Yes, we do have wild azaleas

Before we started out on Sunday, Richard Grace, who is an expert on vintage military jeeps, asked if there were any wild azaleas on the farm.

No, I said.  I went on to explain that I was surprised there aren't more native flowers besides the buckeyes that are all through the woods.  There had been a tiny patch of bloodroot on a hill, but it's been years since I've seen any evidence of the plants.  I would think there would be trilliums and trout lilies, but I've never seen any of those, either.  In late summer, there is a lone cardinal flower (Lobelia cardinalis) by the creek, and I've also seen a fire pink (Silene virginica), but that's about it.  Oh, and an Itea virginica along the creek, but I believe that's no longer there.  I'll know later on in April.

After stopping at the wild Easter lilies, we started across the wide shoals.  I looked down toward the property line and saw a mass of light pink.  Stop, I yelled.  I jumped out and went sloshing down the creek with my heart beating wildly, and there they were.  One on each side of the water.  I'm almost sure this is the Piedmont azalea (Rhododendron canescens), although I didn't detect any fragrance.

What you see above are the thick buds that will open up into orchid-like blooms of pink and white that look like honeysuckle on steroids.  I chose this photograph so you could see the wide shoals and the 1950 jeep in the background.  Those buds may be open this weekend.  I'll be sure to go and see.

One word about the location.  I've mentioned that I used to go all around the farm, starting when I was 12.  These shoals were a favorite spot, with wide flat surfaces that stepped down with tiny waterfalls.  Through the years, family and friends have had cookouts and picnics down there.  It is a magical place, spoiled only if the flight pattern into Hartsfield-Jackson happens to be overhead.

To get to where the azalea was on the near bank, I had to pass over a place that still gives me chills.  Once, as my fellow 12-year-old friends, Mary Alice Langley and Linda Jackson and I were making our way through the craggy, misshapen trees along the water, I almost stepped on what I thought was a huge dark, thick snake coiled next to a tree stump.  I screamed, and the three of us ran a mile without stopping, through the fields and back up to the old, abandoned farmhouse where I had parked the jeep.

I had recounted the story countless times and always insisted that it was a giant water moccasin.  When I told Richard, the jeep owner, who knows all about snakes, he said that was impossible, that there aren't any in this part of Georgia.

I don't know what I saw that day; if it was a snake, it wasn't a skinny one.  It was years before I dared climb to the same spot.  Then, when I finally did, I wasn't even sure where it was.  I think the stump had rotted.

Nevertheless, I was cautious last Sunday, as I had to climb up and over the place to get to the exquisite pink blooms.  You can bet I was looking down the entire time.  One can never be too careful.  An errant water moccasin could have lost his way, like the one must have done so many years ago.

Note to native azalea experts:  Could this be Rhododendron arborescens in this area?  I am sure it was not a flame azalea of any kind.  I'll check again this weekend to see if I detect any fragrance.  I'm pretty convinced it is R. canescens.

Yes, we do have wild azaleas

Before we started out on Sunday, Richard Grace, who is an expert on vintage military jeeps, asked if there were any wild azaleas on the farm.

No, I said.  I went on to explain that I was surprised there aren't more native flowers besides the buckeyes that are all through the woods.  There had been a tiny patch of bloodroot on a hill, but it's been years since I've seen any evidence of the plants.  I would think there would be trilliums and trout lilies, but I've never seen any of those, either.  In late summer, there is a lone cardinal flower (Lobelia cardinalis) by the creek, and I've also seen a fire pink (Silene virginica), but that's about it.  Oh, and an Itea virginica along the creek, but I believe that's no longer there.  I'll know later on in April.

After stopping at the wild Easter lilies, we started across the wide shoals.  I looked down toward the property line and saw a mass of light pink.  Stop, I yelled.  I jumped out and went sloshing down the creek with my heart beating wildly, and there they were.  One on each side of the water.  I'm almost sure this is the Piedmont azalea (Rhododendron canescens), although I didn't detect any fragrance.

What you see above are the thick buds that will open up into orchid-like blooms of pink and white that look like honeysuckle on steroids.  I chose this photograph so you could see the wide shoals and the 1950 jeep in the background.  Those buds may be open this weekend.  I'll be sure to go and see.

One word about the location.  I've mentioned that I used to go all around the farm, starting when I was 12.  These shoals were a favorite spot, with wide flat surfaces that stepped down with tiny waterfalls.  Through the years, family and friends have had cookouts and picnics down there.  It is a magical place, spoiled only if the flight pattern into Hartsfield-Jackson happens to be overhead.

To get to where the azalea was on the near bank, I had to pass over a place that still gives me chills.  Once, as my fellow 12-year-old friends, Mary Alice Langley and Linda Jackson and I were making our way through the craggy, misshapen trees along the water, I almost stepped on what I thought was a huge dark, thick snake coiled next to a tree stump.  I screamed, and the three of us ran a mile without stopping, through the fields and back up to the old, abandoned farmhouse where I had parked the jeep.

I had recounted the story countless times and always insisted that it was a giant water moccasin.  When I told Richard, the jeep owner, who knows all about snakes, he said that was impossible, that there aren't any in this part of Georgia.

I don't know what I saw that day; if it was a snake, it wasn't a skinny one.  It was years before I dared climb to the same spot.  Then, when I finally did, I wasn't even sure where it was.  I think the stump had rotted.

Nevertheless, I was cautious last Sunday, as I had to climb up and over the place to get to the exquisite pink blooms.  You can bet I was looking down the entire time.  One can never be too careful.  An errant water moccasin could have lost his way, like the one must have done so many years ago.

Note to native azalea experts:  Could this be Rhododendron arborescens in this area?  I am sure it was not a flame azalea of any kind.  I'll check again this weekend to see if I detect any fragrance.  I'm pretty convinced it is R. canescens.

Would Miss Jekyll approve?

I'm just wondering.  How do I get involved in things I know will stress me out and take a lot of time?  Didn't I make a pact with myself that I could and would say no when someone asked me to do something out of my comfort zone?

Yet, here I am.  I just got home tonight after a three day marathon, trying to pull a little scene together for the Cherokee Garden Library at the Atlanta History Center.  There was a big lecture there tonight by garden historian Judith Tankard.  Her newest book is Gertrude Jekyll and the Country House Garden (Miss Jekyll was an English garden designer in the late 19th and early 20th centuries).  It was a wonderful talk to a packed house.  A huge success - well, almost.

In the 1980's, I went crazy over English gardens and devoured any book by or about Gertrude Jekyll and Vita Sackville-West.  A bit later, it was Christopher Lloyd, Rosemary Verey and Penelope Hobhouse.  I knew well what Miss Jekyll's huge borders were like,  how she put hot colors in the middle and went to pastels on the ends.  She loved gray foliage, and leaned towards purples, pale blues and whites.  More than anything, I wanted one of those 100 foot long borders.  Hard to do, when there's not a single flat space on your property or even an hour of sunlight.

But as to the photograph above.  When the nicest person asked if my designer friend Benjie Jones and I would do something for the lecture, it seemed so far away.  But, about two weeks ago, I started having nightmares.  The nice person wanted something besides just a flower arrangement.  I suggested borrowing a Lutyens bench and incorporating some flowers.  Miss Jekyll collaborated with the young architect Edwin Lutyens on countless English manors  (and one French one that I have visited and have written about here).

I tried to pick out flowers that might have been in her borders.  Delphiniums and alliums, for sure.  Some iris and lilies and agapanthus.  There was nothing pink at the wholesaler's except for some stock, which was a funny color.

Another designer, Susan Higley, helped us, and we made borders (no potted plants allowed in the hall) from an English boxwood that was destroyed when a tree fell on my little cottage.  When it was put together, we had to camouflage the oasis with hellebores from my friend Peggy Witt.  She had insisted I take all she had in her front, and thank goodness, I did.

When the bench came this morning, I was shocked.  It had been weathered teak in the garden, which would have looked perfect with the flowers.  But the owner had thoughtfully had it pressure washed and cleaned, and the flowers now looked garish.  Not the weathered scene we had counted on.

