nephew of our long-time fomer minister Don Harp.  Still, those vigorous bushes must be pruned after they bloom each year, but they do perfume the garden in June.

All sorts of ground covers have been tried, but dwarf mondo, pachysandra and ajuga have survived.  Other successful shrubs are Osmanthus fragens, the tea olive.  I love walking through when they're in bloom.

What you can't see is a raised semi-circle with a statue of St. Francis.  Margaret says this was originally a pool, but smokers would throw their cigarette butts in the water, and "it looked like a floating ash tray."

The hurdle now to overcome is the state of the American and English boxwoods.  They need good drainage and regular watering, so they've had problems.  I've suggested trying Korean boxwoods.  I feel they can withstand the extremes and grow well in planters and in the ground.

Even now, Margaret directs what should be done.  She can name every plant that's ever been in the garden, even the various annuals that have been tried over the years.

Margaret is one of those people who won't tolerate it when something doesn't work. She's ruthless.  If a plant languishes, it's removed.

"With gardening, you just have to keep trying until you get it right."

I think she has a great point.

Something I like in a country garden

I think I've mentioned before that my great grandparents lived along the Chattahoochee River in what I call a Southern salt box - a house with two stories on the front that sloped down in the back.  I wish I'd written down when the house was built - it was well before the Civil War.  Mother used to show us  holes in the wall where the Yankees had fired their guns.  There was also a secret closet behind the stairs where the valuables were hidden during the war.  On the top floor was an enormous spinning wheel, which disappeared along with other items when my Great Aunt Abby got dementia.

Anyway, the thing I loved most about this house was the yard with the giant gardenia bush and all the flowers that sprang up every year.  But, best of all was the scuppernong arbor.  I say scuppernong, because the fruit was golden instead of purple.  The purple ones we called muscadines.  I think that officially they're all one or the other, but I can't remember which.

At our family reunion in late August, the children would spend the entire time under the arbor, reaching up for the sweet grapes.  You had to hold them between your fingers and squirt the insides into your mouth, as the hulls were too tough to eat.

While I loved the delicious fruit (now when I walk into Publix in late summer when the scuppernongs are for sale, the fragrance takes me right back to that rickety arbor), I think it was just the shade of the vines overhead and the idea that you could find a little respite from the August sun that I liked best.  It was a good place to be, playing with your favorite cousins, after you'd stuffed yourself with Mr. Bill Melear's barbeque and Brunswick stew, along with white bread, potato chips and the sweet, but pungent pickles.

But back to the photo above.  I took this in a wonderful garden near my hometown.  The owner, Liz Tedder, has all kinds of gardens around an old plantation house which she restored.  This particular scene is of the muscadine (or scuppenong?) arbor, looking through to the herb garden.

Which leads me to the thought.  This is the time of year one should be planting these Southern grapes (they don't hang in clusters like Concord grapes).  Maybe this year, I can find a place at the farm for such an arbor.  I love how this one frames a view.  That would be ideal, but I'd be content with a simple one like my great grandparents had.  At least I would have a little taste of the past.  Sadly, Melear's (the one we frequented in Union City, Ga.) is long gone as is what I considered the one true barbeque.  I can't get that back, but I could grow scuppernongs, which would help recapture that feeling you had of being in the fold of your family in a place that seemed pretty enchanting on a hot August day.

Something I like in a country garden

I think I've mentioned before that my great grandparents lived along the Chattahoochee River in what I call a Southern salt box - a house with two stories on the front that sloped down in the back.  I wish I'd written down when the house was built - it was well before the Civil War.  Mother used to show us  holes in the wall where the Yankees had fired their guns.  There was also a secret closet behind the stairs where the valuables were hidden during the war.  On the top floor was an enormous spinning wheel, which disappeared along with other items when my Great Aunt Abby got dementia.

Anyway, the thing I loved most about this house was the yard with the giant gardenia bush and all the flowers that sprang up every year.  But, best of all was the scuppernong arbor.  I say scuppernong, because the fruit was golden instead of purple.  The purple ones we called muscadines.  I think that officially they're all one or the other, but I can't remember which.

At our family reunion in late August, the children would spend the entire time under the arbor, reaching up for the sweet grapes.  You had to hold them between your fingers and squirt the insides into your mouth, as the hulls were too tough to eat.

While I loved the delicious fruit (now when I walk into Publix in late summer when the scuppernongs are for sale, the fragrance takes me right back to that rickety arbor), I think it was just the shade of the vines overhead and the idea that you could find a little respite from the August sun that I liked best.  It was a good place to be, playing with your favorite cousins, after you'd stuffed yourself with Mr. Bill Melear's barbeque and Brunswick stew, along with white bread, potato chips and the sweet, but pungent pickles.

But back to the photo above.  I took this in a wonderful garden near my hometown.  The owner, Liz Tedder, has all kinds of gardens around an old plantation house which she restored.  This particular scene is of the muscadine (or scuppenong?) arbor, looking through to the herb garden.

Which leads me to the thought.  This is the time of year one should be planting these Southern grapes (they don't hang in clusters like Concord grapes).  Maybe this year, I can find a place at the farm for such an arbor.  I love how this one frames a view.  That would be ideal, but I'd be content with a simple one like my great grandparents had.  At least I would have a little taste of the past.  Sadly, Melear's (the one we frequented in Union City, Ga.) is long gone as is what I considered the one true barbeque.  I can't get that back, but I could grow scuppernongs, which would help recapture that feeling you had of being in the fold of your family in a place that seemed pretty enchanting on a hot August day.

A well-kept garden room

Yesterday's narrow entrance leads to the first of two very different garden "rooms" that make up Bill Reeves' back yard.  If I remember correctly, the wooden pergola in the foreground connects this shadier garden to a sunny garden with a lawn and flower borders.  The photograph was taken by Bill's son, Stan Reeves.

Here's what Bill wrote about this space for a garden club tour of his house and garden:

"Separated by a trimmed Leyland cypress hedge is the parterre shade garden of boxwood, hosta, pachysandra and hydrangea.  Guarding the pea gravel path is a pair of 19th century Italian stone dogs (labs) on pedestals.  The female figure in the center circle is probably English but was purchased in St. Simons, and the vintage birdbath (circa 1920) is from a Florida estate.

Miscellaneous terra cotta tiles are from a demolished structure (late 19th century) in Savannah.  A pair of Italian urns with zinc agave (French) flanks the garden exit."

Not all of the elements mentioned are visible in this photograph.  I could be disoriented a bit, but I believe the narrow passageway we saw yesterday is to the right side of the picture.  I seem to remember the pergola draped in Clematis armandii and the Australian tree fern were to the right as we entered. Then, we turned left to go under the wooden arch to reach the sunny English garden.

The garden room pictured here is more structured and formal than the sunny side.  Both gardens are embellished with ornaments gathered from travels.  The Reeves have been very generous in sharing their garden with visitors, and from the moment you enter, you can tell that the owners greatly enjoy every inch of their lovely creation.

