A hidden snack

A hidden snack

Busy at work or a tasty snack?

Busy at work or a tasty snack?

Testing the Waters

The only way to truly test the waters is to jump in.

Testing the Waters

The only way to truly test the waters is to jump in.

The day the gravel came

First, I must say I've been blogged down recently.  I went to Pawleys Island, S.C., for a week.  The weather was great, and I didn't work much.  I meant to, but just didn't.

Then, yesterday I was exhausted and surrounded by suntan lotion-scented beach towels that needed washing, not to mention everything else I took over there.

But, today it's back to business.  For some reason, I started thinking about a day I'd rather forget.  It was the day the pea gravel arrived at my house.

The background:  When we built this house in 1980 at the very highest mortgage rates ever, I advertised in the paper for cobblestones to make a front parking court.  I ended up buying 4,000 Belgian blocks - the ones that look like a big loaf of bread and weigh a ton each.

My husband and my daddy, using a dump truck from Daddy's business,  fetched them from a huge pile somewhere down near Marietta Street.  The stones had come from the site where the CNN complex is now.  I assume they had originally been ballast for ships coming from Europe.  A lot of that area of downtown Atlanta had cobblestone streets at one time.  I think there are some that are still paved over.

Anyway, I got the cobblestones, and soon afterwards, I made a huge mistake.  Our builder sent over someone who needed the money for a heart operation for his baby.  I was skeptical, but he had the sweet, very sick baby with him.  We agreed on a price.  I am very sure the father had never installed a cobblestone, or any stone for that matter, in his life.

So, I got what I paid for.  Lines of cobblestones so curvy they'd make you dizzy.  Also, he ordered river sand and did not set them in concrete (which might have been a blessing, after all).  The first time it rained, I had a lake in my front parking lot.  In fact, you needed waders to get from a car to the front door.  I had the young man come back and install some grates and drain pipe, none of which worked.  If we had a party or guests, I just prayed it didn't rain.  Also, when my mother-in-law first visited, she had to grab my husband's arm to maintain her balance, so uneven (up and down) were the cobblestones.

I can't tell you how much I grieved over this mistake.  I won't go into the years of rain followed by silt that would cover half the parking court.  Every week, when he could have been doing something else to enhance the landscape, my husband shoveled silt and wheelbarreled loads of it to the compost pile.  We weren't the kind to fix things.  We just managed what we had.

After my husband passed away, things got worse.  The cobblestones sank even more, and I couldn't keep up with cleaning them.  There were lakes when it rained, always followed by a fresh sea of mud.

Something had to be done.  I contacted a landscape designer, and she gave me a price to re-do the front of the house.  I should have known when she came back with a drawing that put a lot of foundation plants where I had none that she didn't understand the aesthetic of my stucco and limestone house.  And, the price to remove the cobblestones and use some of them to outline a pea gravel parking lot was astronomical.  I had paid 40 cents apiece for the Belgian block.  She wanted $12 to handle each stone.

So, I became the contractor.  I hired a Bobcat driver I knew who said he could dig the cobblestones.  I then got a driver from my daddy's business to say he would come get the cobblestones and haul them to the farm.

The first breakdown came when the Bobcat driver quit halfway through.  He suggested I find a landscaper to come buy the rest of the cobblestones and remove them.  Then, the driver and I had a disagreement over his hauling price, so he said he couldn't do another load.

It was a disaster and remained so for what seemed like several weeks.  Somehow, I found another Bobcat man, and he had a friend with a dump truck.  They finished up the cobblestones, brought in crusher run and packed it down, and put a thin layer of pea gravel on top.

I've been happy with the results.  I thought I would miss the cobblestones, but I love the gravel.  It brightens the look of my house.

The above photograph was not taken here.  It's the entrance courtyard to an architect's office.  But the idea is the same.  Gravel, boxwoods (I only have two flanking my front door - they had to be raised and re-planted when this all took place) and vines (I have Boston ivy going up the wings of the house).  It's a simple concept, but I like the look.

I shudder when I think of standing there that day, half the cobblestones gone and a hideous mud pit in front of my house.  I can't believe it ever got it fixed.  There's still more work to do.  I'd like to bring some cobblestones back to outline the gravel, but it might take a few more years before I have the gumption to fool with anything like this again.

The day the gravel came

First, I must say I've been blogged down recently.  I went to Pawleys Island, S.C., for a week.  The weather was great, and I didn't work much.  I meant to, but just didn't.

Then, yesterday I was exhausted and surrounded by suntan lotion-scented beach towels that needed washing, not to mention everything else I took over there.

But, today it's back to business.  For some reason, I started thinking about a day I'd rather forget.  It was the day the pea gravel arrived at my house.

The background:  When we built this house in 1980 at the very highest mortgage rates ever, I advertised in the paper for cobblestones to make a front parking court.  I ended up buying 4,000 Belgian blocks - the ones that look like a big loaf of bread and weigh a ton each.

My husband and my daddy, using a dump truck from Daddy's business,  fetched them from a huge pile somewhere down near Marietta Street.  The stones had come from the site where the CNN complex is now.  I assume they had originally been ballast for ships coming from Europe.  A lot of that area of downtown Atlanta had cobblestone streets at one time.  I think there are some that are still paved over.

Anyway, I got the cobblestones, and soon afterwards, I made a huge mistake.  Our builder sent over someone who needed the money for a heart operation for his baby.  I was skeptical, but he had the sweet, very sick baby with him.  We agreed on a price.  I am very sure the father had never installed a cobblestone, or any stone for that matter, in his life.

So, I got what I paid for.  Lines of cobblestones so curvy they'd make you dizzy.  Also, he ordered river sand and did not set them in concrete (which might have been a blessing, after all).  The first time it rained, I had a lake in my front parking lot.  In fact, you needed waders to get from a car to the front door.  I had the young man come back and install some grates and drain pipe, none of which worked.  If we had a party or guests, I just prayed it didn't rain.  Also, when my mother-in-law first visited, she had to grab my husband's arm to maintain her balance, so uneven (up and down) were the cobblestones.

I can't tell you how much I grieved over this mistake.  I won't go into the years of rain followed by silt that would cover half the parking court.  Every week, when he could have been doing something else to enhance the landscape, my husband shoveled silt and wheelbarreled loads of it to the compost pile.  We weren't the kind to fix things.  We just managed what we had.

After my husband passed away, things got worse.  The cobblestones sank even more, and I couldn't keep up with cleaning them.  There were lakes when it rained, always followed by a fresh sea of mud.

Something had to be done.  I contacted a landscape designer, and she gave me a price to re-do the front of the house.  I should have known when she came back with a drawing that put a lot of foundation plants where I had none that she didn't understand the aesthetic of my stucco and limestone house.  And, the price to remove the cobblestones and use some of them to outline a pea gravel parking lot was astronomical.  I had paid 40 cents apiece for the Belgian block.  She wanted $12 to handle each stone.

So, I became the contractor.  I hired a Bobcat driver I knew who said he could dig the cobblestones.  I then got a driver from my daddy's business to say he would come get the cobblestones and haul them to the farm.