Oh well.  The lecture was a huge success, and when some people sat down on the bench, it all looked much better.  Trying to make an English border in an 18 x 18 inch space is not a good idea.  I'm afraid that somewhere in England, Miss Jekyll is turning over in her grave.

Would Miss Jekyll approve?

I'm just wondering.  How do I get involved in things I know will stress me out and take a lot of time?  Didn't I make a pact with myself that I could and would say no when someone asked me to do something out of my comfort zone?

Yet, here I am.  I just got home tonight after a three day marathon, trying to pull a little scene together for the Cherokee Garden Library at the Atlanta History Center.  There was a big lecture there tonight by garden historian Judith Tankard.  Her newest book is Gertrude Jekyll and the Country House Garden (Miss Jekyll was an English garden designer in the late 19th and early 20th centuries).  It was a wonderful talk to a packed house.  A huge success - well, almost.

In the 1980's, I went crazy over English gardens and devoured any book by or about Gertrude Jekyll and Vita Sackville-West.  A bit later, it was Christopher Lloyd, Rosemary Verey and Penelope Hobhouse.  I knew well what Miss Jekyll's huge borders were like,  how she put hot colors in the middle and went to pastels on the ends.  She loved gray foliage, and leaned towards purples, pale blues and whites.  More than anything, I wanted one of those 100 foot long borders.  Hard to do, when there's not a single flat space on your property or even an hour of sunlight.

But as to the photograph above.  When the nicest person asked if my designer friend Benjie Jones and I would do something for the lecture, it seemed so far away.  But, about two weeks ago, I started having nightmares.  The nice person wanted something besides just a flower arrangement.  I suggested borrowing a Lutyens bench and incorporating some flowers.  Miss Jekyll collaborated with the young architect Edwin Lutyens on countless English manors  (and one French one that I have visited and have written about here).

I tried to pick out flowers that might have been in her borders.  Delphiniums and alliums, for sure.  Some iris and lilies and agapanthus.  There was nothing pink at the wholesaler's except for some stock, which was a funny color.

Another designer, Susan Higley, helped us, and we made borders (no potted plants allowed in the hall) from an English boxwood that was destroyed when a tree fell on my little cottage.  When it was put together, we had to camouflage the oasis with hellebores from my friend Peggy Witt.  She had insisted I take all she had in her front, and thank goodness, I did.

When the bench came this morning, I was shocked.  It had been weathered teak in the garden, which would have looked perfect with the flowers.  But the owner had thoughtfully had it pressure washed and cleaned, and the flowers now looked garish.  Not the weathered scene we had counted on.

Oh well.  The lecture was a huge success, and when some people sat down on the bench, it all looked much better.  Trying to make an English border in an 18 x 18 inch space is not a good idea.  I'm afraid that somewhere in England, Miss Jekyll is turning over in her grave.

The orchid thieves

My daughter Anne is a senior publicist at Simon & Schuster in New York.  She recently worked with Susan Orlean, whose latest book is about the original Rin-Tin-Tin, but who also wrote The Orchid Thief, which had great success.  I remember it as an unsettling story set in Florida.  It gave you an idea of the lengths people go to in order to find an elusive orchid.

But those are tropical orchids, and many of them grow in trees with not so much as a grain of soil.  The ones pictured above - Bletilla striata - are terrestrial orchids.  Someone posted a picture of their bletilla on Facebook, and it created quite a stir.  Several people described their tender, tropical orchids which they'd coaxed into bloom and wondered if these were related.  Not many realized that there are hardy orchids that are great for the garden and more cold tolerant than they appear.

The hardy orchids (Bletilla striata) you see above belong to Milton Kuninansky, who has several patches of them growing in his Atlanta garden.   A few years ago, Milton gave me two plants, and now I have three.  Every spring I look forward to seeing the ribbed, papery leaves unfurling from the ground, followed by the magenta flowers on dark stems.  But this year, there's a problem.

After I read the Facebook entry, I went up to check on mine.  Orchid thieves!  The normally long leaves were short and ragged.  Yes, there were blooms struggling upward, but they looked as if they had been cropped, as well.  The deer had selected these plants and ignored everything around them.  I was dismayed, to say the least.

So, I thought I'd better check on some other orchids I discovered some years back.  These I wrote about in an older post entitled The Case of the Mysterious Orchid, on August 29, 2011.  I won't repeat the story, but I will say that for the first time, my original discovery, which is pictured in that post, now has a friend.  There are two distinct plants that will bloom this year.  In addition, I removed some ivy from around a stump and uncovered three more that have bloom stalks.  These latter orchids are quite different from Bletilla striata (which also comes in a white form).  Kevin Holcomb of Atlanta identified the mystery plants for me.  He has a collection of terrestrial orchids, and you can see his comments on the August post.  I was delighted he could make this identification for me.

What I need to do immediately is to make a big circle of Milorganite around the plants in the woods (I've already treated the bletilla), and hope it will keep the deer away.  There are six or seven does that travel together, and they pass very close to where the now not-quite-as-mysterious orchids are growing (actually, I'll forever wonder how they came to be there).

One odd occurrence.  When I wrote about Bletilla striata for the Atlanta Journal & Constitution, I received several letters from a prison.  I never knew if they were for real or not.  Why would a garden orchid could stir up so much interest among inmates?  Another orchid mystery I'll never solve.

The orchid thieves

My daughter Anne is a senior publicist at Simon & Schuster in New York.  She recently worked with Susan Orlean, whose latest book is about the original Rin-Tin-Tin, but who also wrote The Orchid Thief, which had great success.  I remember it as an unsettling story set in Florida.  It gave you an idea of the lengths people go to in order to find an elusive orchid.

But those are tropical orchids, and many of them grow in trees with not so much as a grain of soil.  The ones pictured above - Bletilla striata - are terrestrial orchids.  Someone posted a picture of their bletilla on Facebook, and it created quite a stir.  Several people described their tender, tropical orchids which they'd coaxed into bloom and wondered if these were related.  Not many realized that there are hardy orchids that are great for the garden and more cold tolerant than they appear.

The hardy orchids (Bletilla striata) you see above belong to Milton Kuninansky, who has several patches of them growing in his Atlanta garden.   A few years ago, Milton gave me two plants, and now I have three.  Every spring I look forward to seeing the ribbed, papery leaves unfurling from the ground, followed by the magenta flowers on dark stems.  But this year, there's a problem.

After I read the Facebook entry, I went up to check on mine.  Orchid thieves!  The normally long leaves were short and ragged.  Yes, there were blooms struggling upward, but they looked as if they had been cropped, as well.  The deer had selected these plants and ignored everything around them.  I was dismayed, to say the least.

So, I thought I'd better check on some other orchids I discovered some years back.  These I wrote about in an older post entitled The Case of the Mysterious Orchid, on August 29, 2011.  I won't repeat the story, but I will say that for the first time, my original discovery, which is pictured in that post, now has a friend.  There are two distinct plants that will bloom this year.  In addition, I removed some ivy from around a stump and uncovered three more that have bloom stalks.  These latter orchids are quite different from Bletilla striata (which also comes in a white form).  Kevin Holcomb of Atlanta identified the mystery plants for me.  He has a collection of terrestrial orchids, and you can see his comments on the August post.  I was delighted he could make this identification for me.

What I need to do immediately is to make a big circle of Milorganite around the plants in the woods (I've already treated the bletilla), and hope it will keep the deer away.  There are six or seven does that travel together, and they pass very close to where the now not-quite-as-mysterious orchids are growing (actually, I'll forever wonder how they came to be there).

One odd occurrence.  When I wrote about Bletilla striata for the Atlanta Journal & Constitution, I received several letters from a prison.  I never knew if they were for real or not.  Why would a garden orchid could stir up so much interest among inmates?  Another orchid mystery I'll never solve.