A well-kept garden room

Yesterday's narrow entrance leads to the first of two very different garden "rooms" that make up Bill Reeves' back yard.  If I remember correctly, the wooden pergola in the foreground connects this shadier garden to a sunny garden with a lawn and flower borders.  The photograph was taken by Bill's son, Stan Reeves.

Here's what Bill wrote about this space for a garden club tour of his house and garden:

"Separated by a trimmed Leyland cypress hedge is the parterre shade garden of boxwood, hosta, pachysandra and hydrangea.  Guarding the pea gravel path is a pair of 19th century Italian stone dogs (labs) on pedestals.  The female figure in the center circle is probably English but was purchased in St. Simons, and the vintage birdbath (circa 1920) is from a Florida estate.

Miscellaneous terra cotta tiles are from a demolished structure (late 19th century) in Savannah.  A pair of Italian urns with zinc agave (French) flanks the garden exit."

Not all of the elements mentioned are visible in this photograph.  I could be disoriented a bit, but I believe the narrow passageway we saw yesterday is to the right side of the picture.  I seem to remember the pergola draped in Clematis armandii and the Australian tree fern were to the right as we entered. Then, we turned left to go under the wooden arch to reach the sunny English garden.

The garden room pictured here is more structured and formal than the sunny side.  Both gardens are embellished with ornaments gathered from travels.  The Reeves have been very generous in sharing their garden with visitors, and from the moment you enter, you can tell that the owners greatly enjoy every inch of their lovely creation.

The narrow way

Still channeling my childhood pastime of creating secret passages through the thick privet growing on the borders of our five-acre property, I'm drawn to places like the garden entrance above.  The owner, Bill Reeves, created this narrow passageway that leads to the back garden, which is divided into two rooms.

I was on a tour when I visited his garden.  It was so intriguing to walk through this richly planted area.  You had no idea of what lay on the other side, but you felt this great anticipation.  I was not disappointed.

A lot of times, you don't think about the side of the house as an opportunity to garden, especially if another house is not far away.  If you don't have a lot of room, the area could be a great opportunity to have a vertical garden.  In addition, that small strip on either side of the walkway is a good place for enjoying smaller plants that need to be viewed up close.  In this instance, a dwarf astilbe is tucked in on the left, along with heucheras with interesting foliage.  On the right, Begonia grandis, more heucheras and holly fern.  All of these plants appreciate shade.  This would also be a good place to try out some of those tiny hostas that might get lost in a larger setting.

Tomorrow:  What lies beyond this appealing passageway.



 

The narrow way

Still channeling my childhood pastime of creating secret passages through the thick privet growing on the borders of our five-acre property, I'm drawn to places like the garden entrance above.  The owner, Bill Reeves, created this narrow passageway that leads to the back garden, which is divided into two rooms.

I was on a tour when I visited his garden.  It was so intriguing to walk through this richly planted area.  You had no idea of what lay on the other side, but you felt this great anticipation.  I was not disappointed.

A lot of times, you don't think about the side of the house as an opportunity to garden, especially if another house is not far away.  If you don't have a lot of room, the area could be a great opportunity to have a vertical garden.  In addition, that small strip on either side of the walkway is a good place for enjoying smaller plants that need to be viewed up close.  In this instance, a dwarf astilbe is tucked in on the left, along with heucheras with interesting foliage.  On the right, Begonia grandis, more heucheras and holly fern.  All of these plants appreciate shade.  This would also be a good place to try out some of those tiny hostas that might get lost in a larger setting.

Tomorrow:  What lies beyond this appealing passageway.



 

Tunnel vision

I don't know if it's because I spent half my childhood carving hideouts from the huge privet hedges that surrounded my home, or if there is another reason that I am drawn to arbors and tunnels like the one you see above (the photograph was taken in early spring at a nursery in northern California), but I love that feeling of walking underneath such structures, especially when they are covered in foliage or flowers.

I have a tunnel that is 44 feet long.  It attaches to the back of my house.  The arches are made of iron and are covered with yellow trumpet vine, Campsis radicans 'Flava', which starts blooming in June and lasts through July.

I originally planted a double flowering wisteria, but it was a disaster in every way.  The blooms didn't appear until after the foliage came out and were hard to see.  The racemes looked like clusters of grapes that had gotten caught in an impossible tangle of vines.  And, quite naturally, the plants got away from me fast.  All of a sudden, I had thick, choking trunks going up the pillars of the arches.  On top, errant shoots stood up in every direction, looking like some Medusa-gone-wild with a crop of hair 40 feet long and six feet high.

The plants had been expensive mail order ones, but I was forced to cut them down to the ground.  Now, I can control the trumpet vine (believe it or not) much more easily.

But here's an odd thing.  I once noticed a snake skin - a long one - caught up in the canopy.  I somehow ignored this and didn't dwell on how it might have gotten there.  A few years later, I'd hired a young man to do some pruning, and had pointed out some pieces that were out of place to be cut back.  I was indoors when I heard this horrible scream.  I ran out to see the ladder knocked over and the young man pointing up.  There, resting in the vines was a coiled up black rat snake.  I had to admit it was a bit disconcerting, thinking I had probably walked under the creature a dozen times that day.

For days on end, the snake stayed, stretching himself along the iron connection pieces.  I was constantly checking to see if he was still there.  One day, I noticed that he was a lot longer than I had originally thought.  In fact, there was no way this same snake could have grown another four or five feet.  It dawned on me.  There were two of them.

In the spring, I see this type of snake a lot.  To be sure, I look up every time I pass through the tunnel.  I'll also find him/her coiled up in various places, especially in this new little garden I've made.

But, this isn't about snakes.  It's about the beauty of tunnels used in the garden.  Yesterday, I was searching online for garden arches.  I want to connect a series of arches in yet another garden place I'm making.  The above photo is of a laburnum tunnel.  You can see the line of trees and supports.  In another month or so there would have been long golden chains of flowers hanging down (note the cyclamineus daffodils; I love the swept back petals).

We can't grow laburnums in the South, but I did see such a series of arches in another California garden near San Francisco.  The gardener had trained deciduous magnolias on iron frames.  She had also planted clematis to grow up the trees.  It was a great look and lent some organization to an upper garden that might otherwise have been left wild.

I do have a photograph of my tunnel, but it was taken on a snowy day.  Finally, we have some sunshine,  and it's going to warm this afternoon.  Thus, I'll save my snaky, snowy tunnel for another time.

Tunnel vision

I don't know if it's because I spent half my childhood carving hideouts from the huge privet hedges that surrounded my home, or if there is another reason that I am drawn to arbors and tunnels like the one you see above (the photograph was taken in early spring at a nursery in northern California), but I love that feeling of walking underneath such structures, especially when they are covered in foliage or flowers.

I have a tunnel that is 44 feet long.  It attaches to the back of my house.  The arches are made of iron and are covered with yellow trumpet vine, Campsis radicans 'Flava', which starts blooming in June and lasts through July.