The first breakdown came when the Bobcat driver quit halfway through.  He suggested I find a landscaper to come buy the rest of the cobblestones and remove them.  Then, the driver and I had a disagreement over his hauling price, so he said he couldn't do another load.

It was a disaster and remained so for what seemed like several weeks.  Somehow, I found another Bobcat man, and he had a friend with a dump truck.  They finished up the cobblestones, brought in crusher run and packed it down, and put a thin layer of pea gravel on top.

I've been happy with the results.  I thought I would miss the cobblestones, but I love the gravel.  It brightens the look of my house.

The above photograph was not taken here.  It's the entrance courtyard to an architect's office.  But the idea is the same.  Gravel, boxwoods (I only have two flanking my front door - they had to be raised and re-planted when this all took place) and vines (I have Boston ivy going up the wings of the house).  It's a simple concept, but I like the look.

I shudder when I think of standing there that day, half the cobblestones gone and a hideous mud pit in front of my house.  I can't believe it ever got it fixed.  There's still more work to do.  I'd like to bring some cobblestones back to outline the gravel, but it might take a few more years before I have the gumption to fool with anything like this again.

Carol's retribution - did the punishment fit the crime?

Back in June, my long-time friend Carol Tessier (originally from South Africa) and her French husband Luc had three of us for dinner in their garden.  We had hors-d'oeuvres out on the lawn, surrounded by Carol's miraculous garden.  We then moved into the conservatory for dinner, as it was a bit cool still.  Summer was late coming to Paris this year.

Anyway, Carol was to fetch (a word she would use, but I wouldn't) the three of us - my older daughter Anne, my beloved childhood friend Linda and me - at the end of the Metro line.  For some reason, Carol and I start laughing the moment we see each other.  This time, I was all apologies.  We had forgotten the bottle of wine we'd bought to give them.  We were early, so I dispatched Anne to buy another.  The catch was that we were in a very unlikely spot to find any sort of store, surrounded by high rise apartments and office buildings as we were.  Anne had gone dutifully off in the direction that looked the least deserted.

Carol arrived, and we waited and waited.  No Anne.  It seemed like an eternity.  I was worried.  Had she gotten lost? These streets all looked alike.  But finally Anne came running up, totally out of breath, wine bottle in hand.  Amazingly, she'd found a Monoprix (sort of an abbreviated WalMart), but the line had been long.

We were laughing at our folly as Carol drove over the Seine and pointed to some flower-filled boxes on the bridge. "They always have very beautiful hanging baskets,"she explained.  "Last autumn, I decided to help myself to some slips.  When I was taking the cuttings, a bee stung me really hard and said, 'Good for you; one doesn't do that sort of thing!"

When we got to her house, she showed me the tiny courtyard outside her kitchen where the purloined cuttings had just been put in.  Not much was going yet.  However,  I just recently received the above photo with Carol's observations:

"I thought you might like to see what our kitchen courtyard and window boxes are looking like. Most of the plants seeded themselves including the petunia bravely coming up between two paving stones. The lobelia seeded from last year and the purple tobacco as well.  What amuses me is the large white tobacco coming up in the window box; heaven knows how the seed got there. Otherwise all the other plants came from slips that I took last autumn on the Pont de Courbevoie over the Seine."

It was hard to choose from the three photographs Carol sent.  That yellow begonia and the trailing blue lobelia in the box on the left are great seen up close.  And this view doesn't show the mysterious white tobacco that came from who knows where.  But from the looks of the courtyard I'm thinking that crime did pay, after all.  But perhaps Carol should consider wearing some thick gloves this fall if she decides to be a repeat offender.

Carol's retribution - did the punishment fit the crime?

Back in June, my long-time friend Carol Tessier (originally from South Africa) and her French husband Luc had three of us for dinner in their garden.  We had hors-d'oeuvres out on the lawn, surrounded by Carol's miraculous garden.  We then moved into the conservatory for dinner, as it was a bit cool still.  Summer was late coming to Paris this year.

Anyway, Carol was to fetch (a word she would use, but I wouldn't) the three of us - my older daughter Anne, my beloved childhood friend Linda and me - at the end of the Metro line.  For some reason, Carol and I start laughing the moment we see each other.  This time, I was all apologies.  We had forgotten the bottle of wine we'd bought to give them.  We were early, so I dispatched Anne to buy another.  The catch was that we were in a very unlikely spot to find any sort of store, surrounded by high rise apartments and office buildings as we were.  Anne had gone dutifully off in the direction that looked the least deserted.

Carol arrived, and we waited and waited.  No Anne.  It seemed like an eternity.  I was worried.  Had she gotten lost? These streets all looked alike.  But finally Anne came running up, totally out of breath, wine bottle in hand.  Amazingly, she'd found a Monoprix (sort of an abbreviated WalMart), but the line had been long.

We were laughing at our folly as Carol drove over the Seine and pointed to some flower-filled boxes on the bridge. "They always have very beautiful hanging baskets,"she explained.  "Last autumn, I decided to help myself to some slips.  When I was taking the cuttings, a bee stung me really hard and said, 'Good for you; one doesn't do that sort of thing!"

When we got to her house, she showed me the tiny courtyard outside her kitchen where the purloined cuttings had just been put in.  Not much was going yet.  However,  I just recently received the above photo with Carol's observations:

"I thought you might like to see what our kitchen courtyard and window boxes are looking like. Most of the plants seeded themselves including the petunia bravely coming up between two paving stones. The lobelia seeded from last year and the purple tobacco as well.  What amuses me is the large white tobacco coming up in the window box; heaven knows how the seed got there. Otherwise all the other plants came from slips that I took last autumn on the Pont de Courbevoie over the Seine."

It was hard to choose from the three photographs Carol sent.  That yellow begonia and the trailing blue lobelia in the box on the left are great seen up close.  And this view doesn't show the mysterious white tobacco that came from who knows where.  But from the looks of the courtyard I'm thinking that crime did pay, after all.  But perhaps Carol should consider wearing some thick gloves this fall if she decides to be a repeat offender.

Anna's idea for a column

This photograph of clematis was actually taken at well-known rosarian's home.  For years, Anna Davis had a front-yard rose garden which she would so generously put on tour.  I especially remember a long wooden fence covered with the pink double rose 'Eden.'  At her mailbox was a charming, low-growing  yellow rose, which I particularly loved (I have the name written down somewhere).  Elsewhere around the yard were rose covered arches and all manner of shrub roses and more climbers.  It was spectacular.

And then I heard the news.  Anna was moving.  She was downsizing.  We all thought we'd die.  I could not do any more drive-bys (when her garden was not on tour, you could stop in her neighborhood, park your car and walk to her corner.  Most of the roses were in the front of her house).

For several years, I lost track of Anna.  Finally, it was announced that she was going to be on the Atlanta Botanical Garden's Gardens for Connoisseurs tour, which is always held on Mother's Day weekend.  I was ecstatic, but I couldn't feature what a downsized garden could look like.  After all, the other garden was not really huge.