A wild ride to the wild Easter lilies

I was twelve years old when my parents bought a farm outside our little town.  At the time, Daddy had an old Air Force jeep, which is the vehicle I learned to drive on.  In small towns, we took to the roads early, and by the time I was 13, I had already burned out a clutch on the "three in the floor", navy blue jeep.  One of my favorite pastimes was to gather a load of friends and bounce them all over the place as I went way too fast over the fields and splashed through the rocky shoals at the farm.  The highlight was to dump everyone into the pasture and have them run for their lives from Pudgy the fierce bull.  Sort of an early prequel to The Hunger Games.

Fast forward, um, several decades.  I am back on a beautiful Sunday afternoon (yesterday) in a 1950 Marine Corps surplus jeep, driven with a good bit of bouncing by my older brother's childhood buddy Richard Grace.  He is the go-to person for military jeeps in the U.S.  Once again, I'm riding on the outskirts of the familiar fields and through narrow trails underneath oaks and beeches and pines, and, sorry to say, a lot of sweet gum trees.

But yesterday, there was a mission.  Last spring, as Richard and I were looking for deer trails (I was determined to find some antlers that had been shed; no luck), we came across a huge expanse of granite.  It had been a wet spring, and the mossy top was saturated.  The moment I looked and saw huge patches of narrow glossy leaves, I knew what I'd stumbled upon - Atamasco lilies, or Zephyranthes atamasco.

But it was too early.  There was only foliage.  Time passed, and by the time we rode the jeep to the site, there was one white lily left.  At least I knew.

On Friday, Richard called to tell me he had been to the granite outcropping, and there were hundreds of lilies in bloom.  I said I'd be down on Sunday, although it was going to be hard to wait.

At last, we made our way through Sweet Gum Circle and up to Arrowhead Hill, where we have found pottery shards and arrowheads, and then back down to enter the narrow paths of Kudzu Tangle.  Finally, after changing gears and climbing up a hill where you have to duck or get hit by a branch, I could see them in the distance.

I had chills. It is so thrilling to find native flowers in the wild.  I was bedazzled by the sight and spent a half-hour taking pictures of the all the clumps and many single flowers.  The lilies are pure white and about 12 to 15 inches tall on rather slender stems.  The older ones have a pinkish cast.  There were still some buds, so we hit it just about right.

The only disappointment was the existence of foreign invaders like privet and honeysuckle.  I also clipped some vicious thorns from the middle of several of the clumps.  I'm going to work on ridding the area of these obnoxious interlopers.  Still, their presence didn't take away from the wonder of observing these members of the amaryllis family, hidden in the woods.  I've heard them called wild Easter lilies and also Dead Soldier lilies.  I need to contact my friend who told me about the latter common name.  This means that hers are in bloom, as well.  As the crow flies, she doesn't live very far away.

On the way back through another part of the farm, I discovered something else.  You'd have thought I'd found a treasure chest.  More on this later.  For the time being, I'm thrilled to have captured images of these lilies, as they will disappear later in the season.  I wonder if they were there when I nearly killed my 13-year-old friends.

The photograph above is not my best, but you can see my dog and some more lilies beyond and get an idea of how it must have been to come upon these beautiful flowers in such an inhospitable place.

A wild ride to the wild Easter lilies

I was twelve years old when my parents bought a farm outside our little town.  At the time, Daddy had an old Air Force jeep, which is the vehicle I learned to drive on.  In small towns, we took to the roads early, and by the time I was 13, I had already burned out a clutch on the "three in the floor", navy blue jeep.  One of my favorite pastimes was to gather a load of friends and bounce them all over the place as I went way too fast over the fields and splashed through the rocky shoals at the farm.  The highlight was to dump everyone into the pasture and have them run for their lives from Pudgy the fierce bull.  Sort of an early prequel to The Hunger Games.

Fast forward, um, several decades.  I am back on a beautiful Sunday afternoon (yesterday) in a 1950 Marine Corps surplus jeep, driven with a good bit of bouncing by my older brother's childhood buddy Richard Grace.  He is the go-to person for military jeeps in the U.S.  Once again, I'm riding on the outskirts of the familiar fields and through narrow trails underneath oaks and beeches and pines, and, sorry to say, a lot of sweet gum trees.

But yesterday, there was a mission.  Last spring, as Richard and I were looking for deer trails (I was determined to find some antlers that had been shed; no luck), we came across a huge expanse of granite.  It had been a wet spring, and the mossy top was saturated.  The moment I looked and saw huge patches of narrow glossy leaves, I knew what I'd stumbled upon - Atamasco lilies, or Zephyranthes atamasco.

But it was too early.  There was only foliage.  Time passed, and by the time we rode the jeep to the site, there was one white lily left.  At least I knew.

On Friday, Richard called to tell me he had been to the granite outcropping, and there were hundreds of lilies in bloom.  I said I'd be down on Sunday, although it was going to be hard to wait.

At last, we made our way through Sweet Gum Circle and up to Arrowhead Hill, where we have found pottery shards and arrowheads, and then back down to enter the narrow paths of Kudzu Tangle.  Finally, after changing gears and climbing up a hill where you have to duck or get hit by a branch, I could see them in the distance.

I had chills. It is so thrilling to find native flowers in the wild.  I was bedazzled by the sight and spent a half-hour taking pictures of the all the clumps and many single flowers.  The lilies are pure white and about 12 to 15 inches tall on rather slender stems.  The older ones have a pinkish cast.  There were still some buds, so we hit it just about right.

The only disappointment was the existence of foreign invaders like privet and honeysuckle.  I also clipped some vicious thorns from the middle of several of the clumps.  I'm going to work on ridding the area of these obnoxious interlopers.  Still, their presence didn't take away from the wonder of observing these members of the amaryllis family, hidden in the woods.  I've heard them called wild Easter lilies and also Dead Soldier lilies.  I need to contact my friend who told me about the latter common name.  This means that hers are in bloom, as well.  As the crow flies, she doesn't live very far away.

On the way back through another part of the farm, I discovered something else.  You'd have thought I'd found a treasure chest.  More on this later.  For the time being, I'm thrilled to have captured images of these lilies, as they will disappear later in the season.  I wonder if they were there when I nearly killed my 13-year-old friends.

The photograph above is not my best, but you can see my dog and some more lilies beyond and get an idea of how it must have been to come upon these beautiful flowers in such an inhospitable place.

I know it's broad daylight, but...

I could write a book about the barred owl goings on around here.  I used to hear a loud clucking sound, and inevitably I would see an owl soon after.  I finally learned that he was sharpening his beak (I hope this is true; someone told me that).

One time, I saw a pair sitting on a limb with their heads together, like lovebirds - way before the day you had a convenient camera on your phone to seize the moment.

Another time, a couple of skinny young ones had flown from the hollow, across the driveway in front of me to a high limb on the other side.  I watched as their new downy feathers drifted down.

Sometimes in the mornings, I'd walk out and feel something watching me.   Sure enough, there he (she?) was, sitting on the crook of a young hickory tree, close enough for me to see every marking.  He just looked at me, then turned his head 180 degrees to check on the noise behind him.

My late sweet dog Deion and I were walking up the driveway around twilight when I saw the owl spread his wings and dive bomb my beloved dog.  No harm done, but it did scare me.

I love listening to their calls to each other in the evenings.  The other night, I heard one further down in the woods, toward the river.  The last two years, they haven't been hanging around so much.  I hope they'll be back.

More wildlife on later posts:  No pictures of the coyotes, though.  They're too quick.

I know it's broad daylight, but...

I could write a book about the barred owl goings on around here.  I used to hear a loud clucking sound, and inevitably I would see an owl soon after.  I finally learned that he was sharpening his beak (I hope this is true; someone told me that).

One time, I saw a pair sitting on a limb with their heads together, like lovebirds - way before the day you had a convenient camera on your phone to seize the moment.

Another time, a couple of skinny young ones had flown from the hollow, across the driveway in front of me to a high limb on the other side.  I watched as their new downy feathers drifted down.

Sometimes in the mornings, I'd walk out and feel something watching me.   Sure enough, there he (she?) was, sitting on the crook of a young hickory tree, close enough for me to see every marking.  He just looked at me, then turned his head 180 degrees to check on the noise behind him.