I originally planted a double flowering wisteria, but it was a disaster in every way.  The blooms didn't appear until after the foliage came out and were hard to see.  The racemes looked like clusters of grapes that had gotten caught in an impossible tangle of vines.  And, quite naturally, the plants got away from me fast.  All of a sudden, I had thick, choking trunks going up the pillars of the arches.  On top, errant shoots stood up in every direction, looking like some Medusa-gone-wild with a crop of hair 40 feet long and six feet high.

The plants had been expensive mail order ones, but I was forced to cut them down to the ground.  Now, I can control the trumpet vine (believe it or not) much more easily.

But here's an odd thing.  I once noticed a snake skin - a long one - caught up in the canopy.  I somehow ignored this and didn't dwell on how it might have gotten there.  A few years later, I'd hired a young man to do some pruning, and had pointed out some pieces that were out of place to be cut back.  I was indoors when I heard this horrible scream.  I ran out to see the ladder knocked over and the young man pointing up.  There, resting in the vines was a coiled up black rat snake.  I had to admit it was a bit disconcerting, thinking I had probably walked under the creature a dozen times that day.

For days on end, the snake stayed, stretching himself along the iron connection pieces.  I was constantly checking to see if he was still there.  One day, I noticed that he was a lot longer than I had originally thought.  In fact, there was no way this same snake could have grown another four or five feet.  It dawned on me.  There were two of them.

In the spring, I see this type of snake a lot.  To be sure, I look up every time I pass through the tunnel.  I'll also find him/her coiled up in various places, especially in this new little garden I've made.

But, this isn't about snakes.  It's about the beauty of tunnels used in the garden.  Yesterday, I was searching online for garden arches.  I want to connect a series of arches in yet another garden place I'm making.  The above photo is of a laburnum tunnel.  You can see the line of trees and supports.  In another month or so there would have been long golden chains of flowers hanging down (note the cyclamineus daffodils; I love the swept back petals).

We can't grow laburnums in the South, but I did see such a series of arches in another California garden near San Francisco.  The gardener had trained deciduous magnolias on iron frames.  She had also planted clematis to grow up the trees.  It was a great look and lent some organization to an upper garden that might otherwise have been left wild.

I do have a photograph of my tunnel, but it was taken on a snowy day.  Finally, we have some sunshine,  and it's going to warm this afternoon.  Thus, I'll save my snaky, snowy tunnel for another time.

The beauty and the risk

On Saturday, I attended a lecture given by Scott McMahan, one of America's top plant explorers.  The subject of his talk was a recent trip to Asia to collect seed.  I was mesmerized.  His presentation took you to a part of the world most of us will never see - a little explored region (I'm not giving the country, just in case) where the tea olive (Osmanthus fragrans) grows into giant trees (the explorers at first thought they'd discovered a kind of evergreen oak), and the people consume only what they grow and barter with neighbors for their needs.  The outside world is all but cut off.

Scott, who owns a nursery in Clermont, Ga., and co-owns GardenHood on Boulevard in Atlanta, travels with Dan Hinkley (founder and former owner of Heronswood nursery in the state of Washington), who has made dozens of expeditions all over the world, and Ozzie Johnson, local plantsman and business owner, also a seasoned explorer.  The three have been on many trips together, looking for plants with ornamental value to share with the world.  Their tales of near death misses will make your hair stand on end.

On Saturday, Scott had us laughing at some of the stories of this recent trip and gasping in horror at others.

He showed us a photograph of a hotel set in a desolate mountain valley with looming peaks right in back.  Atop the four story structure was a giant, and I mean monumental, golden Buddha, as large and wide as the hotel underneath.  Although they appeared to be the only guests, the three guys thought they were about to spend the night in the lap of luxury as they entered a lobby with a marble floor.  The rooms were a different story.  Small and cramped, they were at least carpeted.  But, there was a catch.  Apparently water running off the mountains ran right into the hotel, so when you stepped on the carpet, there was a loud squish and visible water.  Scott says it made for a very uncomfortable night, just thinking about getting out of bed.  In addition, they found out the impressive Buddha was actually made of fiberglass.  Nothing in this remote area is at it seems, apparently.

Another photo showed a Buddhist monastery perched at the top of an impossibly narrow, mountain peak, soaring, needle-like, thousands of feet into the air.  Ozzie elected not to go, but Dan and Scott decided to make the climb, a choice they were soon to regret.

As they were half-way up, they were faced with a sheer limestone edifice.  The only way up was to climb a heavy chain.  This seemed doable at first, but then it became difficult to hold on.  The catch was, there was no going back down.  Finally, at the top, the enjoyment of the view was quickly tempered by the realization that the way down was possibly worse than the frightening ascent.  The two started down narrow, precipitous steps that followed the mountain's edge.  At first there was a pipe that served as a sort of guardrail.  Then, there was none.  Absolutely nothing but air was between the explorers and a sheer, thousand foot drop.  There was no room to turn around and no other way down.

Knowing that Dan Hinkley is petrified of heights, I was thrilled to learn that he is alive.  It is Dan who gave me permission to use the photograph above, taken in Nepal at a rare moment when the clouds parted to show Mt. Everest.  In the foreground, you will recognize the foliage of rhododendrons.  Many of the fabulous mature specimens you see in England on the northern coast of France (and some in this country) came from the Himalayas.  Explorers traveled to these parts of the world centuries ago and risked their lives to bring back beauty to share with gardeners and nurseries back home.

Dan, Ozzie and Scott are doing the same thing, though very responsibly, but they encounter many of the dangerous conditions that faced their forebears.  Their finds will go to botanical gardens and hybridizers in the U.S. and several other countries and some possibly to medical research facilities.  The plants you have in your yard likely came through these same channels, by way of adventurers, some of whom met their deaths on such expeditions.

The beauty and the risk

On Saturday, I attended a lecture given by Scott McMahan, one of America's top plant explorers.  The subject of his talk was a recent trip to Asia to collect seed.  I was mesmerized.  His presentation took you to a part of the world most of us will never see - a little explored region (I'm not giving the country, just in case) where the tea olive (Osmanthus fragrans) grows into giant trees (the explorers at first thought they'd discovered a kind of evergreen oak), and the people consume only what they grow and barter with neighbors for their needs.  The outside world is all but cut off.

Scott, who owns a nursery in Clermont, Ga., and co-owns GardenHood on Boulevard in Atlanta, travels with Dan Hinkley (founder and former owner of Heronswood nursery in the state of Washington), who has made dozens of expeditions all over the world, and Ozzie Johnson, local plantsman and business owner, also a seasoned explorer.  The three have been on many trips together, looking for plants with ornamental value to share with the world.  Their tales of near death misses will make your hair stand on end.

On Saturday, Scott had us laughing at some of the stories of this recent trip and gasping in horror at others.

