Fall at Wilkerson Mill Gardens

The countryside around my hometown of Palmetto, Georgia, consists of rolling hills and meadows and piney woods and hardwood forests.  When I was a child - I must have been really little - I remember going with my mother down a dirt road to an old mill.  I have a very distant memory of a big gray building and the loud, rushing water of a creek.  A man handed my mother a white cloth bag about 15 inches long.  Inside the bag was corn meal.  Mother had taken corn (whether she and Daddy grew it or not, I don't know; they had a huge vegetable garden) to be ground, and we were there to pick it up.

When I became acquainted with Elizabeth Dean through a mutual interest in gardening, I was delighted to find out that she and her husband Gene Griffith were about to purchase Wilkerson Mill.  The house wasn't weatherized, and the mill was derelict, but the land was just right for growing the specialty plants that Elizabeth planned to offer to the public.
 
There was a lot of restoration work to be done.  Amish workers came one year and shored up the mill building.  Elizabeth and Gene also worked on the white clapboard farm house, turning part of it into an office.  They planted orchards of deciduous hollies and surrounded the house with wonderful shrubs that produce flowers and berries.  All through the growing season, perennials come up and make a show.  It's just the most beautiful place now and will make a plant lover almost faint.

Wilkerson Mill Gardens has become a well-known specialty nursery and mail order firm where you can purchase hard-to-find plants through their Web site, www.hydrangea.com.  The nursery is open on certain weekends in the spring and fall.  Gene and Elizabeth specialize in hydrangeas, but they have many, many other shrubs, trees, vines and perennials for sale.

I took the above photograph of Viburnum wrightii on a beautiful fall day at Wilkerson Mill Gardens.   I'm so thankful that Elizabeth and Gene rescued the historic mill and the beautiful land that surrounds this special place.  And, I'm grateful they've persevered through droughts and storms and other challenges (deer, especially) to offer wonderful plants to gardeners who are looking for the out-of-the-ordinary.

Fall at Wilkerson Mill Gardens

The countryside around my hometown of Palmetto, Georgia, consists of rolling hills and meadows and piney woods and hardwood forests.  When I was a child - I must have been really little - I remember going with my mother down a dirt road to an old mill.  I have a very distant memory of a big gray building and the loud, rushing water of a creek.  A man handed my mother a white cloth bag about 15 inches long.  Inside the bag was corn meal.  Mother had taken corn (whether she and Daddy grew it or not, I don't know; they had a huge vegetable garden) to be ground, and we were there to pick it up.

When I became acquainted with Elizabeth Dean through a mutual interest in gardening, I was delighted to find out that she and her husband Gene Griffith were about to purchase Wilkerson Mill.  The house wasn't weatherized, and the mill was derelict, but the land was just right for growing the specialty plants that Elizabeth planned to offer to the public.
 
There was a lot of restoration work to be done.  Amish workers came one year and shored up the mill building.  Elizabeth and Gene also worked on the white clapboard farm house, turning part of it into an office.  They planted orchards of deciduous hollies and surrounded the house with wonderful shrubs that produce flowers and berries.  All through the growing season, perennials come up and make a show.  It's just the most beautiful place now and will make a plant lover almost faint.

Wilkerson Mill Gardens has become a well-known specialty nursery and mail order firm where you can purchase hard-to-find plants through their Web site, www.hydrangea.com.  The nursery is open on certain weekends in the spring and fall.  Gene and Elizabeth specialize in hydrangeas, but they have many, many other shrubs, trees, vines and perennials for sale.

I took the above photograph of Viburnum wrightii on a beautiful fall day at Wilkerson Mill Gardens.   I'm so thankful that Elizabeth and Gene rescued the historic mill and the beautiful land that surrounds this special place.  And, I'm grateful they've persevered through droughts and storms and other challenges (deer, especially) to offer wonderful plants to gardeners who are looking for the out-of-the-ordinary.

The comeback kid

If you garden in Colorado, you might be thinking, "What's this about?  A tulip that doesn't come back spring after spring?"

Here in the southern U.S., it's cause for celebration when what I call a regular Dutch tulip hybrid blooms several years in succession (two years back to back is pretty extraordinary).  I remember my mother-in-law once sent me some 'Angelique' peony-flowering tulips.  I planted them in the fall, and the next spring they were magnificent.  

The next year she asked me about the tulips.  I'd forgotten I was supposed to have them; they were nowhere to be found.  I can't remember if I told her the truth.  I hope I did.  She was this beautiful woman, tall and glamorous, who scared me to death, so it's possible that I could have fudged a little. 

Every few years, a yellow and red striped tulip I planted some 35 years ago comes up and blooms.  There's no explanation for this, except maybe we had ample cold weather in the fall and winter.  It's been a couple of years now since I've seen it, but who knows?