My late sweet dog Deion and I were walking up the driveway around twilight when I saw the owl spread his wings and dive bomb my beloved dog.  No harm done, but it did scare me.

I love listening to their calls to each other in the evenings.  The other night, I heard one further down in the woods, toward the river.  The last two years, they haven't been hanging around so much.  I hope they'll be back.

More wildlife on later posts:  No pictures of the coyotes, though.  They're too quick.

No chickadees need apply

"Sorry, this one's taken."  Enough said.

No chickadees need apply

"Sorry, this one's taken."  Enough said.

Is this berry any good?

Yesterday, I forgot to publish the post I'd written.  So, I thought today I'd put in a series showing the wildlife I encounter around my house.  Just this morning, there were two hawks screeching overhead, and the smaller birds were putting up a terrible fuss.

I live in the middle of four acres of woodland in the city of Atlanta.  I've seen a lot of wildlife here, the most surprising being a wolf.  Yes, a wolf.  One night when we still lived in the little 1926 cottage at the back of the property, my husband and I were going out for the evening.  We'd left our new puppy on the deck.

Just as we were about a hundred feet from the street, we stopped.  There was a wolf standing in the middle of the driveway.  My husband said, no way, that's a German shepherd.  "Look how tall it is.  It's a wolf," I cried.  We drove on, and it ran off into the bamboo grove.  I made my husband turn around, and we put the puppy in the house.

A couple of days later, I read in the paper that Congressman Larry McDonald was missing a wolf.  His mother lived directly behind us.  We weren't the only ones who had spotted the wolf.  Others saw it, and finally someone was able to capture and return the creature to its owner.  Tragically, much later, Congressman McDonald died on the Korean flight that drifted into Soviet airspace and was shot down.

Now, to the happier photo above.  I have a bluebird box on the deck at the little house.  Here's a papa bluebird, sitting on a nearby bench, contemplating the berry he's gathered.  Possibly food for the little ones?

Is this berry any good?

Yesterday, I forgot to publish the post I'd written.  So, I thought today I'd put in a series showing the wildlife I encounter around my house.  Just this morning, there were two hawks screeching overhead, and the smaller birds were putting up a terrible fuss.

I live in the middle of four acres of woodland in the city of Atlanta.  I've seen a lot of wildlife here, the most surprising being a wolf.  Yes, a wolf.  One night when we still lived in the little 1926 cottage at the back of the property, my husband and I were going out for the evening.  We'd left our new puppy on the deck.

Just as we were about a hundred feet from the street, we stopped.  There was a wolf standing in the middle of the driveway.  My husband said, no way, that's a German shepherd.  "Look how tall it is.  It's a wolf," I cried.  We drove on, and it ran off into the bamboo grove.  I made my husband turn around, and we put the puppy in the house.

A couple of days later, I read in the paper that Congressman Larry McDonald was missing a wolf.  His mother lived directly behind us.  We weren't the only ones who had spotted the wolf.  Others saw it, and finally someone was able to capture and return the creature to its owner.  Tragically, much later, Congressman McDonald died on the Korean flight that drifted into Soviet airspace and was shot down.

Now, to the happier photo above.  I have a bluebird box on the deck at the little house.  Here's a papa bluebird, sitting on a nearby bench, contemplating the berry he's gathered.  Possibly food for the little ones?

A blurry sign - The Book of Revelation?

It happened the 19th of December 2011.  It was maybe nine o'clock in the morning when I looked up to see a buck looking down at something orange.  It was a fox.  The two were much closer than in this picture and standing side by side, one looking down at the other, and one looking up.  I froze.  Then I ran from the kitchen window to find my camera.  By the time I returned, here's what I was able to snap.

Seconds later, I photographed them (clearly this time), but each apart.  Was this like the lions lying down with the lambs?

The phone rang.  It was my friend Rosa's daughter.  She was crying hysterically.  I could make out that she was saying they had given her mother chest compressions, but she had died while her daughter was listening, on her way back from spending the night in the mountains. "I would never had gone," she said ruefully.  No one had figured on this turn for the worse.

I called my friend Helen, also a friend of Rosa's.  I told her about the deer and the fox.  "Rosa was telling you good-bye.  You know how she loved animals."  But, I protested, we only talked about cats and dogs, never wild animals.

A cat or dog wouldn't have gotten your attention, Helen pointed out.

I don't much believe in this sort of thing, but I don't think I'll ever look out my kitchen window and see this combination again.  Whether or not there was any meaning here doesn't much matter.  I will forever look at this picture and feel comforted.

A blurry sign - The Book of Revelation?

It happened the 19th of December 2011.  It was maybe nine o'clock in the morning when I looked up to see a buck looking down at something orange.  It was a fox.  The two were much closer than in this picture and standing side by side, one looking down at the other, and one looking up.  I froze.  Then I ran from the kitchen window to find my camera.  By the time I returned, here's what I was able to snap.

Seconds later, I photographed them (clearly this time), but each apart.  Was this like the lions lying down with the lambs?

The phone rang.  It was my friend Rosa's daughter.  She was crying hysterically.  I could make out that she was saying they had given her mother chest compressions, but she had died while her daughter was listening, on her way back from spending the night in the mountains. "I would never had gone," she said ruefully.  No one had figured on this turn for the worse.

I called my friend Helen, also a friend of Rosa's.  I told her about the deer and the fox.  "Rosa was telling you good-bye.  You know how she loved animals."  But, I protested, we only talked about cats and dogs, never wild animals.

A cat or dog wouldn't have gotten your attention, Helen pointed out.

I don't much believe in this sort of thing, but I don't think I'll ever look out my kitchen window and see this combination again.  Whether or not there was any meaning here doesn't much matter.  I will forever look at this picture and feel comforted.

The giant who came to Atlanta

My late mother-in-law used to come to Atlanta from Virginia every year around the first of April.  Although our peak is early this year, the first week of April was reliably the height of the azalea-dogwood extravaganza. We would ride around the neighborhoods, and she would always say the same thing, "It looks like a giant has taken a paintbrush and flung it out over Atlanta."  Not a spring goes by that I don't think of her and how she delighted at seeing the splashy colors of the season.

She would really love it this year.  Everything is happening at once.  The dogwoods are out; some quince is still holding on; azaleas are blooming, giant snowballs are turning from mint green to white, Yoshino cherries are at their peak, and there are a few late daffodils holding on.  Scilla is flowering at least three weeks early; a few late camellias still have flowers as do some of the deciduous magnolias, and pansies and violas are at their most brilliant.  Let's see:  redbuds, some pear trees still white, yellow Carolina jasmine and halesias with their white bells.  And, how could I forget purple wisteria?  Saturday, in my hometown, I went past one of the biggest patches I've ever seen.  I have a love-hate (mostly hate) relationship with this thug, which I inherited from previous owners.  Still, the scent is nice in the morning, and the clusters of flowers are lovely.  I've come a long way in eradicating it since the era when it climbed every tree and formed purple castles high above.  My neighbor down the street has a later blooming white wisteria that doesn't seem as sinister.

This morning, I came down Habersham Road and almost wrecked the car at the sight of a yellow banksaie rose in front of my children's pediatrician's house.  Every year, I look forward to seeing this species rose resembling a light yellow fountain flowing to the ground from a tall pine tree.

The photograph above was taken at Kathy Rainer's house on Peachtree Battle Avenue in Atlanta.  You couldn't see this Lady Banks rose from the street - it's on the side of her house.  The first time I ever saw it, I remember walking around the corner and gasping at its size and the spectacle it made as it tumbled down from a balcony.

Tomorrow, we're supposed to have storms.  We need the rain, but I'm wishing I had taken my camera today to try and capture some of the incredible sights.  I imagine it will be even prettier in the next few days.  I don't think the giant has completely finished with his yearly job.