He showed us a photograph of a hotel set in a desolate mountain valley with looming peaks right in back.  Atop the four story structure was a giant, and I mean monumental, golden Buddha, as large and wide as the hotel underneath.  Although they appeared to be the only guests, the three guys thought they were about to spend the night in the lap of luxury as they entered a lobby with a marble floor.  The rooms were a different story.  Small and cramped, they were at least carpeted.  But, there was a catch.  Apparently water running off the mountains ran right into the hotel, so when you stepped on the carpet, there was a loud squish and visible water.  Scott says it made for a very uncomfortable night, just thinking about getting out of bed.  In addition, they found out the impressive Buddha was actually made of fiberglass.  Nothing in this remote area is at it seems, apparently.

Another photo showed a Buddhist monastery perched at the top of an impossibly narrow, mountain peak, soaring, needle-like, thousands of feet into the air.  Ozzie elected not to go, but Dan and Scott decided to make the climb, a choice they were soon to regret.

As they were half-way up, they were faced with a sheer limestone edifice.  The only way up was to climb a heavy chain.  This seemed doable at first, but then it became difficult to hold on.  The catch was, there was no going back down.  Finally, at the top, the enjoyment of the view was quickly tempered by the realization that the way down was possibly worse than the frightening ascent.  The two started down narrow, precipitous steps that followed the mountain's edge.  At first there was a pipe that served as a sort of guardrail.  Then, there was none.  Absolutely nothing but air was between the explorers and a sheer, thousand foot drop.  There was no room to turn around and no other way down.

Knowing that Dan Hinkley is petrified of heights, I was thrilled to learn that he is alive.  It is Dan who gave me permission to use the photograph above, taken in Nepal at a rare moment when the clouds parted to show Mt. Everest.  In the foreground, you will recognize the foliage of rhododendrons.  Many of the fabulous mature specimens you see in England on the northern coast of France (and some in this country) came from the Himalayas.  Explorers traveled to these parts of the world centuries ago and risked their lives to bring back beauty to share with gardeners and nurseries back home.

Dan, Ozzie and Scott are doing the same thing, though very responsibly, but they encounter many of the dangerous conditions that faced their forebears.  Their finds will go to botanical gardens and hybridizers in the U.S. and several other countries and some possibly to medical research facilities.  The plants you have in your yard likely came through these same channels, by way of adventurers, some of whom met their deaths on such expeditions.

Can spring be far behind?

It is a gray, rainy day here in Georgia, a day my late mother would have called "disagreeable".  There was no wind to speak of, but it wasn't exactly warm, either.   The forecast is for gray, gloomy days, but with fairly mild temperatures.  Tomorrow, it's supposed to rain hard all day.  There may be a peak of sun on Tuesday before more clouds move in.

I am not complaining, as I watch another front coming into the Pacific Northwest, and see all the frigid temperatures in the upper plains states.  But I did look for a photograph to bring a little cheer and the promise of spring.  I love this picture of Margaret Moseley by her (giant) Daphne odora, taken last year a couple of months before her 95th birthday.  She has several of the intoxicatingly fragrant plants and says some are already open.  Despite the weather, she walked to the back of the garden today to find there was more in bloom that she had realized.

"There's not a thing out there," she told me this morning.   I laugh, because it was only last week that she told me it was the prettiest it's ever been.  But she called this afternoon and left a message that it's not all as bad as she had thought.  Still, she believes it will be early February before the camellias make a big comeback.

But that's how it is with a winter garden.  You hit a mild couple of days, and you think spring's around the corner.  A cold snap comes, zaps all the open flowers and everything retreats for a while.  We are lucky here in the Southeast that we can have winter gardens, although it can be very disappointing to have a yard full of flowers one day, and ruined brown blossoms the next.

So, for the next few days, I'm going to hang indoors and dream about retaining walls and deer fences and all the wonderful flowers I'm going to have in the near future.  I'll be thinking, too, of the last lines of Shelley's Ode to the West Wind:  "If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?" That always gives me hope on a gloomy January day.

Can spring be far behind?

It is a gray, rainy day here in Georgia, a day my late mother would have called "disagreeable".  There was no wind to speak of, but it wasn't exactly warm, either.   The forecast is for gray, gloomy days, but with fairly mild temperatures.  Tomorrow, it's supposed to rain hard all day.  There may be a peak of sun on Tuesday before more clouds move in.

I am not complaining, as I watch another front coming into the Pacific Northwest, and see all the frigid temperatures in the upper plains states.  But I did look for a photograph to bring a little cheer and the promise of spring.  I love this picture of Margaret Moseley by her (giant) Daphne odora, taken last year a couple of months before her 95th birthday.  She has several of the intoxicatingly fragrant plants and says some are already open.  Despite the weather, she walked to the back of the garden today to find there was more in bloom that she had realized.

"There's not a thing out there," she told me this morning.   I laugh, because it was only last week that she told me it was the prettiest it's ever been.  But she called this afternoon and left a message that it's not all as bad as she had thought.  Still, she believes it will be early February before the camellias make a big comeback.

But that's how it is with a winter garden.  You hit a mild couple of days, and you think spring's around the corner.  A cold snap comes, zaps all the open flowers and everything retreats for a while.  We are lucky here in the Southeast that we can have winter gardens, although it can be very disappointing to have a yard full of flowers one day, and ruined brown blossoms the next.

So, for the next few days, I'm going to hang indoors and dream about retaining walls and deer fences and all the wonderful flowers I'm going to have in the near future.  I'll be thinking, too, of the last lines of Shelley's Ode to the West Wind:  "If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?" That always gives me hope on a gloomy January day.

The gardener who went out of her way

Today,  I'm remembering my friend Jan.  She passed away six years ago on January 19th after a long battle with inflammatory breast cancer.  Jan's lot wasn't easy.  She had a daughter who was born with what was in the end diagnosed as autism.  I think it might have been something else, but Jan spent a fortune trying to find out and help her only child.

Jan was divorced when her daughter was only a toddler, so she went the route alone.  It was a hard row to hoe without any support.  Jan's parents had died when she was in her early 20's, and her only supportive relative was an aunt who lived several states away.

Enter Jo and Cindy.  Since Jan had no one else to turn to, these two stepped in.  Jo was one of the stars of our ALTA tennis team (Atlanta Lawn Tennis Association), and Cindy was our coach.  When I joined up back in the mid-seventies, Jan and Jo were already members.  We stayed together as a team for over 20 years, taking trips to France and Florida together, and sort of becoming like a family.

Jan moved to southern California after her diagnosis, so taking care of her as her condition worsened was no easy task. Cindy and Jo flew back and forth to California, helping put Jan's affairs in order and making provisions for her child down the line.  They were there with her when she succumbed to the disease.

That spring, Jan and Cindy went to California and brought back items from Jan's estate.  They hosted a luncheon that Jan had requested as sort of a memorial service and passed out gifts from Jan to each person there.  I received some garden books which I treasure greatly.