I do have some white lily-flowering tulips a friend salvaged from an apartment complex where the landscapers were digging the bulbs and throwing them away.  They make a valiant appearance every year, but as soon as I see them, the deer do, too.  They snap the heads off all at once.  It's discouraging.

About five years ago, I bought a pot of species-type, 'Lady Jane' clusiana tulips from nurseryman Scott McMahan at his booth at the Southeastern Flower Show.  The pinkish-red and white flowers have come up and bloomed every year since.  After doing a bit of research, I see that this is touted as a perennial tulip for the South and is listed in the Southern Living Plant Collection.  

So far, the squirrels and chipmunks (notorious bulb diggers) haven't bothered this tulip. And, I think the fact that on June 18, a huge oak tree fell on the place the bulbs are planted won't make a difference.  The only thing I have to worry about is getting a deer fence in place before next spring.  That's my big goal now.

Tulipa clusiana 'Lady Jane'; native from Iran east to the Himalayas; 10-12 inches high; sun to part shade; plant in well-drained soil.  Plant out of the line of fire of a sprinkler system, especially in summer; allow the foliage to yellow and mature as you would for a daffodil.

The comeback kid

If you garden in Colorado, you might be thinking, "What's this about?  A tulip that doesn't come back spring after spring?"

Here in the southern U.S., it's cause for celebration when what I call a regular Dutch tulip hybrid blooms several years in succession (two years back to back is pretty extraordinary).  I remember my mother-in-law once sent me some 'Angelique' peony-flowering tulips.  I planted them in the fall, and the next spring they were magnificent.  

The next year she asked me about the tulips.  I'd forgotten I was supposed to have them; they were nowhere to be found.  I can't remember if I told her the truth.  I hope I did.  She was this beautiful woman, tall and glamorous, who scared me to death, so it's possible that I could have fudged a little. 

Every few years, a yellow and red striped tulip I planted some 35 years ago comes up and blooms.  There's no explanation for this, except maybe we had ample cold weather in the fall and winter.  It's been a couple of years now since I've seen it, but who knows?

I do have some white lily-flowering tulips a friend salvaged from an apartment complex where the landscapers were digging the bulbs and throwing them away.  They make a valiant appearance every year, but as soon as I see them, the deer do, too.  They snap the heads off all at once.  It's discouraging.

About five years ago, I bought a pot of species-type, 'Lady Jane' clusiana tulips from nurseryman Scott McMahan at his booth at the Southeastern Flower Show.  The pinkish-red and white flowers have come up and bloomed every year since.  After doing a bit of research, I see that this is touted as a perennial tulip for the South and is listed in the Southern Living Plant Collection.  

So far, the squirrels and chipmunks (notorious bulb diggers) haven't bothered this tulip. And, I think the fact that on June 18, a huge oak tree fell on the place the bulbs are planted won't make a difference.  The only thing I have to worry about is getting a deer fence in place before next spring.  That's my big goal now.

Tulipa clusiana 'Lady Jane'; native from Iran east to the Himalayas; 10-12 inches high; sun to part shade; plant in well-drained soil.  Plant out of the line of fire of a sprinkler system, especially in summer; allow the foliage to yellow and mature as you would for a daffodil.

The French Connection

The time: late February 1971.  The place:  Argentiere in the French Alps near Mont Blanc. 

I have quit my job at an American bank in Paris so I can go skiing for a month.  My best friend from grammar school has been visiting for several weeks.  When her husband arrives, we leave for the Alps.

After they go back to the U.S., I join a ski club group, a sort of poor person's Club Med.  I'm rather miserable until I meet some wonderful people from Paris.  Among them is a beautiful blonde South African named Carol.  All the guys, especially the son of the French ambassador to South Africa, are taken with her.  She's the kind you would be jealous of, except she is very funny and kind.  Her parents are British, and her accent is very high brow.  She says odd things like, "I'm from Johannesburg, but I attended Varsity in Cape Town."  Varsity?  I meet a journalist, a writer for Le Figaro (he later had a career at Le Nouvel Observateur), and he and I and Carol and the ambassador's son all hit it off and have a great time on the slopes and off.

Back in Paris, I hang out with my new friends from Argentiere until I have to go home in April.  I've run out of money.

Fast forward to 2006.  I have come to Paris and brought my two daughters, one who has just graduated from college, and the other who has just finished graduate school.  Carol has us over for a lovely dinner in her conservatory.  She and I take a flashlight and walk around the garden.  I can tell it is fabulous. 

Through the years, Carol and I have kept up, and the few times I've visited Paris, she has had me over for dinner (the year after our French ski trip, she married Luc Tessier, a Parisian architect who went on to have a career as an expert in the restoration of historic buildings).  Carol worked at the Louvre and was the author of books about children and art (more details on her accomplishments later).  She and Luc have three grown daughters and are grandparents.