The giant who came to Atlanta

My late mother-in-law used to come to Atlanta from Virginia every year around the first of April.  Although our peak is early this year, the first week of April was reliably the height of the azalea-dogwood extravaganza. We would ride around the neighborhoods, and she would always say the same thing, "It looks like a giant has taken a paintbrush and flung it out over Atlanta."  Not a spring goes by that I don't think of her and how she delighted at seeing the splashy colors of the season.

She would really love it this year.  Everything is happening at once.  The dogwoods are out; some quince is still holding on; azaleas are blooming, giant snowballs are turning from mint green to white, Yoshino cherries are at their peak, and there are a few late daffodils holding on.  Scilla is flowering at least three weeks early; a few late camellias still have flowers as do some of the deciduous magnolias, and pansies and violas are at their most brilliant.  Let's see:  redbuds, some pear trees still white, yellow Carolina jasmine and halesias with their white bells.  And, how could I forget purple wisteria?  Saturday, in my hometown, I went past one of the biggest patches I've ever seen.  I have a love-hate (mostly hate) relationship with this thug, which I inherited from previous owners.  Still, the scent is nice in the morning, and the clusters of flowers are lovely.  I've come a long way in eradicating it since the era when it climbed every tree and formed purple castles high above.  My neighbor down the street has a later blooming white wisteria that doesn't seem as sinister.

This morning, I came down Habersham Road and almost wrecked the car at the sight of a yellow banksaie rose in front of my children's pediatrician's house.  Every year, I look forward to seeing this species rose resembling a light yellow fountain flowing to the ground from a tall pine tree.

The photograph above was taken at Kathy Rainer's house on Peachtree Battle Avenue in Atlanta.  You couldn't see this Lady Banks rose from the street - it's on the side of her house.  The first time I ever saw it, I remember walking around the corner and gasping at its size and the spectacle it made as it tumbled down from a balcony.

Tomorrow, we're supposed to have storms.  We need the rain, but I'm wishing I had taken my camera today to try and capture some of the incredible sights.  I imagine it will be even prettier in the next few days.  I don't think the giant has completely finished with his yearly job.

Tucked away in the garden

I just dropped by Louise Poer's house to deliver something and, camera in hand, was ready to see what was happening in her garden.  She's always changing things or adding new plants and objects, so one never knows.

But, there was a sign on the door that said, "Baby asleep".  I was crestfallen.  On the front of her house, trained along the eaves, was a yellow Lady Banks rose in full bloom.  Over the front door and to the right near the garden entrance, the Clematis armandii still had a few flowers left.  I was dying to go through the gate and around the house, but her dogs were barking like crazy.  Although she always says to come on in, I figured the dogs would only get worse as I passed by her side and back windows.

Anyway, I've got to go back to see what's there.  For the moment, I'll settle for a previous photograph of this little scene that is tucked in a border along the main path.  Louise scours Scott's Antique Market which comes to Atlanta the second weekend in every month, and she is always finding the neatest stuff.

Louise is an animal lover, which you can tell when you walk into her garden.  A bluebird box is always occupied during the season, and there are all kinds of topiary shapes, the newest being a butterfly.

I particularly love this little house that sits on the ground near the back wall.  Every time I go over there, I bend down and peer into it.  One never knows what might be in there.  In this photograph, a verdigris bird had taken up residence.

Maybe in a few days I can go back over to Louise's.  Things are popping so fast now.  Bill Hudgins called to say I should come over because things are blooming so far ahead of time.  Here's hoping for a cool down, but no freezes to hurt the tender growth.  So much to see - so little time.

Tucked away in the garden

I just dropped by Louise Poer's house to deliver something and, camera in hand, was ready to see what was happening in her garden.  She's always changing things or adding new plants and objects, so one never knows.

But, there was a sign on the door that said, "Baby asleep".  I was crestfallen.  On the front of her house, trained along the eaves, was a yellow Lady Banks rose in full bloom.  Over the front door and to the right near the garden entrance, the Clematis armandii still had a few flowers left.  I was dying to go through the gate and around the house, but her dogs were barking like crazy.  Although she always says to come on in, I figured the dogs would only get worse as I passed by her side and back windows.

Anyway, I've got to go back to see what's there.  For the moment, I'll settle for a previous photograph of this little scene that is tucked in a border along the main path.  Louise scours Scott's Antique Market which comes to Atlanta the second weekend in every month, and she is always finding the neatest stuff.

Louise is an animal lover, which you can tell when you walk into her garden.  A bluebird box is always occupied during the season, and there are all kinds of topiary shapes, the newest being a butterfly.

I particularly love this little house that sits on the ground near the back wall.  Every time I go over there, I bend down and peer into it.  One never knows what might be in there.  In this photograph, a verdigris bird had taken up residence.

Maybe in a few days I can go back over to Louise's.  Things are popping so fast now.  Bill Hudgins called to say I should come over because things are blooming so far ahead of time.  Here's hoping for a cool down, but no freezes to hurt the tender growth.  So much to see - so little time.

No ivy in sight; it could happen

This morning, Kathryn MacDougald and I went once again to the AT&T store to figure out our cell phone bills, something we do quite often.  My blood pressure held steady, I'm glad to say, but it may have been the first time ever.  I'm crossing my fingers that the fiftieth time is the charm.

Anyway, on our drive there, we started talking about the house where Kathryn lives now.  She and her husband are renting, and, as she always does, she's out there gardening and having a ball.  I asked if she'd like to stay there permanently.  She said she didn't know if she could stand to live very long with so much English ivy around her.  The four acres that go with the house are covered in the evergreen vine.

That's the way it is here (I'm just around the corner from where she lives).  When we moved to this property a zillion years ago, English ivy was already here.  It covered the hills and valleys, went up the trees and tried its best to grow into the 1926 cottage on the back of the lot.  For a long time I didn't try to fight it until I could no longer stand it going up trees.  That's been a battle, but I'm doing pretty well.  The ivy is a cinch compared to Chinese wisteria, which makes this place look like a purple fairyland at the moment - the only time you can forgive this impossible-to-deal with thug.

One year, we went on A Gardener's Diary at Dr. Ferrol Sams's home in Fayetteville, Ga.  He took us all around his woods which he had filled with native plants - Piedmont, Florida and flame azaleas, a double-flowering Florida dogwood, lady slippers, foam flower, trilliums, Atamasco lilies, bald cypress and on and on.  The only non-native I remember was a Davidii involucrata (a.k.a. dove tree, handkerchief tree, ghost tree).   My Suburban broke down, and I was late to the shoot.  I decided to walk by myself down into the woods.  All of a sudden it smelled as if I had run into a giant cat litter box.  The odor was strong.  Then I remembered.  The dove tree.  Cat urine.  That's the scent it emits when the long white bracts are at their peak.  I looked up, and there it was - the largest I've ever seen, the papery white"handkerchiefs" hanging from the branches. A sight to see.

But, I'm off course here.  I came back from Dr. Sams's woods and decided I could no longer let the ivy dominate.  I had to make good wide paths like he had made, so I could have lots of native plants to see at close range.

I'm still covered in ivy, but I see scenes like the above photograph in an Atlanta garden and think how fun it would be to have a part of this ivy-choked woodland cleared to look like that.  Plus, I've never seen an arbor I didn't like.  This one is very appealing.

So, yet another goal for the garden.  A tamed path that winds through the woods, covered by a rustic arbor.  I'm not sure if this is locust wood they've used, but I'm guessing it is.  Right now, I'm about to go out and walk the deer trails (always looking for antlers; a buck that jumped across the driveway in front of me yesterday still had his).  But, I'll also be looking for the right place to do something like the homeowner did above.  There's something very soothing about the scene.

No ivy in sight; it could happen

This morning, Kathryn MacDougald and I went once again to the AT&T store to figure out our cell phone bills, something we do quite often.  My blood pressure held steady, I'm glad to say, but it may have been the first time ever.  I'm crossing my fingers that the fiftieth time is the charm.

Anyway, on our drive there, we started talking about the house where Kathryn lives now.  She and her husband are renting, and, as she always does, she's out there gardening and having a ball.  I asked if she'd like to stay there permanently.  She said she didn't know if she could stand to live very long with so much English ivy around her.  The four acres that go with the house are covered in the evergreen vine.