But I needn't have feared.  Anna had moved into a cluster home (I'm not sure this the right term; the houses are very close with just a narrow strip separating each one.  The tiny lawns in front all looked alike) and had turned it into a showplace.  Although the garden was tiny, you didn't get that sense.  She had clematis and roses climbing the walls of her house.  As you went down the alley to the sunny, postage stamp sized back yard, you felt as if you were walking through a fragrant tunnel to enter The Secret Garden.  At the end was a rose-covered arch with clematis woven in.  Just after this sat Anna in a rose bedecked swing, gazing out at a colorful display of dazzling flowers, all in the best of health.  Mixed in with the roses were several varieties of clematis.

To find out the name of this large-flowering type, I called Lyndy Broder, who is an active member of the International Clematis Society and who travels all over the world visiting gardens and nurseries.  Here is what Lyndy wrote back:

"The clematis should be 'Hagley Hybrid' which was sold in the states as 'Pink
Chiffon'.  Google clematis on the web.  It is a wonderful search site for
identifying clems.  They say it is group 3 which is hard prune.  Anna Davis
has the most beautiful clematis.  I asked her how she did it and she said
she listened to me!  So  I guess I should follow my own advice.  Her soil, of
course, is impeccable and the size of the garden is manageable.  Her
combinations are fabulous."


The lessons from Anna's garden are many, but the striking one is that she uses the vertical surfaces of her home to showcase climbers - both clematis and roses.  The treatment of this brick column is just one example of how an otherwise plain space can be transformed into a thing of beauty.

Anna's idea for a column

This photograph of clematis was actually taken at well-known rosarian's home.  For years, Anna Davis had a front-yard rose garden which she would so generously put on tour.  I especially remember a long wooden fence covered with the pink double rose 'Eden.'  At her mailbox was a charming, low-growing  yellow rose, which I particularly loved (I have the name written down somewhere).  Elsewhere around the yard were rose covered arches and all manner of shrub roses and more climbers.  It was spectacular.

And then I heard the news.  Anna was moving.  She was downsizing.  We all thought we'd die.  I could not do any more drive-bys (when her garden was not on tour, you could stop in her neighborhood, park your car and walk to her corner.  Most of the roses were in the front of her house).

For several years, I lost track of Anna.  Finally, it was announced that she was going to be on the Atlanta Botanical Garden's Gardens for Connoisseurs tour, which is always held on Mother's Day weekend.  I was ecstatic, but I couldn't feature what a downsized garden could look like.  After all, the other garden was not really huge.

But I needn't have feared.  Anna had moved into a cluster home (I'm not sure this the right term; the houses are very close with just a narrow strip separating each one.  The tiny lawns in front all looked alike) and had turned it into a showplace.  Although the garden was tiny, you didn't get that sense.  She had clematis and roses climbing the walls of her house.  As you went down the alley to the sunny, postage stamp sized back yard, you felt as if you were walking through a fragrant tunnel to enter The Secret Garden.  At the end was a rose-covered arch with clematis woven in.  Just after this sat Anna in a rose bedecked swing, gazing out at a colorful display of dazzling flowers, all in the best of health.  Mixed in with the roses were several varieties of clematis.

To find out the name of this large-flowering type, I called Lyndy Broder, who is an active member of the International Clematis Society and who travels all over the world visiting gardens and nurseries.  Here is what Lyndy wrote back:

"The clematis should be 'Hagley Hybrid' which was sold in the states as 'Pink
Chiffon'.  Google clematis on the web.  It is a wonderful search site for
identifying clems.  They say it is group 3 which is hard prune.  Anna Davis
has the most beautiful clematis.  I asked her how she did it and she said
she listened to me!  So  I guess I should follow my own advice.  Her soil, of
course, is impeccable and the size of the garden is manageable.  Her
combinations are fabulous."


The lessons from Anna's garden are many, but the striking one is that she uses the vertical surfaces of her home to showcase climbers - both clematis and roses.  The treatment of this brick column is just one example of how an otherwise plain space can be transformed into a thing of beauty.

Organized chaos for this time of year

This garden in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, always intrigued me.  Kit Flynn, the owner, had turned her entire sloping front yard into a garden.  She had a few paved walkways and some nicely placed urns, but she did have a point in calling her composition, "organized chaos."

I've heard other gardeners use this term.  Kit had all sorts of plants - roses, perennials, flowering shrubs - packed into what was once a quiet lawn, like her neighbors all had.  In fact, as you drove down her street, you were all of a sudden startled by what you saw.

I visited her garden in September.  What I remember most were the grasses.  She had them everywhere - in the ground and in containers.  Somehow it all worked, and there was plenty to see and admire in what is usually a down-time for a Southern garden.

You can't see in this view, but the front walkway going up to the street was lined with ornamental gingers, not the kind you see in Florida, but a dwarf variety.  Elsewhere, she had a mishmash of yellow composite daisies (there is a crude term for this, but I can't remember it now and wouldn't write it if I did), sedums, including a flopping patch of 'Autumn Joy', Japanese maples, boxwoods, banana plants and several other tropicals.

I liked her garden a lot (it was featured on an episode of A Gardener's Diary on HGTV), but I'm already so chaotic that I would not be able to keep up with a garden like this.  The main thing, though, is that she enjoyed her creation so much and loved every minute of the experience.  She didn't mind taking chances, and some of her combinations were quite stunning.

I think the thing that saved her was that she had invested in stone paving and some evergreens that gave the eye a bit of relief.  Otherwise, it would have been a very chaotic sight.  For a September garden in the South, though, I would say it was quite successful.

 

Organized chaos for this time of year

This garden in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, always intrigued me.  Kit Flynn, the owner, had turned her entire sloping front yard into a garden.  She had a few paved walkways and some nicely placed urns, but she did have a point in calling her composition, "organized chaos."

I've heard other gardeners use this term.  Kit had all sorts of plants - roses, perennials, flowering shrubs - packed into what was once a quiet lawn, like her neighbors all had.  In fact, as you drove down her street, you were all of a sudden startled by what you saw.

I visited her garden in September.  What I remember most were the grasses.  She had them everywhere - in the ground and in containers.  Somehow it all worked, and there was plenty to see and admire in what is usually a down-time for a Southern garden.

You can't see in this view, but the front walkway going up to the street was lined with ornamental gingers, not the kind you see in Florida, but a dwarf variety.  Elsewhere, she had a mishmash of yellow composite daisies (there is a crude term for this, but I can't remember it now and wouldn't write it if I did), sedums, including a flopping patch of 'Autumn Joy', Japanese maples, boxwoods, banana plants and several other tropicals.

I liked her garden a lot (it was featured on an episode of A Gardener's Diary on HGTV), but I'm already so chaotic that I would not be able to keep up with a garden like this.  The main thing, though, is that she enjoyed her creation so much and loved every minute of the experience.  She didn't mind taking chances, and some of her combinations were quite stunning.