At that luncheon was a gorgeous bouquet of the brightest flowers.  I had absolutely no idea what the fabulous orange blossoms were.  It turned out to be a type of Scotch broom (Cytisus x 'Lena') from Cindy's garden.

It had been several years since I'd seen the garden Cindy carved out of a grassy yard and a spit of woods at the back of her large lot.  After the luncheon, I went out to see and was bowled over.  Cindy, who had by then mostly retired from coaching (before that, she had been a stockbroker), was writing a novel and gardening big time.

Cindy is a "jump in with both feet" type of gardener who doesn't pay attention to rules.  She never read that you can't grow cheiranthus (orange wallflower) in Georgia or that ninebark (Physocarpus) is difficult to fit into a garden setting (her dark bronze 'Diablo' is wonderfully situated among other shrubs and ornamental grasses).  Her garden, which is expansive and must take a ton of work, is mostly free form, but shows that she is not afraid to plant what she likes.  And, she makes a success of it.

The above photograph shows gaillardia combined with Euphorbia characias ssp. wulfenii in Cindy's sunny front garden.  The latter plant gets huge and out of bounds on the western coast of the U.S., but is usually spindly at best here.  I've never seen it so healthy in Georgia as it is in Cindy's garden.

Back to the memorial luncheon.  Cindy had combined the brilliant orange-yellow branches of 'Lena' with dark blue veronica and some other flowers.  It was one of the most charming bouquets I've ever seen.  There may have been some blue iris passed along from Cindy's grandmother's garden in there, as well.

Cindy and Jo are still responsible for Jan's child, who is well into adulthood now.  They make sure she has a job and a place to live and receives an allowance.  So, in remembering my generous friend Jan, I also think of her two angels who have given so selflessly of their time and who brought much comfort and care to their friend during her long and hard fought battle.

The gardener who went out of her way

Today,  I'm remembering my friend Jan.  She passed away six years ago on January 19th after a long battle with inflammatory breast cancer.  Jan's lot wasn't easy.  She had a daughter who was born with what was in the end diagnosed as autism.  I think it might have been something else, but Jan spent a fortune trying to find out and help her only child.

Jan was divorced when her daughter was only a toddler, so she went the route alone.  It was a hard row to hoe without any support.  Jan's parents had died when she was in her early 20's, and her only supportive relative was an aunt who lived several states away.

Enter Jo and Cindy.  Since Jan had no one else to turn to, these two stepped in.  Jo was one of the stars of our ALTA tennis team (Atlanta Lawn Tennis Association), and Cindy was our coach.  When I joined up back in the mid-seventies, Jan and Jo were already members.  We stayed together as a team for over 20 years, taking trips to France and Florida together, and sort of becoming like a family.

Jan moved to southern California after her diagnosis, so taking care of her as her condition worsened was no easy task. Cindy and Jo flew back and forth to California, helping put Jan's affairs in order and making provisions for her child down the line.  They were there with her when she succumbed to the disease.

That spring, Jan and Cindy went to California and brought back items from Jan's estate.  They hosted a luncheon that Jan had requested as sort of a memorial service and passed out gifts from Jan to each person there.  I received some garden books which I treasure greatly.

At that luncheon was a gorgeous bouquet of the brightest flowers.  I had absolutely no idea what the fabulous orange blossoms were.  It turned out to be a type of Scotch broom (Cytisus x 'Lena') from Cindy's garden.

It had been several years since I'd seen the garden Cindy carved out of a grassy yard and a spit of woods at the back of her large lot.  After the luncheon, I went out to see and was bowled over.  Cindy, who had by then mostly retired from coaching (before that, she had been a stockbroker), was writing a novel and gardening big time.

Cindy is a "jump in with both feet" type of gardener who doesn't pay attention to rules.  She never read that you can't grow cheiranthus (orange wallflower) in Georgia or that ninebark (Physocarpus) is difficult to fit into a garden setting (her dark bronze 'Diablo' is wonderfully situated among other shrubs and ornamental grasses).  Her garden, which is expansive and must take a ton of work, is mostly free form, but shows that she is not afraid to plant what she likes.  And, she makes a success of it.

The above photograph shows gaillardia combined with Euphorbia characias ssp. wulfenii in Cindy's sunny front garden.  The latter plant gets huge and out of bounds on the western coast of the U.S., but is usually spindly at best here.  I've never seen it so healthy in Georgia as it is in Cindy's garden.

Back to the memorial luncheon.  Cindy had combined the brilliant orange-yellow branches of 'Lena' with dark blue veronica and some other flowers.  It was one of the most charming bouquets I've ever seen.  There may have been some blue iris passed along from Cindy's grandmother's garden in there, as well.

Cindy and Jo are still responsible for Jan's child, who is well into adulthood now.  They make sure she has a job and a place to live and receives an allowance.  So, in remembering my generous friend Jan, I also think of her two angels who have given so selflessly of their time and who brought much comfort and care to their friend during her long and hard fought battle.

A cheerful shrub for the right backdrop

I must really like this shrub, because in the photos (way too many) I've set aside for this blog, it appears three times.  Actually, I do love this plant, and every time I see it in bloom, it just bedazzles me.  The lemon yellow color, the dangly flowers and the lovely scent - all coming at the end of winter when you're so anxious for spring and need a cheerful sight.

If truth be known, I'm not sure which corylopsis this is.  The common name is winter hazel, but there are thirty-odd species (this, according to Wikipedia, but I could only read the beginning of the entry, as the site is dark today).   Mike Dirr lists only a few different species, which are hardy from Zones 5 or 6 to 8.  After reading posts from colder areas, I see that the shrub should be planted in a protected place, and blooms are not always reliable.  Here in Atlanta, in Zone 7-B, we have pretty good luck with the flowers; at least that's been the case in recent years.

At the Southeastern Flower Show one year, an exhibitor had a specimen in his display garden that had exceptionally long chains of flowers.  He had forced the shrub into early bloom, and it was just breathtaking.  Sad to say, I didn't write down who the exhibitor was, but I do remember that he was surprised at the length of the racemes, as well.  Also, he didn't know which species he had.

This is a marvelous shrub to grow, especially if you can give it an evergreen background as pictured above (I'd say this is crucial to show off the flowers).  This particular plant was tall - maybe to seven or eight feet.  If you prune just after bloom time, though, you can keep it more in bounds.  Ideally, if you have room, you could just let it go and enjoy all the light lemon color.

I'm writing this at least a month or more before corylopsis will be in bloom in Atlanta (well, one never knows;  it's in the 30's this morning, but it's supposed to be 68 degrees on Sunday; anything can happen).  However, given the confusion about the different species, it's probably best to buy a corylopsis when you can see the flowers.  You'll want to make sure you get one with two to three inch long chains (some plants have only one-inch racemes) and the light yellow color that literally glows on late winter days.

A cheerful shrub for the right backdrop

I must really like this shrub, because in the photos (way too many) I've set aside for this blog, it appears three times.  Actually, I do love this plant, and every time I see it in bloom, it just bedazzles me.  The lemon yellow color, the dangly flowers and the lovely scent - all coming at the end of winter when you're so anxious for spring and need a cheerful sight.