That's the way it is here (I'm just around the corner from where she lives).  When we moved to this property a zillion years ago, English ivy was already here.  It covered the hills and valleys, went up the trees and tried its best to grow into the 1926 cottage on the back of the lot.  For a long time I didn't try to fight it until I could no longer stand it going up trees.  That's been a battle, but I'm doing pretty well.  The ivy is a cinch compared to Chinese wisteria, which makes this place look like a purple fairyland at the moment - the only time you can forgive this impossible-to-deal with thug.

One year, we went on A Gardener's Diary at Dr. Ferrol Sams's home in Fayetteville, Ga.  He took us all around his woods which he had filled with native plants - Piedmont, Florida and flame azaleas, a double-flowering Florida dogwood, lady slippers, foam flower, trilliums, Atamasco lilies, bald cypress and on and on.  The only non-native I remember was a Davidii involucrata (a.k.a. dove tree, handkerchief tree, ghost tree).   My Suburban broke down, and I was late to the shoot.  I decided to walk by myself down into the woods.  All of a sudden it smelled as if I had run into a giant cat litter box.  The odor was strong.  Then I remembered.  The dove tree.  Cat urine.  That's the scent it emits when the long white bracts are at their peak.  I looked up, and there it was - the largest I've ever seen, the papery white"handkerchiefs" hanging from the branches. A sight to see.

But, I'm off course here.  I came back from Dr. Sams's woods and decided I could no longer let the ivy dominate.  I had to make good wide paths like he had made, so I could have lots of native plants to see at close range.

I'm still covered in ivy, but I see scenes like the above photograph in an Atlanta garden and think how fun it would be to have a part of this ivy-choked woodland cleared to look like that.  Plus, I've never seen an arbor I didn't like.  This one is very appealing.

So, yet another goal for the garden.  A tamed path that winds through the woods, covered by a rustic arbor.  I'm not sure if this is locust wood they've used, but I'm guessing it is.  Right now, I'm about to go out and walk the deer trails (always looking for antlers; a buck that jumped across the driveway in front of me yesterday still had his).  But, I'll also be looking for the right place to do something like the homeowner did above.  There's something very soothing about the scene.

Thinking of another time when spring came too soon

On this last day of winter, if you are anywhere in the dome of heat that is covering the middle and eastern portions of the United States, you are probably wondering, "What is going to happen to spring?"  Many of us are watching records being set, with consecutive days of 80 degree weather.

Already in Atlanta, azaleas and dogwoods are blooming - some are even at their peak.  It is an unusual year, but I'm remembering a spring when we had planned a shoot for A Gardener's Diary, and for one of the only handful of times, we had to cancel.

In the 1940's, Rhoda Ingram, who last year celebrated her 90th birthday, began planting gardens that eventually covered over 30 acres on her farm near Griffin, Georgia.  Year after year, she added dogwoods and azaleas, in addition to many other spring flowering plants, including viburnums like the one pictured above; she also had a collection of deciduous magnolias and many rare trees and shrubs.  I would go down there every year and almost faint over the extraordinary beauty of the place.

Over the decades, Rhoda had kept a good photographic diary of bloom times.  Some years, things would bloom at the same time, putting on a dazzling show.  Other years, the flowers came in succession.  But, she could pretty much rely on the dogwoods and azaleas being at their peak around April 4.

As a scout for the TV series, I was the one who set the dates for the shoots - always a gamble.  So that year, we chose April 4th and 5th.  When March came, I watched in horror as the temperatures rose, and plants bloomed prematurely.  Rhoda and I would talk, and increasingly it became clear that I had made a bad call.  By March 20th, the show was over.  I drove down to her farm on April 1st to see if anything could be salvaged.  When I arrived, I was greeted by thousands of dried brown azalea blossoms all along the boxwood-lined lanes that wove through the property.  The only color was a yellow Lady Banks rose that still had flowers, but was on its way out.  We canceled the shoot for that year.  Although it seemed like an eternity, we were able to go back a couple of years later to do an episode.

But back to the photograph above of Viburnum macrocephalum.  It was taken on April 6, 2008.  Yesterday, as I rode through a residential area of Atlanta, I saw several shrubs (some the size of small trees) already at this stage.  Others were even further along, with more white flowers than green.

My own plant is still in the apple green stage, but in two days, the blossoms have changed from dome-shaped to round.  I am hoping the flowers will be at their pure-white peak on Easter Day, which is April 8th this year.  We shall see.

Note:  A word to all those who live in zones where this plant will grow (N.C. State Arboretum says Zones 6-9):  Although I see more and more of these wonderful plants, I'd like to recommend that, if you have room, you add this to your garden.  Viburnum macrocephalum is the largest of the snowball types.  It has no fragrance, but with gorgeous big, hydrangea-like balls that sometimes measure eight inches across, I figure it doesn't need a scent (although nothing perfumes the garden like the ones that are fragrant).  V. macrocephalum is also very easy to grow.  Mine lived in a pot for years, then was planted at Kathryn MacDougald's house, then moved back here.

The first photograph I have is a slide taken in the late 1980's or early 1990's.  The date was April 21, and the sight was breathtaking - a trio of shrubs on a slope overlooking a garden pool.  I have many views of this shrub and will pick one to share with you soon.  I'll also let you know of the plant's progress.

Thinking of another time when spring came too soon

On this last day of winter, if you are anywhere in the dome of heat that is covering the middle and eastern portions of the United States, you are probably wondering, "What is going to happen to spring?"  Many of us are watching records being set, with consecutive days of 80 degree weather.

Already in Atlanta, azaleas and dogwoods are blooming - some are even at their peak.  It is an unusual year, but I'm remembering a spring when we had planned a shoot for A Gardener's Diary, and for one of the only handful of times, we had to cancel.

In the 1940's, Rhoda Ingram, who last year celebrated her 90th birthday, began planting gardens that eventually covered over 30 acres on her farm near Griffin, Georgia.  Year after year, she added dogwoods and azaleas, in addition to many other spring flowering plants, including viburnums like the one pictured above; she also had a collection of deciduous magnolias and many rare trees and shrubs.  I would go down there every year and almost faint over the extraordinary beauty of the place.

Over the decades, Rhoda had kept a good photographic diary of bloom times.  Some years, things would bloom at the same time, putting on a dazzling show.  Other years, the flowers came in succession.  But, she could pretty much rely on the dogwoods and azaleas being at their peak around April 4.

As a scout for the TV series, I was the one who set the dates for the shoots - always a gamble.  So that year, we chose April 4th and 5th.  When March came, I watched in horror as the temperatures rose, and plants bloomed prematurely.  Rhoda and I would talk, and increasingly it became clear that I had made a bad call.  By March 20th, the show was over.  I drove down to her farm on April 1st to see if anything could be salvaged.  When I arrived, I was greeted by thousands of dried brown azalea blossoms all along the boxwood-lined lanes that wove through the property.  The only color was a yellow Lady Banks rose that still had flowers, but was on its way out.  We canceled the shoot for that year.  Although it seemed like an eternity, we were able to go back a couple of years later to do an episode.

But back to the photograph above of Viburnum macrocephalum.  It was taken on April 6, 2008.  Yesterday, as I rode through a residential area of Atlanta, I saw several shrubs (some the size of small trees) already at this stage.  Others were even further along, with more white flowers than green.

My own plant is still in the apple green stage, but in two days, the blossoms have changed from dome-shaped to round.  I am hoping the flowers will be at their pure-white peak on Easter Day, which is April 8th this year.  We shall see.

Note:  A word to all those who live in zones where this plant will grow (N.C. State Arboretum says Zones 6-9):  Although I see more and more of these wonderful plants, I'd like to recommend that, if you have room, you add this to your garden.  Viburnum macrocephalum is the largest of the snowball types.  It has no fragrance, but with gorgeous big, hydrangea-like balls that sometimes measure eight inches across, I figure it doesn't need a scent (although nothing perfumes the garden like the ones that are fragrant).  V. macrocephalum is also very easy to grow.  Mine lived in a pot for years, then was planted at Kathryn MacDougald's house, then moved back here.