I think the thing that saved her was that she had invested in stone paving and some evergreens that gave the eye a bit of relief.  Otherwise, it would have been a very chaotic sight.  For a September garden in the South, though, I would say it was quite successful.

 

Cheerful flowers do the trick

Is it the heavy air outside, the gray skies, the mosquitoes?  I know cooler days are coming.  It's in the seven day forecast.  But, for some reason I needed to see something cheery today.  All day I felt sort of gloomy (maybe it was because I had to clean the house and wanted to be doing something - anything -else).

So, I scrolled through some photographs and came upon this view of Monet's Giverny that I don't think I've posted yet.  When I began examining the flowers, I realized it won't be long before it's time to scatter the poppy seeds I've saved.  I marked the flowers at the farm I wanted to preserve last June.  Most of the blooms were double and cherry red, but there was one flower that was almost purple.  I'll have to wait until next May to know if my selections worked.

Poppies remind me of zinnias.  You never know what you're going to get from last year's seeds, and I don't know if selecting only the ones you want always works.  Mother had a patch of cherry red peony poppies that went on for years.  I don't remember seeing the single pink ones that seem to be dominant if you let everything go for years.

Earlier in the week (or was it last week?), Diana Mendes posted pictures of her garden.  It set me afire.  I need flowers.  I dream about having flowers and have for years.  So, it's time to get aggressive and figure out how to get this deer problem solved. They've eaten practically everything (just saw they'd mowed down the crossvine I planted in the spring).  The good news is that the Aster tataricus still has buds.  They clipped them all last year.  The pink daisy chrysanthemums have been sheered again, but I'm hoping I'll have a few buds.

But, back to the poppies.  They do best when you prepare the soil and smooth it over.  That means no grass or weeds, just good, bare ground.  Ruth Mitchell, poppy expert, would put the tiny seeds in the palm of her hand and blow them out onto the ground.  It seems like a long time until next spring, but getting everything ready will definitely pay off later.  Poppies make such a great show, it's worth the effort.

Cheerful flowers do the trick

Is it the heavy air outside, the gray skies, the mosquitoes?  I know cooler days are coming.  It's in the seven day forecast.  But, for some reason I needed to see something cheery today.  All day I felt sort of gloomy (maybe it was because I had to clean the house and wanted to be doing something - anything -else).

So, I scrolled through some photographs and came upon this view of Monet's Giverny that I don't think I've posted yet.  When I began examining the flowers, I realized it won't be long before it's time to scatter the poppy seeds I've saved.  I marked the flowers at the farm I wanted to preserve last June.  Most of the blooms were double and cherry red, but there was one flower that was almost purple.  I'll have to wait until next May to know if my selections worked.

Poppies remind me of zinnias.  You never know what you're going to get from last year's seeds, and I don't know if selecting only the ones you want always works.  Mother had a patch of cherry red peony poppies that went on for years.  I don't remember seeing the single pink ones that seem to be dominant if you let everything go for years.

Earlier in the week (or was it last week?), Diana Mendes posted pictures of her garden.  It set me afire.  I need flowers.  I dream about having flowers and have for years.  So, it's time to get aggressive and figure out how to get this deer problem solved. They've eaten practically everything (just saw they'd mowed down the crossvine I planted in the spring).  The good news is that the Aster tataricus still has buds.  They clipped them all last year.  The pink daisy chrysanthemums have been sheered again, but I'm hoping I'll have a few buds.

But, back to the poppies.  They do best when you prepare the soil and smooth it over.  That means no grass or weeds, just good, bare ground.  Ruth Mitchell, poppy expert, would put the tiny seeds in the palm of her hand and blow them out onto the ground.  It seems like a long time until next spring, but getting everything ready will definitely pay off later.  Poppies make such a great show, it's worth the effort.

The rose I'd like to have

The first February after I got married 39 years ago, my husband and I fell victim to the packages of roses at the grocery store.  We selected several in different colors and planted them in probably some of the worst clay on the planet.

When May came, we were disappointed.  What had been a space with full sun was now in deep shade, thanks to the leafing out of a giant oak tree.  I'm thinking we did have some blooms that year, but the plants suffered from black spot, and all the foliage had fallen off by the end of the summer.  We were left with spindly bushes (if you could call them that) which, in two or three years' time, had succumbed to the poor conditions.

Fast forward to last fall, when I came home to find a 40 foot long branch (it could have been a whole tree, given its size) lying in my driveway.  It had fallen from a 100+ year old white oak tree.  I had the city arborist come out to give me an opinion.  It was the second such limb that had come down.  The man said the impossibly tall tree, part of which hung over my slate roof,  had to to be taken down.  The only good part to the expensive procedure was that I avoided the pounding of acorns on the roof, which had always kept me awake and filled the gutters to the max.

This summer, I realized that I now have a spot for a climbing rose at the corner of my house.  I have full sun there, now, starting in the morning.  And, now I know better than to leave the soil unimproved.

The problem is zeroing in on which rose.  I know I don't want a thorny monster like 'New Dawn' (although it's so beautiful and reliable here).  My house is stucco with limestone trim, so it's sort of a beige-gray.  I really ought to opt for a red rose, but there aren't any I'm in love with (I do like 'Dortmund', but I want a double flowering rose).  'Zephirine Drouhin' is not quite the color I want, although it's close, and I love its fragrance.  I need to check with Erica Glasener, who grows this rose at her house on the other side of Atlanta.  I'm concerned about whether the rose does well in our heat and humidity.

What I'd like is a big, double cabbagy rose like the one in the photograph above.  Maybe it could be a shade darker, although I'm okay with this pink.  It needs to be fragrant, and it can't be a rambler that would go everywhere.  I would be able to see it from where I'm sitting right now, and I could open the window in spring and catch its fragrance.  I would like a repeat bloomer, of course, which would give me a big spring show, some sporadic blooms in the summer and another flush of bloom in October.

So, if there's someone out there with a suggestion, I'm open.  I do need to call Pat Henry at Roses Unlimited in South Carolina to see what she would recommend.  In the meantime, when the weather turns cooler and the humidity is down, I'm going to work on the ground at the corner of the house.  This time, I'm going to be prepared and give the yet unknown rose a good home.

The rose I'd like to have

The first February after I got married 39 years ago, my husband and I fell victim to the packages of roses at the grocery store.  We selected several in different colors and planted them in probably some of the worst clay on the planet.

When May came, we were disappointed.  What had been a space with full sun was now in deep shade, thanks to the leafing out of a giant oak tree.  I'm thinking we did have some blooms that year, but the plants suffered from black spot, and all the foliage had fallen off by the end of the summer.  We were left with spindly bushes (if you could call them that) which, in two or three years' time, had succumbed to the poor conditions.

Fast forward to last fall, when I came home to find a 40 foot long branch (it could have been a whole tree, given its size) lying in my driveway.  It had fallen from a 100+ year old white oak tree.  I had the city arborist come out to give me an opinion.  It was the second such limb that had come down.  The man said the impossibly tall tree, part of which hung over my slate roof,  had to to be taken down.  The only good part to the expensive procedure was that I avoided the pounding of acorns on the roof, which had always kept me awake and filled the gutters to the max.