If truth be known, I'm not sure which corylopsis this is.  The common name is winter hazel, but there are thirty-odd species (this, according to Wikipedia, but I could only read the beginning of the entry, as the site is dark today).   Mike Dirr lists only a few different species, which are hardy from Zones 5 or 6 to 8.  After reading posts from colder areas, I see that the shrub should be planted in a protected place, and blooms are not always reliable.  Here in Atlanta, in Zone 7-B, we have pretty good luck with the flowers; at least that's been the case in recent years.

At the Southeastern Flower Show one year, an exhibitor had a specimen in his display garden that had exceptionally long chains of flowers.  He had forced the shrub into early bloom, and it was just breathtaking.  Sad to say, I didn't write down who the exhibitor was, but I do remember that he was surprised at the length of the racemes, as well.  Also, he didn't know which species he had.

This is a marvelous shrub to grow, especially if you can give it an evergreen background as pictured above (I'd say this is crucial to show off the flowers).  This particular plant was tall - maybe to seven or eight feet.  If you prune just after bloom time, though, you can keep it more in bounds.  Ideally, if you have room, you could just let it go and enjoy all the light lemon color.

I'm writing this at least a month or more before corylopsis will be in bloom in Atlanta (well, one never knows;  it's in the 30's this morning, but it's supposed to be 68 degrees on Sunday; anything can happen).  However, given the confusion about the different species, it's probably best to buy a corylopsis when you can see the flowers.  You'll want to make sure you get one with two to three inch long chains (some plants have only one-inch racemes) and the light yellow color that literally glows on late winter days.

Color echoes in the garden

I don't know why I pick up a garden book at the end of the day when I don't need to get my heart pumping furiously.  While I was looking for something else, I came across British garden writer Pamela Harper's Time-Tested Plants:  Thirty Years in a Four-Season Garden.  I started thumbing through and wishing I could rob a bank to get all the plants she listed and a deer fence and retaining walls I so sorely need for my new garden areas (still in dream stage).

Pamela lives in Tidewater Virginia, and I went there to scout her garden for an episode of A Gardener's Diary.  I was there in early March, and we taped her show in early May.  Both times made my heart beat with the thrill of such wonderful plants so artfully arranged.  She had a red camellia that I lusted after (I wonder if it was destroyed in the hurricane that pummeled her garden the very next year).  I wrote to her to ask the name, but it turned out it was an unknown variety that had been given to her.  It was the most beautiful camellia I'd ever seen - big, bright red with semi-double petals.

But, there were many other things in bloom when I was there, although it was early.  She had these crazy cultivars of ranunculus.  My favorite was 'Brazen Hussy'.  I once bought that one, but it disappeared on me.  It had dark bronze leaves and bright yellow flowers.  Pam had a whole collection of buttercups.  I hadn't any idea there were so many different kinds with such interesting foliage.

In the episode of A Gardener's Diary, Pam talks about another book she wrote called Color Echoes.  The idea is that you pick certain colors and weave them throughout the garden, but with different flowers and foliage.  This especially works in her garden, which is basically a long rectangle bisected by a curving gravel driveway.  Since there are no "rooms" or different levels to speak of (she has created berms to lift certain plants out of the high water table), the concept is successful in drawing the eye to different areas and making the garden cohesive.

As I was scrolling through some photographs, the above scene made me think of Pam's color echoes.  I took this picture in an Atlanta garden that is mostly shady.  The owner has brightened things up by using splashes of yellow-chartreuse.  I tried to picture how uninteresting the rock would look if the plants were solid green.  The splotches of color on the farfugium (the large, rounded leaves in back) are picked up by the bright sword-like foliage of the hakonechloa (try to pronounce this!).  The latter literally glows, especially set against the dark dwarf mondo.  I love this simple, but striking combination.

For now, I'm going to put Pam's book away.  I'll bring it out when I can look at the photographs of such plants as Salvia 'Wesuwe',  Lunaria annua 'Stella' (which I used to grow, but no longer have the seeds), Rubus cockburnianus 'Golden Vale' and Phlox paniculata 'Norah Leigh' (with variegated leaves, no less) without risking my wildly beating heart keeping me awake all night.

Color echoes in the garden

I don't know why I pick up a garden book at the end of the day when I don't need to get my heart pumping furiously.  While I was looking for something else, I came across British garden writer Pamela Harper's Time-Tested Plants:  Thirty Years in a Four-Season Garden.  I started thumbing through and wishing I could rob a bank to get all the plants she listed and a deer fence and retaining walls I so sorely need for my new garden areas (still in dream stage).

Pamela lives in Tidewater Virginia, and I went there to scout her garden for an episode of A Gardener's Diary.  I was there in early March, and we taped her show in early May.  Both times made my heart beat with the thrill of such wonderful plants so artfully arranged.  She had a red camellia that I lusted after (I wonder if it was destroyed in the hurricane that pummeled her garden the very next year).  I wrote to her to ask the name, but it turned out it was an unknown variety that had been given to her.  It was the most beautiful camellia I'd ever seen - big, bright red with semi-double petals.

But, there were many other things in bloom when I was there, although it was early.  She had these crazy cultivars of ranunculus.  My favorite was 'Brazen Hussy'.  I once bought that one, but it disappeared on me.  It had dark bronze leaves and bright yellow flowers.  Pam had a whole collection of buttercups.  I hadn't any idea there were so many different kinds with such interesting foliage.

In the episode of A Gardener's Diary, Pam talks about another book she wrote called Color Echoes.  The idea is that you pick certain colors and weave them throughout the garden, but with different flowers and foliage.  This especially works in her garden, which is basically a long rectangle bisected by a curving gravel driveway.  Since there are no "rooms" or different levels to speak of (she has created berms to lift certain plants out of the high water table), the concept is successful in drawing the eye to different areas and making the garden cohesive.

As I was scrolling through some photographs, the above scene made me think of Pam's color echoes.  I took this picture in an Atlanta garden that is mostly shady.  The owner has brightened things up by using splashes of yellow-chartreuse.  I tried to picture how uninteresting the rock would look if the plants were solid green.  The splotches of color on the farfugium (the large, rounded leaves in back) are picked up by the bright sword-like foliage of the hakonechloa (try to pronounce this!).  The latter literally glows, especially set against the dark dwarf mondo.  I love this simple, but striking combination.

For now, I'm going to put Pam's book away.  I'll bring it out when I can look at the photographs of such plants as Salvia 'Wesuwe',  Lunaria annua 'Stella' (which I used to grow, but no longer have the seeds), Rubus cockburnianus 'Golden Vale' and Phlox paniculata 'Norah Leigh' (with variegated leaves, no less) without risking my wildly beating heart keeping me awake all night.

Some musings on Margaret's winter garden

I wasn't surprised when I got the call last week from 95-year-old Margaret Moseley. "You ought to see out here," she said.  "It's the prettiest it's ever been."