The first photograph I have is a slide taken in the late 1980's or early 1990's.  The date was April 21, and the sight was breathtaking - a trio of shrubs on a slope overlooking a garden pool.  I have many views of this shrub and will pick one to share with you soon.  I'll also let you know of the plant's progress.

Dreaming of France

There's not much in this scene to qualify as a garden photo (maybe the hedge in front of the first building on the right;  I love how the French will have a random hedge coming up out of the sidewalk), but I keep looking at it over and over and thinking of ancient stone and vines growing up walls and roses covering an arch and espaliered apple trees behind an iron fence that's been painted a million times.

I think I mentioned that my dear friend from grammar school (we didn't call it elementary school for some reason) is renting an apartment in Paris in the Ile St. Louis at the end of June.  The apartment itself is hideously furnished, but the view is amazing.  You look right out onto the flying buttresses of Notre Dame across the bridge on the Ile de la Cite.

Here's the disappointing thing.  I have always wanted to see the roses in bloom at the Bagatelle in the Bois de Boulogne and also at the Roseraie de L'Hay in the Val-du-Marne, not far from Paris.  The Web site of the latter says to come between mid-May and mid-June for the best flowering.  I'll miss it by a week.  Maybe it's not warm in Europe this year like it is here, and the roses will hold off.  I sort of doubt it, though, as I remember being in Paris in late May, and already roses were blooming.  We shall see.

I'm really posting this particular photograph because it's been a rough week, and looking at the water and the trees beyond is very calming.  At the end of this village, the canals flow into a wide river.  On the opposite bank is an ancient orchard and a peaceful meadow where cows graze in the bright green grass.  It's a good place to think about when your head is spinning with a million different things you have to do.

Dreaming of France

There's not much in this scene to qualify as a garden photo (maybe the hedge in front of the first building on the right;  I love how the French will have a random hedge coming up out of the sidewalk), but I keep looking at it over and over and thinking of ancient stone and vines growing up walls and roses covering an arch and espaliered apple trees behind an iron fence that's been painted a million times.

I think I mentioned that my dear friend from grammar school (we didn't call it elementary school for some reason) is renting an apartment in Paris in the Ile St. Louis at the end of June.  The apartment itself is hideously furnished, but the view is amazing.  You look right out onto the flying buttresses of Notre Dame across the bridge on the Ile de la Cite.

Here's the disappointing thing.  I have always wanted to see the roses in bloom at the Bagatelle in the Bois de Boulogne and also at the Roseraie de L'Hay in the Val-du-Marne, not far from Paris.  The Web site of the latter says to come between mid-May and mid-June for the best flowering.  I'll miss it by a week.  Maybe it's not warm in Europe this year like it is here, and the roses will hold off.  I sort of doubt it, though, as I remember being in Paris in late May, and already roses were blooming.  We shall see.

I'm really posting this particular photograph because it's been a rough week, and looking at the water and the trees beyond is very calming.  At the end of this village, the canals flow into a wide river.  On the opposite bank is an ancient orchard and a peaceful meadow where cows graze in the bright green grass.  It's a good place to think about when your head is spinning with a million different things you have to do.

Name that plant

Someone asked me recently how to take care of a poinsettia fern.  I asked for a picture and received one. I honestly didn't have a clue about this plant.  Chances are, if it's a tropical or house plant, I don't know it.  It's embarrassing.  This happens more than I'd like.

I think it was well over 20 years ago that I was driving along Sandy Plains Road in Cobb County.  All of a sudden out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a group of light pink, spiky flowers.  What in the world?  It was too early for larkspur or foxgloves.  I was going too fast with cars behind me, so there was no way to slow down or even look in the rearview mirror.  Wow.  I would like to have those flowers, I said to myself.

It was several years later when I learned what I had seen.  I found out when a woman brought a forced branch to the Southeastern Flower Show.  Dwarf flowering almond - Prunus glandulosa.  This isn't something I knew about growing up, but later I learned that Margaret Moseley had grown both the white and pink double forms for years.

A couple of years ago, I received a call from an elderly woman.  I can't remember how she had my phone number, but she wanted to see if I could tell her what she had in her yard.  When she said it had three foot tall, fluffy pink spiky flowers, sort of like a peach tree would have, I knew instantly what she was talking about.  Again, the dwarf flowering almond.

The above plant was given to me about 15 years ago by a woman in Athens, Georgia.  A professor at the University of Georgia who wrote a book on vernacular gardens had referred me to this gardener, and I was charmed by her friendliness and by her love of flowers.  I cherish the plant, even though it is in bloom a short time.

I need to move the shrub.  It is crowded in with a gardenia I rooted, and both deserve a better home.  I think I have a place where I can plant both shrubs and have the evergreen back up the deciduous shrub.

Dwarf flowering almond is probably more of a passalong plant than one you'd find in nurseries, but I still take joy in the fluffy pink flowers.  My woody plant guru, Dr. Michael A. Dirr, doesn't think much of the plant and calls it a "bargain basement shrub of many discount stores" and adds that it appears "distraught and alone in summer, fall and winter." This is never going to be a popular plant, but for at least a week in March, I'm glad I have it in my yard.

Name that plant

Someone asked me recently how to take care of a poinsettia fern.  I asked for a picture and received one. I honestly didn't have a clue about this plant.  Chances are, if it's a tropical or house plant, I don't know it.  It's embarrassing.  This happens more than I'd like.

I think it was well over 20 years ago that I was driving along Sandy Plains Road in Cobb County.  All of a sudden out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a group of light pink, spiky flowers.  What in the world?  It was too early for larkspur or foxgloves.  I was going too fast with cars behind me, so there was no way to slow down or even look in the rearview mirror.  Wow.  I would like to have those flowers, I said to myself.

It was several years later when I learned what I had seen.  I found out when a woman brought a forced branch to the Southeastern Flower Show.  Dwarf flowering almond - Prunus glandulosa.  This isn't something I knew about growing up, but later I learned that Margaret Moseley had grown both the white and pink double forms for years.

A couple of years ago, I received a call from an elderly woman.  I can't remember how she had my phone number, but she wanted to see if I could tell her what she had in her yard.  When she said it had three foot tall, fluffy pink spiky flowers, sort of like a peach tree would have, I knew instantly what she was talking about.  Again, the dwarf flowering almond.

The above plant was given to me about 15 years ago by a woman in Athens, Georgia.  A professor at the University of Georgia who wrote a book on vernacular gardens had referred me to this gardener, and I was charmed by her friendliness and by her love of flowers.  I cherish the plant, even though it is in bloom a short time.

I need to move the shrub.  It is crowded in with a gardenia I rooted, and both deserve a better home.  I think I have a place where I can plant both shrubs and have the evergreen back up the deciduous shrub.

Dwarf flowering almond is probably more of a passalong plant than one you'd find in nurseries, but I still take joy in the fluffy pink flowers.  My woody plant guru, Dr. Michael A. Dirr, doesn't think much of the plant and calls it a "bargain basement shrub of many discount stores" and adds that it appears "distraught and alone in summer, fall and winter." This is never going to be a popular plant, but for at least a week in March, I'm glad I have it in my yard.

Viburnums are just around the corner

I nearly had several wrecks today driving around Atlanta.  Things are popping so fast.  I was counting on using some Lady Banks roses for something on March 28, but I don't think that's going to happen.  I could see some yellow showing already, and with temps about to stay in the 80's (!) for a while, I think they'll have bloomed out by the time I need them.

This morning, I talked with Margaret Moseley who is making amazing progress.  I'm sure it is a struggle trying to keep her indoors.  Mike Weathers, who helps her on Thursdays, says there is plenty to see in the garden.  I'm guessing that her viburnums, especially the fragrant ones, are about to bloom.  The macrocephalums are loaded this year, and today I even saw one already showing some white.  I remember when these largest of the ball-shaped viburnums were at their peak on April 21st.  It's definitely going to be earlier this year.