This summer, I realized that I now have a spot for a climbing rose at the corner of my house.  I have full sun there, now, starting in the morning.  And, now I know better than to leave the soil unimproved.

The problem is zeroing in on which rose.  I know I don't want a thorny monster like 'New Dawn' (although it's so beautiful and reliable here).  My house is stucco with limestone trim, so it's sort of a beige-gray.  I really ought to opt for a red rose, but there aren't any I'm in love with (I do like 'Dortmund', but I want a double flowering rose).  'Zephirine Drouhin' is not quite the color I want, although it's close, and I love its fragrance.  I need to check with Erica Glasener, who grows this rose at her house on the other side of Atlanta.  I'm concerned about whether the rose does well in our heat and humidity.

What I'd like is a big, double cabbagy rose like the one in the photograph above.  Maybe it could be a shade darker, although I'm okay with this pink.  It needs to be fragrant, and it can't be a rambler that would go everywhere.  I would be able to see it from where I'm sitting right now, and I could open the window in spring and catch its fragrance.  I would like a repeat bloomer, of course, which would give me a big spring show, some sporadic blooms in the summer and another flush of bloom in October.

So, if there's someone out there with a suggestion, I'm open.  I do need to call Pat Henry at Roses Unlimited in South Carolina to see what she would recommend.  In the meantime, when the weather turns cooler and the humidity is down, I'm going to work on the ground at the corner of the house.  This time, I'm going to be prepared and give the yet unknown rose a good home.

It's wrong, but I can't resist

Lyndy Broder, clematis expert, please forgive me.  And, to all the people in the southeastern U.S. and the mid-Atlantic states, know what this plant does before you let it into your garden.  It is invasive.

Still, I couldn't resist.  It was the frothy white blooms, the sweet scent and the view against the blue sky. This is Clematis terniflora, also known as sweet autumn clematis.  The above is growing on a fence at the farm.  For some unknown reason, the deer have not ravaged it like they have my plant here in Atlanta.  In fact, I wanted to cut some strands for an arrangement at church yesterday, but the deer had eaten all my flowers except for those they couldn't reach.  Of course, I couldn't reach the blooms, either.

I did see a photograph of sweet autumn clematis growing on an arch at a well-respected nursery near Athens, Georgia. Garden designer and blogger Sandra Jonas had posted the picture on Facebook.  It made me feel more justified in taking this picture and delighting in how lovely the vine looked on the fence.  This time of year, when there aren't a lot of blooms in the garden, the starry white flowers are a welcome sight.

It's been probably thirty some odd years since I attended a wedding reception at a private home.  Tables were set up in the garden, even though it was late August (somehow, it was not very hot that day) for the afternoon reception.  Butterflies were flitting about on colorful zinnias, and there was a whole wall of the white blossoms of sweet autumn clematis (back then, it had an impossibly long species name).  I've loved the plant ever since.  It was perfect for a wedding.

I found a map on a Web site that showed the states where Clematis terniflora is listed as invasive.  Georgia is one.  I suppose the wind and the birds distribute the seeds.  I did see a mass of white blooms climbing up a small tree in my neighborhood.  I guess the deer don't wander down that way.  As for here, I won't have much of a problem with sweet autumn clematis taking over.  My many white-tailed residents will see to that.  If only they liked wisteria, I would be a happy camper.

It's wrong, but I can't resist

Lyndy Broder, clematis expert, please forgive me.  And, to all the people in the southeastern U.S. and the mid-Atlantic states, know what this plant does before you let it into your garden.  It is invasive.

Still, I couldn't resist.  It was the frothy white blooms, the sweet scent and the view against the blue sky. This is Clematis terniflora, also known as sweet autumn clematis.  The above is growing on a fence at the farm.  For some unknown reason, the deer have not ravaged it like they have my plant here in Atlanta.  In fact, I wanted to cut some strands for an arrangement at church yesterday, but the deer had eaten all my flowers except for those they couldn't reach.  Of course, I couldn't reach the blooms, either.

I did see a photograph of sweet autumn clematis growing on an arch at a well-respected nursery near Athens, Georgia. Garden designer and blogger Sandra Jonas had posted the picture on Facebook.  It made me feel more justified in taking this picture and delighting in how lovely the vine looked on the fence.  This time of year, when there aren't a lot of blooms in the garden, the starry white flowers are a welcome sight.

It's been probably thirty some odd years since I attended a wedding reception at a private home.  Tables were set up in the garden, even though it was late August (somehow, it was not very hot that day) for the afternoon reception.  Butterflies were flitting about on colorful zinnias, and there was a whole wall of the white blossoms of sweet autumn clematis (back then, it had an impossibly long species name).  I've loved the plant ever since.  It was perfect for a wedding.

I found a map on a Web site that showed the states where Clematis terniflora is listed as invasive.  Georgia is one.  I suppose the wind and the birds distribute the seeds.  I did see a mass of white blooms climbing up a small tree in my neighborhood.  I guess the deer don't wander down that way.  As for here, I won't have much of a problem with sweet autumn clematis taking over.  My many white-tailed residents will see to that.  If only they liked wisteria, I would be a happy camper.

The month was June, but where was I?

Here's something I used to be bad about - not taking the time to identify the year and place I took a photograph.  This was a slide I had converted to digital, so I know it was a good many years ago.  Nowadays, it's much easier to keep up with photographs on a computer, although I'm still guilty of taking 50 pictures at a time and then not labeling each one.

So, when I need to find a photograph of a certain flower, I can't type it in and have it pop up.  I could work backwards and do this, but with (ulp!) over 18,000 pictures in this computer, the task is daunting.  Still, I think, if I did ten a day, that would be something.

If the above scene was in Georgia, I can say with some certainty that the month was June.  That's when Asiatic lilies bloom here (or at least they used to; everything is moved up by at least two weeks now).  And, if anyone planted delphiniums in the fall, they would also flower in June.  Ditto Queen Anne's lace.  I can spot a foxglove that has pretty much bloomed out, so that would be another clue as to the timing of the shot.

Right down in the front, center left, there appears to be a marker of some kind.  Could I have taken this on the Georgia Perennial Plant Association's tour?  Possibly.  Or, did I take it where delphiniums would more likely be perennial, like in Colorado?  We can have them here, but we pretty much have to treat them as cool season annuals, meaning plants can be put in during the fall and will bloom in late spring.   I had one come back the second year, but delphiniums generally can't tolerate our heat and humidity.

I've racked my brain, trying to remember where I was when I took this picture.  It really doesn't matter, but it reminds me that I need to be more careful, especially when I want to know the name of a particular flower.  I always think I'll remember, but I hardly ever do.

The month was June, but where was I?

Here's something I used to be bad about - not taking the time to identify the year and place I took a photograph.  This was a slide I had converted to digital, so I know it was a good many years ago.  Nowadays, it's much easier to keep up with photographs on a computer, although I'm still guilty of taking 50 pictures at a time and then not labeling each one.