What we wouldn't have known back when we were in our 20's, is that one day we would both love gardens and gardening.  In 2010, on my last visit to Asnieres (just outside the walls of Paris), I finally got to see Carol's garden in the daylight.  Luc opened the door in the high wall along the street, and I walked under long chains of wisteria hanging overhead, leading all the way to the back garden.  It was magical.

The photograph above was taken by Carol and shows the conservatory she built with an inheritance from her grandmother.  That's where she serves lovely dinners with views out into the garden.  Another photograph she sent me years ago shows clematis and roses climbing up the side of the conservatory and trained over the back door of the five story house.  

As you can see, her borders are chock full of all sorts of shrubs, trees and perennials.  This is just one border in this beautiful garden, where an irregular-shaped lawn is surrounded on all sides by sumptuous plantings.  

More about Carol and her artistry and garden in future posts.

The French Connection

The time: late February 1971.  The place:  Argentiere in the French Alps near Mont Blanc. 

I have quit my job at an American bank in Paris so I can go skiing for a month.  My best friend from grammar school has been visiting for several weeks.  When her husband arrives, we leave for the Alps.

After they go back to the U.S., I join a ski club group, a sort of poor person's Club Med.  I'm rather miserable until I meet some wonderful people from Paris.  Among them is a beautiful blonde South African named Carol.  All the guys, especially the son of the French ambassador to South Africa, are taken with her.  She's the kind you would be jealous of, except she is very funny and kind.  Her parents are British, and her accent is very high brow.  She says odd things like, "I'm from Johannesburg, but I attended Varsity in Cape Town."  Varsity?  I meet a journalist, a writer for Le Figaro (he later had a career at Le Nouvel Observateur), and he and I and Carol and the ambassador's son all hit it off and have a great time on the slopes and off.

Back in Paris, I hang out with my new friends from Argentiere until I have to go home in April.  I've run out of money.

Fast forward to 2006.  I have come to Paris and brought my two daughters, one who has just graduated from college, and the other who has just finished graduate school.  Carol has us over for a lovely dinner in her conservatory.  She and I take a flashlight and walk around the garden.  I can tell it is fabulous. 

Through the years, Carol and I have kept up, and the few times I've visited Paris, she has had me over for dinner (the year after our French ski trip, she married Luc Tessier, a Parisian architect who went on to have a career as an expert in the restoration of historic buildings).  Carol worked at the Louvre and was the author of books about children and art (more details on her accomplishments later).  She and Luc have three grown daughters and are grandparents.

What we wouldn't have known back when we were in our 20's, is that one day we would both love gardens and gardening.  In 2010, on my last visit to Asnieres (just outside the walls of Paris), I finally got to see Carol's garden in the daylight.  Luc opened the door in the high wall along the street, and I walked under long chains of wisteria hanging overhead, leading all the way to the back garden.  It was magical.

The photograph above was taken by Carol and shows the conservatory she built with an inheritance from her grandmother.  That's where she serves lovely dinners with views out into the garden.  Another photograph she sent me years ago shows clematis and roses climbing up the side of the conservatory and trained over the back door of the five story house.  

As you can see, her borders are chock full of all sorts of shrubs, trees and perennials.  This is just one border in this beautiful garden, where an irregular-shaped lawn is surrounded on all sides by sumptuous plantings.  

More about Carol and her artistry and garden in future posts.

On the path to the doghouse

Even though I think of myself as a rather circumspect (ahem) older adult, I admit I was somewhat of a terror in kindergarten.  Anyone who misbehaved was sent to the "doghouse'.  I was a frequent visitor and the only girl to be so imprisoned (I still don't think that beating two boys over the head with a rolled up coloring book page deserved such punishment).  Ours wasn't really a doghouse, but a little room just inside the back entrance to the community center where classes were held.  To this day, I can still see the crate of empty Coca-Cola bottles and the metal folding chairs stacked against the walls and velvet boxes they must have used on the stage.

The doghouse you see in the photograph isn't real either.  The owner of this garden is crazy about animals, and her dogs and cats live inside in luxurious circumstances.  But the cast concrete doghouse seems just the right whimsical element for this shady path.  

The photograph was taken on May 15 a few years ago.   The key to the beauty of the scene is the blend of textures she's chosen - the broad leaves of hostas, the lacy but durable ferns, boxwood, yew and mondo grass.  Just beyond the doghouse, the light green tips of new growth on a conifer add yet another interesting color to the composition.  

Just to get a better picture of the circumstances, this is a fairly narrow space between the owner's house and a neighbor's fence.  It's chock full of plants (many in graduating heights) that are out of this view. The informal path leads from the side gate and entrance to the back garden to the sunny parking area in the front.  All in all, I can't think of a more appropriate setting for a doghouse that isn't real.