Pictured above is Viburnum x burkwoodii 'Mohawk'.  I'm guessing that the large red buds are really putting on a show at Margaret's right now.  I took this photograph at Wilkerson Mill Gardens with my old camera, so it had to be before 2006.  Looking at the background, you can see that the deciduous trees have not yet leafed out, leading me to think this was sometime in March.

But, for you people who know about butterflies (I think of my high school classmate, Sharyn Altman, who, I must say, looks exactly like she did umpteen years ago when we were in school), isn't it unusual to see these swallowtail (hope that's the kind) butterflies out this early?

This is one of the fragrant viburnums.  It has strong, spicy perfume.  In autumn, its foliage turns a brilliant orange-red.  I also think it's pretty hardy; Dr. Dirr writes that it has bloomed in Ithaca, New York.  'Mohawk' won the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society's Gold Medal Plant Award for 1993.

I'll give you a report on Margaret's viburnum collection in the near future.  I'm also looking forward to seeing Hugh Schutte's pink snowball, V. plicatum 'Kern's Pink'.  A few years back, the Flower Guild at church had a plant sale.  We only had a few of these sought after viburnums, and Hugh bought two.  One hasn't done well in its spot, but the other, he says, is loaded with blooms.  He has one of the few that hold their pink color.  I'm going out there to photograph his when it's in bloom.  I secretly wish I'd held one back for myself.  Maybe I'll run across one sometime soon.

Viburnums are just around the corner

I nearly had several wrecks today driving around Atlanta.  Things are popping so fast.  I was counting on using some Lady Banks roses for something on March 28, but I don't think that's going to happen.  I could see some yellow showing already, and with temps about to stay in the 80's (!) for a while, I think they'll have bloomed out by the time I need them.

This morning, I talked with Margaret Moseley who is making amazing progress.  I'm sure it is a struggle trying to keep her indoors.  Mike Weathers, who helps her on Thursdays, says there is plenty to see in the garden.  I'm guessing that her viburnums, especially the fragrant ones, are about to bloom.  The macrocephalums are loaded this year, and today I even saw one already showing some white.  I remember when these largest of the ball-shaped viburnums were at their peak on April 21st.  It's definitely going to be earlier this year.

Pictured above is Viburnum x burkwoodii 'Mohawk'.  I'm guessing that the large red buds are really putting on a show at Margaret's right now.  I took this photograph at Wilkerson Mill Gardens with my old camera, so it had to be before 2006.  Looking at the background, you can see that the deciduous trees have not yet leafed out, leading me to think this was sometime in March.

But, for you people who know about butterflies (I think of my high school classmate, Sharyn Altman, who, I must say, looks exactly like she did umpteen years ago when we were in school), isn't it unusual to see these swallowtail (hope that's the kind) butterflies out this early?

This is one of the fragrant viburnums.  It has strong, spicy perfume.  In autumn, its foliage turns a brilliant orange-red.  I also think it's pretty hardy; Dr. Dirr writes that it has bloomed in Ithaca, New York.  'Mohawk' won the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society's Gold Medal Plant Award for 1993.

I'll give you a report on Margaret's viburnum collection in the near future.  I'm also looking forward to seeing Hugh Schutte's pink snowball, V. plicatum 'Kern's Pink'.  A few years back, the Flower Guild at church had a plant sale.  We only had a few of these sought after viburnums, and Hugh bought two.  One hasn't done well in its spot, but the other, he says, is loaded with blooms.  He has one of the few that hold their pink color.  I'm going out there to photograph his when it's in bloom.  I secretly wish I'd held one back for myself.  Maybe I'll run across one sometime soon.

A garden turns to the East

Bill Hudgins called me yesterday and assured me that, despite the early spring, it is going to be a good year.  I hope he's right.  One thing I know is that I am looking forward to seeing his garden again.  I may have OD'd on the fall color of his Japanese maples (I couldn't help it; I can't tell you how many I did not post, but wanted to), but I am just as excited about the trees as they unfurl in spring.  The colors are spectacular, ranging from deep burgundy to light salmon.

Bill's garden is going to be on the Atlanta Botanical Garden's Gardens for Connoisseurs tour, which is held every Mother's Day weekend.  But, Bill said I should come in a couple of weeks.  He always has plenty of spring bulbs, and maybe I can get a series of shots that will show the garden as the season progresses.

Knowing how I love French, English and Italian gardens, Bill sort of apologized for the fact that his garden is now taking on a more Japanese influence.  He's been to Japan several times lately, and he's adding more Asian plants, like farfugiums (they've changed the botanical name;  I liked ligularia better).

But, no matter what Bill does, it will be wonderful.  He has such an eye for blending different textures, something I think is a real talent.  I like the way he knows the right plants to place next to gray boulders or how he prunes one plant, but leaves the next one in its natural form.  He says he's opened up some views and has been more conscious of his setting - a woodland with natural streams.

My heart is pounding in anticipation, and I will give us all a sneak peek at what we can expect on Mother's Day weekend.  I know of at least two other gardens I love that are going to be on the tour, as well.  If you live within striking distance of Atlanta, I think it's well worth an excursion.  If you're going to your mother's on Sunday, there is a full day of garden touring on Saturday.

The above photograph was taken at least seven years ago, possibly in April or May.  Even then, you got an idea of how Bill blends different leaf colors and textures.  I love the light green of the Ostrich fern against the Japanese maple that is still red, but looks as if it is about to take on its summer color.

Many thanks to Suzanne Boesl who just happened to e-mail me yesterday to say that the episode of A Gardener's Diary featuring Bill Hudgins (it's called Mad About Maples) is currently playing on Hulu.com.  I just finished watching it, and my heart is racing, yet again.  Go to Hulu.com and put in A Gardener's Diary and Bill Hudgins or Mad About Maples.  You'll get to see one beautiful garden.

A garden turns to the East

Bill Hudgins called me yesterday and assured me that, despite the early spring, it is going to be a good year.  I hope he's right.  One thing I know is that I am looking forward to seeing his garden again.  I may have OD'd on the fall color of his Japanese maples (I couldn't help it; I can't tell you how many I did not post, but wanted to), but I am just as excited about the trees as they unfurl in spring.  The colors are spectacular, ranging from deep burgundy to light salmon.

Bill's garden is going to be on the Atlanta Botanical Garden's Gardens for Connoisseurs tour, which is held every Mother's Day weekend.  But, Bill said I should come in a couple of weeks.  He always has plenty of spring bulbs, and maybe I can get a series of shots that will show the garden as the season progresses.

Knowing how I love French, English and Italian gardens, Bill sort of apologized for the fact that his garden is now taking on a more Japanese influence.  He's been to Japan several times lately, and he's adding more Asian plants, like farfugiums (they've changed the botanical name;  I liked ligularia better).

But, no matter what Bill does, it will be wonderful.  He has such an eye for blending different textures, something I think is a real talent.  I like the way he knows the right plants to place next to gray boulders or how he prunes one plant, but leaves the next one in its natural form.  He says he's opened up some views and has been more conscious of his setting - a woodland with natural streams.

My heart is pounding in anticipation, and I will give us all a sneak peek at what we can expect on Mother's Day weekend.  I know of at least two other gardens I love that are going to be on the tour, as well.  If you live within striking distance of Atlanta, I think it's well worth an excursion.  If you're going to your mother's on Sunday, there is a full day of garden touring on Saturday.

The above photograph was taken at least seven years ago, possibly in April or May.  Even then, you got an idea of how Bill blends different leaf colors and textures.  I love the light green of the Ostrich fern against the Japanese maple that is still red, but looks as if it is about to take on its summer color.

Many thanks to Suzanne Boesl who just happened to e-mail me yesterday to say that the episode of A Gardener's Diary featuring Bill Hudgins (it's called Mad About Maples) is currently playing on Hulu.com.  I just finished watching it, and my heart is racing, yet again.  Go to Hulu.com and put in A Gardener's Diary and Bill Hudgins or Mad About Maples.  You'll get to see one beautiful garden.