So, when I need to find a photograph of a certain flower, I can't type it in and have it pop up.  I could work backwards and do this, but with (ulp!) over 18,000 pictures in this computer, the task is daunting.  Still, I think, if I did ten a day, that would be something.

If the above scene was in Georgia, I can say with some certainty that the month was June.  That's when Asiatic lilies bloom here (or at least they used to; everything is moved up by at least two weeks now).  And, if anyone planted delphiniums in the fall, they would also flower in June.  Ditto Queen Anne's lace.  I can spot a foxglove that has pretty much bloomed out, so that would be another clue as to the timing of the shot.

Right down in the front, center left, there appears to be a marker of some kind.  Could I have taken this on the Georgia Perennial Plant Association's tour?  Possibly.  Or, did I take it where delphiniums would more likely be perennial, like in Colorado?  We can have them here, but we pretty much have to treat them as cool season annuals, meaning plants can be put in during the fall and will bloom in late spring.   I had one come back the second year, but delphiniums generally can't tolerate our heat and humidity.

I've racked my brain, trying to remember where I was when I took this picture.  It really doesn't matter, but it reminds me that I need to be more careful, especially when I want to know the name of a particular flower.  I always think I'll remember, but I hardly ever do.

An American in Paris (with a Japanese friend)

Once, I heard a lecturer say that if it weren't for Japan and China, the state of Georgia would not be a very pretty place.  At the time, a gasp went up in the room.  I think the statement seemed blasphemous to several people in the audience.

If you think about it, though, so many of the azaleas we plant are from Japan.  Camellias, too.  Most all of the colored hydrangeas are Japanese in origin.  We have many native lilies, but the Asiatic and Oriental lilies are always good for a show in the garden.  Many roses we love come from China, and then there are the much beloved cherry trees which are a highlight of every spring, along with the big snowball viburnums.  I could go on and on.

I do like the attitude of the esteemed nurseryman Don Shadow from Winchester, Tennessee.  He doesn't care where a plant is from.  It's the beauty and joy plants provide that matters to him.

For some reason, I am always interested in the provenance of a plant.  If I see something new, I usually try to find out where it came from.  It's fascinating, for example, that dahlias are a New World plant.  And many of our natives are popular in Europe and Japan.

I took the above photograph at an apartment house in St. Germain-des-Pres, on the left bank in Paris.  Private gardens are rare in Paris, but this one was huge - a big green space surrounded on all sides by tall buildings.  I was amused when I saw that the pink mophead hydrangeas, which would have had their origin in Japan (although we say "French hydrangeas" because so many were hybridized there), were paired with the white Hydrangea arborescens 'Annabelle', which was discovered in the town of Anna, Illinois.

Tara Dillard posted a photograph I liked even better.  It showed an all-American scene in Provence.  An oakleaf hydrangea found originally in northern Alabama (Hydrangea quercifolia 'Snowflake') was growing next to a lovely stand of 'Annabelle' hydrangeas.  The backdrop was an ancient house in a village.

I think I was going somewhere else when I started writing this, but suffice it to say that beauty from flowers can come from anywhere.  On that June day in Paris, I appreciated the origins of both of these hydrangeas, but I was especially proud of seeing that beautiful American in Paris.    

An American in Paris (with a Japanese friend)

Once, I heard a lecturer say that if it weren't for Japan and China, the state of Georgia would not be a very pretty place.  At the time, a gasp went up in the room.  I think the statement seemed blasphemous to several people in the audience.

If you think about it, though, so many of the azaleas we plant are from Japan.  Camellias, too.  Most all of the colored hydrangeas are Japanese in origin.  We have many native lilies, but the Asiatic and Oriental lilies are always good for a show in the garden.  Many roses we love come from China, and then there are the much beloved cherry trees which are a highlight of every spring, along with the big snowball viburnums.  I could go on and on.

I do like the attitude of the esteemed nurseryman Don Shadow from Winchester, Tennessee.  He doesn't care where a plant is from.  It's the beauty and joy plants provide that matters to him.

For some reason, I am always interested in the provenance of a plant.  If I see something new, I usually try to find out where it came from.  It's fascinating, for example, that dahlias are a New World plant.  And many of our natives are popular in Europe and Japan.

I took the above photograph at an apartment house in St. Germain-des-Pres, on the left bank in Paris.  Private gardens are rare in Paris, but this one was huge - a big green space surrounded on all sides by tall buildings.  I was amused when I saw that the pink mophead hydrangeas, which would have had their origin in Japan (although we say "French hydrangeas" because so many were hybridized there), were paired with the white Hydrangea arborescens 'Annabelle', which was discovered in the town of Anna, Illinois.

Tara Dillard posted a photograph I liked even better.  It showed an all-American scene in Provence.  An oakleaf hydrangea found originally in northern Alabama (Hydrangea quercifolia 'Snowflake') was growing next to a lovely stand of 'Annabelle' hydrangeas.  The backdrop was an ancient house in a village.

I think I was going somewhere else when I started writing this, but suffice it to say that beauty from flowers can come from anywhere.  On that June day in Paris, I appreciated the origins of both of these hydrangeas, but I was especially proud of seeing that beautiful American in Paris.    

Positive (flowers) and negative (grass)

I think I've mentioned before that I live in the woods in the City of Atlanta.  My lot is one that was broken off in the 1940's from a stone lodge that belonged to a governor of Georgia who used it as a retreat in the late 19th century.  Where I am - close to the Chattahoochee River - was once considered the country.  The roads weren't paved until probably the 1940s or early 50's, and there weren't many houses.  Actually, one cottage that the across-the-street neighbors just tore down was pre-Civil War.  I have to wonder what they were thinking to destroy something so historic that could have been charming if they'd fixed it up instead.

Anyway, when I moved here in August 1973, we lived in a 1926 cottage that had once belonged to the lodge.  The house was one fifth of a mile from the street.  It was also smack in the middle of a forest, with two large oak trees casting shade almost all day long.  From the cottage you couldn't see any civilization, even in winter.  It was totally isolated.

Needless to say, there was not enough sun to grow grass, although year after year, my husband would throw out fescue seed, thinking somehow we could have a patch of lawn.  Nothing ever took, except for the moss that would keep cropping back up.

I think it's important when you have a garden to include some negative space (I think that's the term landscape designers use, with plantings like shrubs, trees and flowers being the positive space, and lawn being negative space).  If you have a yard thick with trees, right up to the doors and windows, you get claustrophobic.  At least I did.  I longed for even a tiny patch of grass to relieve the forest.

The photograph above, taken at Giverny, France, has a nice balance of lawn and trees and flowers.  There's something soothing about the grass.  I took over 300 photos in Monet's garden and in the village of Giverny, and it was this one I kept coming back to.  The part of the garden near Monet's house is so jam-packed with flowers (not to mention people), your eye seeks some relief.  Just this amount of grass serves to calm this part of the garden, a welcome respite from the hoards of people and the thickly planted, though impressive, flowers.