If I had a nickel for every time I've heard these exact words from Margaret, I'd be rich.  Here it was, a day before more temperatures in the low 20's were expected, and there was no way I could get out to her house (I have to go through downtown Atlanta to get there; even in the middle of the day, you never know if there'll be a traffic jam) to see the spectacle.  Still, I could picture it.

"The Prunus mume is in full bloom, and, and oh, the 'Fragrant Pink' looks like a fountain, and 'Lady Clare' is loaded with flowers.  I wish you could see 'White By the Gate.'  I've just picked all the blooms so they won't freeze."

I remember when Margaret planted the Prunus mume (I'm thinking she had two and cut one down to make room for something else).  It was literally a little stick.  It's now a tall tree.  Japanese flowering apricot (which does produce fruit that is not edible) blooms pretty reliably in January in the Atlanta area and flowers for a good month or more.  Margaret's has light pink blossoms.

If you'll look at the post from June 9, 2011, you can see what Margaret means about her 'Fragrant Pink' hybrid camellia looking like a fountain.  This shrub literally covers itself in the loveliest pink flowers that run along the stems.  It's a prolific bloomer and seems to have an endless supply of buds.

'Lady Clare' is an antique camellia brought to England from Japan in 1887.  It has rose colored flowers with yellow stamens that stick straight out.  The leaves are large and dark and exceedingly beautiful, making this a plant that looks good in mid-summer.  Its other name is 'Empress'.  Margaret has the white form and has issued the following advice for years:  "If you see 'White Empress', buy it.  You may never see it for sale again.  It's hard to find."

'White By the Gate' is in front of Margaret's house.  It originated in Louisiana, where I first saw it.  The formal double blooms are the purest white.  I feel like this shrub doesn't grow as tall as other camellias, but it may be because Margaret keeps hers trimmed back.  The camellias in her back yard are like big trees, although she lets the foliage come all the way to the ground.

Now, to the photograph above.  I've used this as my computer wallpaper every January and February for three years.  I can't remember how I got above the bird house to take the picture.  I love the lichens growing on the roof.  The camellia, according to Margaret, is 'Governor Mouton', although this 18th century flower usually has white splotches.  Apparently, there can be a solid red form, as well.  The growth habit is spreading, as compared to the more upright 'Professor Sargeant'.  This is a brighter red flower and is a bit larger than the aforementioned.

Margaret didn't say anything about the hellebores, but I'm sure they are blooming, too.  She did mention that her daphnes are about to open.  I'm hoping to get out there next week and capture some of this  beauty.  How wonderful to be almost 96 years old and still be so excited about every day in the garden - especially in mid-winter.

Some musings on Margaret's winter garden

I wasn't surprised when I got the call last week from 95-year-old Margaret Moseley. "You ought to see out here," she said.  "It's the prettiest it's ever been."

If I had a nickel for every time I've heard these exact words from Margaret, I'd be rich.  Here it was, a day before more temperatures in the low 20's were expected, and there was no way I could get out to her house (I have to go through downtown Atlanta to get there; even in the middle of the day, you never know if there'll be a traffic jam) to see the spectacle.  Still, I could picture it.

"The Prunus mume is in full bloom, and, and oh, the 'Fragrant Pink' looks like a fountain, and 'Lady Clare' is loaded with flowers.  I wish you could see 'White By the Gate.'  I've just picked all the blooms so they won't freeze."

I remember when Margaret planted the Prunus mume (I'm thinking she had two and cut one down to make room for something else).  It was literally a little stick.  It's now a tall tree.  Japanese flowering apricot (which does produce fruit that is not edible) blooms pretty reliably in January in the Atlanta area and flowers for a good month or more.  Margaret's has light pink blossoms.

If you'll look at the post from June 9, 2011, you can see what Margaret means about her 'Fragrant Pink' hybrid camellia looking like a fountain.  This shrub literally covers itself in the loveliest pink flowers that run along the stems.  It's a prolific bloomer and seems to have an endless supply of buds.

'Lady Clare' is an antique camellia brought to England from Japan in 1887.  It has rose colored flowers with yellow stamens that stick straight out.  The leaves are large and dark and exceedingly beautiful, making this a plant that looks good in mid-summer.  Its other name is 'Empress'.  Margaret has the white form and has issued the following advice for years:  "If you see 'White Empress', buy it.  You may never see it for sale again.  It's hard to find."

'White By the Gate' is in front of Margaret's house.  It originated in Louisiana, where I first saw it.  The formal double blooms are the purest white.  I feel like this shrub doesn't grow as tall as other camellias, but it may be because Margaret keeps hers trimmed back.  The camellias in her back yard are like big trees, although she lets the foliage come all the way to the ground.

Now, to the photograph above.  I've used this as my computer wallpaper every January and February for three years.  I can't remember how I got above the bird house to take the picture.  I love the lichens growing on the roof.  The camellia, according to Margaret, is 'Governor Mouton', although this 18th century flower usually has white splotches.  Apparently, there can be a solid red form, as well.  The growth habit is spreading, as compared to the more upright 'Professor Sargeant'.  This is a brighter red flower and is a bit larger than the aforementioned.

Margaret didn't say anything about the hellebores, but I'm sure they are blooming, too.  She did mention that her daphnes are about to open.  I'm hoping to get out there next week and capture some of this  beauty.  How wonderful to be almost 96 years old and still be so excited about every day in the garden - especially in mid-winter.

How 'Annabelle' got her name

One of the hydrangeas the deer and I like best is the American native Hydrangea arborescens 'Annabelle'.  Before the deer appeared in my woods around seven or eight years ago, the wild Hydrangea arborescens were plentiful, especially on the banks along the driveway.  These plants had flowers shaped like small domes and were a dull white.  Still, I had so many that it was impressive to see them in bloom all at once.

Today, I have one plant (wait, looking out my window, I'm not sure it's still there).  Most, I'm sorry to say, were whacked down by a man named Marvin.  He had removed a tree for me at a fair price, so I hired him to do some clearing.  We walked the property, and I asked him to get rid of all the privet and wisteria in a certain area.  As we walked down the driveway, I said, "Don't touch this bank.  These are all wild hydrangeas."

Well, you guessed it.  I came back to find Marvin glassy eyed and with alcohol on his breath.  All the hydrangeas were mowed down to nubs.  The privet and wisteria were still intact.  I had a terrible exchange of words with Marvin, and although he had done nothing I'd asked, he demanded the price we'd agreed on.  I said I wouldn't pay him until he had done the job.  Then he threatened me, and I stormed in the house, made out a check, threw it at him and told him never to come back.

The wild hydrangeas had just started making a comeback when the deer came.  At first they only snipped off the blooms.  Then, they started eating the leaves and stems.  I guess the plants couldn't take the double whammy, so I don't have them anymore.