Positive (flowers) and negative (grass)

I think I've mentioned before that I live in the woods in the City of Atlanta.  My lot is one that was broken off in the 1940's from a stone lodge that belonged to a governor of Georgia who used it as a retreat in the late 19th century.  Where I am - close to the Chattahoochee River - was once considered the country.  The roads weren't paved until probably the 1940s or early 50's, and there weren't many houses.  Actually, one cottage that the across-the-street neighbors just tore down was pre-Civil War.  I have to wonder what they were thinking to destroy something so historic that could have been charming if they'd fixed it up instead.

Anyway, when I moved here in August 1973, we lived in a 1926 cottage that had once belonged to the lodge.  The house was one fifth of a mile from the street.  It was also smack in the middle of a forest, with two large oak trees casting shade almost all day long.  From the cottage you couldn't see any civilization, even in winter.  It was totally isolated.

Needless to say, there was not enough sun to grow grass, although year after year, my husband would throw out fescue seed, thinking somehow we could have a patch of lawn.  Nothing ever took, except for the moss that would keep cropping back up.

I think it's important when you have a garden to include some negative space (I think that's the term landscape designers use, with plantings like shrubs, trees and flowers being the positive space, and lawn being negative space).  If you have a yard thick with trees, right up to the doors and windows, you get claustrophobic.  At least I did.  I longed for even a tiny patch of grass to relieve the forest.

The photograph above, taken at Giverny, France, has a nice balance of lawn and trees and flowers.  There's something soothing about the grass.  I took over 300 photos in Monet's garden and in the village of Giverny, and it was this one I kept coming back to.  The part of the garden near Monet's house is so jam-packed with flowers (not to mention people), your eye seeks some relief.  Just this amount of grass serves to calm this part of the garden, a welcome respite from the hoards of people and the thickly planted, though impressive, flowers.

Know your lotus terms before writing them in stone

I knew what I had done the moment the phone rang early on a Thursday morning.  I looked down at the Caller ID.  Sure enough, it was Don Jacobs, an erudite plantsman, explorer, collector, hybridizer and owner of a small specialty nursery in Decatur, Georgia.  He never called me unless I had made a mistake in my column in the Atlanta Journal & Constitution.

"You've misused the word 'peltate,'" he said gruffly (he had that kind of voice that sounds scarier than he really is).

I was writing about some lotus plants I'd seen in a swimming-pool-turned-garden-pond at a friend's home.  I remarked on the exquisite, perfectly-formed flowers and the gorgeous "peltate" leaves.

I'd gone out on a limb on that one.  I can't remember why I knew the word "peltate" or why I thought it was the best description for how lotus leaves are attached to their stems.

Here's the definition, as found in a Web dictionary: " (of a leaf) more or less circular, with the stalk attached at a point on the underside."  I had carefully examined the slide I had of lotuses at the Monastery of the Holy Spirit in Conyers, Georgia.  I determined that those were indeed peltate leaves.

Wrong.  Don then went on to explain that peltate actually meant having the petiole attached inside the margin and that the term usually referred to a shield-shaped leaf, whatever that all means.  I was standing ready for a deluge of humiliating phone calls pointing out my mistake.  No one else ever said a word.

So, I offer this photograph of a lotus flower, with a bit of pain and embarrassment at the thought of making such an error.  I took this at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden in New York.  You can't see much of the leaf - peltate or not.  The flower and accompanying pod were pretty spectacular, though.

Know your lotus terms before writing them in stone

I knew what I had done the moment the phone rang early on a Thursday morning.  I looked down at the Caller ID.  Sure enough, it was Don Jacobs, an erudite plantsman, explorer, collector, hybridizer and owner of a small specialty nursery in Decatur, Georgia.  He never called me unless I had made a mistake in my column in the Atlanta Journal & Constitution.

"You've misused the word 'peltate,'" he said gruffly (he had that kind of voice that sounds scarier than he really is).

I was writing about some lotus plants I'd seen in a swimming-pool-turned-garden-pond at a friend's home.  I remarked on the exquisite, perfectly-formed flowers and the gorgeous "peltate" leaves.

I'd gone out on a limb on that one.  I can't remember why I knew the word "peltate" or why I thought it was the best description for how lotus leaves are attached to their stems.

Here's the definition, as found in a Web dictionary: " (of a leaf) more or less circular, with the stalk attached at a point on the underside."  I had carefully examined the slide I had of lotuses at the Monastery of the Holy Spirit in Conyers, Georgia.  I determined that those were indeed peltate leaves.

Wrong.  Don then went on to explain that peltate actually meant having the petiole attached inside the margin and that the term usually referred to a shield-shaped leaf, whatever that all means.  I was standing ready for a deluge of humiliating phone calls pointing out my mistake.  No one else ever said a word.

So, I offer this photograph of a lotus flower, with a bit of pain and embarrassment at the thought of making such an error.  I took this at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden in New York.  You can't see much of the leaf - peltate or not.  The flower and accompanying pod were pretty spectacular, though.

In the box or out?

I have a confession to make.  Whenever someone tells me to "think outside the box," I go totally blank.  I can't even imagine what they have in mind, much less come up with a single idea of my own.

But, when it comes to a garden, I can actually tell when someone does think out of the ordinary.  I'm always in awe of people who have ideas I would never have thought of in a million years.

It used to be that I could tell when a certain very successful landscape firm had been to a property.  The now-retired head of the firm had a formula, and for every house it was the same.  A weeping yaupon or a crape myrtle would rise up from a large bed of liriope near the front door.  There were other markers as well, including the use of certain shrubs that, to my mind, had a commercial look. This guy definitely did not think outside any box.  In fact, his design was so recognizable that some of us would proclaim the landcape "________-ed" (name withheld).  Regardless of the lack of imagination, he made a fortune with his formulaic design.

On the other hand, we would extol the landscapes of designer Ryan Gainey.  He also had a certain recognizable look, but it happened to be much more attractive in my view.  We would visit one of his gardens and proclaim it "Ryanized."  This was a compliment.  Ryan would often think outside the box, though, with some very original combinations of both plants and hardscapes that would boggle the mind.  

The garden in this photograph was designed in conjunction with the owner by Louise Poer.  She's another person who thinks outside the box, in a good way.  I often marvel at what she comes up with.  She is very skilled at making a garden look good, even at off times like the months of August and September.  Here, she has used evergreen fig vine (well, evergreen if it stays above 14 degrees F.) to  soften a pierced brick wall.  A peegee hydrangea has been limbed up to allow plantings of autumn fern, boxwood and seasonal annuals underneath.

I bought a card with a New Yorker cartoon on the front.  There's a drawing of a man in a business suit looking down at a cat, who's looking up at him.  You see a litter box in the background.  The man is saying, "Never, ever, think outside the box." I admire gardeners and garden designers who are able to come up with concepts out of the ordinary and are able to make them into reality.  It's a real talent.        

In the box or out?

I have a confession to make.  Whenever someone tells me to "think outside the box," I go totally blank.  I can't even imagine what they have in mind, much less come up with a single idea of my own.