Now, back to what I had intended to write about.  A local plantswoman, Linda Copeland, and Allan Armitage, the perennial plant guru from the University of Georgia, wrote an interesting book called Legends in the Garden, giving stories of some plant cultivars that originated in the U.S.  One of the chapters is about the 'Annabelle' hydrangea.

 Joseph McDaniel was a colleague of woody plant guru Michael Dirr when Dirr was at the University of Illinois.  McDaniel first saw the arborescens hydrangea with big balls of white flowers in Urbana in 1960 and traced the plant back to Anna, Illinois.  A man named Hubbard Kirkpatrick said that in 1910, his mother, Harriet, was horseback riding in the hills of Union County, Illinois, when she saw a hydrangea with large white ball-shaped flowers.  She and her sister brought the plant back to their garden on Chestnut Street.  Fifty years later, McDaniel found the original plant still growing in what had been the sisters' garden.  The plant had been passed along to other Illinois gardeners, but had never been named.

It was McDaniel who registered the name 'Annabelle' and who convinced nurseries to grow and sell the plant.

One of my best photographs ever is (unfortunately) in the form of a slide and shows a row of Annabelles with gobs of huge flowers, in Islesboro, Maine.  In the background is the sparkling blue Atlantic dotted with sailboats.  'Annabelle' is hardy where the macrophyllas are not, so that is a big plus.

The drawback?  Deer.  I stayed pretty much ahead of them this year by using the fertilizer Milorganite, but they still chomped some of the blooms and foliage.  I hope to have a deer fence up by the time the Annabelles are putting out this year.  I also want to get 'Incrediball', which is 'Annabelle' on steroids but supposedly with sturdier stems.

By the way, even though 'Annabelle' is named for a town, the town was named for the founder's wife Anna.  Yet another fact dug up by Linda Copeland and Allan Armitage.  Next, that is, after I take a photograph in the spring, I'll pass along the story of how the white azalea 'Mrs. G. G. Gerbing' got its name.  I'd always wondered who Mrs. Gerbing was, and now I know.

How 'Annabelle' got her name

One of the hydrangeas the deer and I like best is the American native Hydrangea arborescens 'Annabelle'.  Before the deer appeared in my woods around seven or eight years ago, the wild Hydrangea arborescens were plentiful, especially on the banks along the driveway.  These plants had flowers shaped like small domes and were a dull white.  Still, I had so many that it was impressive to see them in bloom all at once.

Today, I have one plant (wait, looking out my window, I'm not sure it's still there).  Most, I'm sorry to say, were whacked down by a man named Marvin.  He had removed a tree for me at a fair price, so I hired him to do some clearing.  We walked the property, and I asked him to get rid of all the privet and wisteria in a certain area.  As we walked down the driveway, I said, "Don't touch this bank.  These are all wild hydrangeas."

Well, you guessed it.  I came back to find Marvin glassy eyed and with alcohol on his breath.  All the hydrangeas were mowed down to nubs.  The privet and wisteria were still intact.  I had a terrible exchange of words with Marvin, and although he had done nothing I'd asked, he demanded the price we'd agreed on.  I said I wouldn't pay him until he had done the job.  Then he threatened me, and I stormed in the house, made out a check, threw it at him and told him never to come back.

The wild hydrangeas had just started making a comeback when the deer came.  At first they only snipped off the blooms.  Then, they started eating the leaves and stems.  I guess the plants couldn't take the double whammy, so I don't have them anymore.

Now, back to what I had intended to write about.  A local plantswoman, Linda Copeland, and Allan Armitage, the perennial plant guru from the University of Georgia, wrote an interesting book called Legends in the Garden, giving stories of some plant cultivars that originated in the U.S.  One of the chapters is about the 'Annabelle' hydrangea.

 Joseph McDaniel was a colleague of woody plant guru Michael Dirr when Dirr was at the University of Illinois.  McDaniel first saw the arborescens hydrangea with big balls of white flowers in Urbana in 1960 and traced the plant back to Anna, Illinois.  A man named Hubbard Kirkpatrick said that in 1910, his mother, Harriet, was horseback riding in the hills of Union County, Illinois, when she saw a hydrangea with large white ball-shaped flowers.  She and her sister brought the plant back to their garden on Chestnut Street.  Fifty years later, McDaniel found the original plant still growing in what had been the sisters' garden.  The plant had been passed along to other Illinois gardeners, but had never been named.

It was McDaniel who registered the name 'Annabelle' and who convinced nurseries to grow and sell the plant.

One of my best photographs ever is (unfortunately) in the form of a slide and shows a row of Annabelles with gobs of huge flowers, in Islesboro, Maine.  In the background is the sparkling blue Atlantic dotted with sailboats.  'Annabelle' is hardy where the macrophyllas are not, so that is a big plus.

The drawback?  Deer.  I stayed pretty much ahead of them this year by using the fertilizer Milorganite, but they still chomped some of the blooms and foliage.  I hope to have a deer fence up by the time the Annabelles are putting out this year.  I also want to get 'Incrediball', which is 'Annabelle' on steroids but supposedly with sturdier stems.

By the way, even though 'Annabelle' is named for a town, the town was named for the founder's wife Anna.  Yet another fact dug up by Linda Copeland and Allan Armitage.  Next, that is, after I take a photograph in the spring, I'll pass along the story of how the white azalea 'Mrs. G. G. Gerbing' got its name.  I'd always wondered who Mrs. Gerbing was, and now I know.

Longing for order in chaos

My friend Cathy Stopher is the kind of person I want to be.  She is amazing.  For years, she has taken charge of planning functions and heading up huge fund-raisers and organizing anything, whether for hundreds of people or for ten.  Whereas I might think of getting a group together for lunch, say, she will actually make the calls and do it.  Meanwhile, the day I would have chosen would pass with nothing happening, except my woeful regrets.

Cathy's home in Florida where she spends part of the year is perfection.  The soaps match the towels exactly, and the glasses in the bar are all lined up perfectly.  The cabinets where cereal and such are kept look like a display in Williams-Sonoma.  When something gets out of place, she cleans it up immediately.  By contrast, sometimes I go into the kitchen at dinnertime, and I will have forgotten to clean the coffee pot.  But Cathy can be organized and neat and is still tons of fun and the life of the party.  She is so dynamic that for weeks after I'm with her, I find myself mimicking her gestures and her infectious laugh.

I long for her kind of order, with the exuberant personality attached.  I think that's why gardens like the one pictured above appeal to me.  I like the granite paver borders, the clipped boxwood, the symmetry of the trees.  But I also like the vine clambering up the structure in the background and the varied plantings within the box borders that don't quite match.

This photograph was taken at probably one of the worst possible times for an Atlanta garden.  I called the owners, Pat and Ted Plomgren, and asked if I could run over and take a few pictures.  It was a hot July day, and they weren't expecting visitors to the garden.  Still, with the good hardscapes and well laid out plantings, it was all still so pleasing to the eye.  At once ordered and perfectly arranged, but with personality and tons of appeal.