But, when it comes to a garden, I can actually tell when someone does think out of the ordinary.  I'm always in awe of people who have ideas I would never have thought of in a million years.

It used to be that I could tell when a certain very successful landscape firm had been to a property.  The now-retired head of the firm had a formula, and for every house it was the same.  A weeping yaupon or a crape myrtle would rise up from a large bed of liriope near the front door.  There were other markers as well, including the use of certain shrubs that, to my mind, had a commercial look. This guy definitely did not think outside any box.  In fact, his design was so recognizable that some of us would proclaim the landcape "________-ed" (name withheld).  Regardless of the lack of imagination, he made a fortune with his formulaic design.

On the other hand, we would extol the landscapes of designer Ryan Gainey.  He also had a certain recognizable look, but it happened to be much more attractive in my view.  We would visit one of his gardens and proclaim it "Ryanized."  This was a compliment.  Ryan would often think outside the box, though, with some very original combinations of both plants and hardscapes that would boggle the mind.  

The garden in this photograph was designed in conjunction with the owner by Louise Poer.  She's another person who thinks outside the box, in a good way.  I often marvel at what she comes up with.  She is very skilled at making a garden look good, even at off times like the months of August and September.  Here, she has used evergreen fig vine (well, evergreen if it stays above 14 degrees F.) to  soften a pierced brick wall.  A peegee hydrangea has been limbed up to allow plantings of autumn fern, boxwood and seasonal annuals underneath.

I bought a card with a New Yorker cartoon on the front.  There's a drawing of a man in a business suit looking down at a cat, who's looking up at him.  You see a litter box in the background.  The man is saying, "Never, ever, think outside the box." I admire gardeners and garden designers who are able to come up with concepts out of the ordinary and are able to make them into reality.  It's a real talent.        

Light in August and what might be in the garden

My late husband was a great fan of William Faulkner.   There are two shelves in his library devoted to Faulkner's works.  Of course, I couldn't find what I was looking for and got distracted reading some of Faulkner's speeches and essays.  There went an entire hour I was supposed to have spent cleaning house or writing a post for today.

So, I had to resort to the Internet.  I was looking for the words Faulkner either spoke or wrote about the inspiration for the title to his book Light in August.  I had finished this novel on the plane coming back from Paris (this was long, long ago, before I ever met my husband).  Sitting beside me were two French guys, maybe a little younger than I was, but they happened to be on their way to Oxford, Mississippi, on sort of as a pilgrimage, being Faulkner fans.  I finished Light in August before we landed and gave it to them, even though my book was in English and theirs were in French.  I also invited them to stop over at my parents' house near Atlanta, as they were working their way to Mississippi (this didn't go so well;  my mother got sick changing the sheets because the fellows had not bathed for some time).

I've gotten way off subject. Back to Faulkner's title.  Every year it happens.  I'll either strike out for the mailbox or look out the window, and I'll recognize that special light that only happens around the middle of August.  It came this year this past Friday afternoon.  I was sitting at the computer, and all of a sudden the sun came out, and there it was, the soft, luminous quality of light Faulkner spoke of - that "suddenly there's a foretaste of fall...  It lasts for a day or two, then it's gone."

The light is there again today.  It's hard to explain, but it's something that can't occur in July or September or any other month.  It usually comes with a bit of a cool down (and there is one, just not the hint of autumn that usually accompanies this fleeting light).

When I went out to cut some sweet autumn clematis for a bouquet (the few pieces the deer couldn't reach; I had to get a ladder), I started thinking of all the white flowers you can have in an August garden.  To name just a few: the invasive Clematis terniflora; of course, peegee type hydrangeas, the snow-white, fragrant blooms of Hosta plantaginea, acidanthera (used to have that; also fragrant) and rain lilies (if it ever rains enough).  And, for the southeastern U.S. and other mild climates, you can have the above pictured Formosa lilies.

Garden writer Tom Woodham's mother gave me some seeds once.  I planted them, and lo and behold, in a couple of years, I had some super tall, fragrant lilies for a few Augusts in a row.  Then the plants disappeared.  At Tom's mother's house in South Carolina, the lilies would pop up all around the yard.  She never knew where they'd be.

I took the above photograph in August outside Raleigh, N.C., at Plant Delights Nursery.  This is a wonderful lily that would make a special show at a time when the garden is on the wane.  I sound like a broken record, but when I get a deer fence....

Right now, I'm looking out the window (actually a glass door), and there's that special light, reflecting off a Japanese holly that's a pretty good look-alike for a boxwood.  It's the way the sun settles softly on the leaves.  It may be hot, but in that light is the promise of autumn.

Light in August and what might be in the garden

My late husband was a great fan of William Faulkner.   There are two shelves in his library devoted to Faulkner's works.  Of course, I couldn't find what I was looking for and got distracted reading some of Faulkner's speeches and essays.  There went an entire hour I was supposed to have spent cleaning house or writing a post for today.

So, I had to resort to the Internet.  I was looking for the words Faulkner either spoke or wrote about the inspiration for the title to his book Light in August.  I had finished this novel on the plane coming back from Paris (this was long, long ago, before I ever met my husband).  Sitting beside me were two French guys, maybe a little younger than I was, but they happened to be on their way to Oxford, Mississippi, on sort of as a pilgrimage, being Faulkner fans.  I finished Light in August before we landed and gave it to them, even though my book was in English and theirs were in French.  I also invited them to stop over at my parents' house near Atlanta, as they were working their way to Mississippi (this didn't go so well;  my mother got sick changing the sheets because the fellows had not bathed for some time).

I've gotten way off subject. Back to Faulkner's title.  Every year it happens.  I'll either strike out for the mailbox or look out the window, and I'll recognize that special light that only happens around the middle of August.  It came this year this past Friday afternoon.  I was sitting at the computer, and all of a sudden the sun came out, and there it was, the soft, luminous quality of light Faulkner spoke of - that "suddenly there's a foretaste of fall...  It lasts for a day or two, then it's gone."

The light is there again today.  It's hard to explain, but it's something that can't occur in July or September or any other month.  It usually comes with a bit of a cool down (and there is one, just not the hint of autumn that usually accompanies this fleeting light).

When I went out to cut some sweet autumn clematis for a bouquet (the few pieces the deer couldn't reach; I had to get a ladder), I started thinking of all the white flowers you can have in an August garden.  To name just a few: the invasive Clematis terniflora; of course, peegee type hydrangeas, the snow-white, fragrant blooms of Hosta plantaginea, acidanthera (used to have that; also fragrant) and rain lilies (if it ever rains enough).  And, for the southeastern U.S. and other mild climates, you can have the above pictured Formosa lilies.

Garden writer Tom Woodham's mother gave me some seeds once.  I planted them, and lo and behold, in a couple of years, I had some super tall, fragrant lilies for a few Augusts in a row.  Then the plants disappeared.  At Tom's mother's house in South Carolina, the lilies would pop up all around the yard.  She never knew where they'd be.

I took the above photograph in August outside Raleigh, N.C., at Plant Delights Nursery.  This is a wonderful lily that would make a special show at a time when the garden is on the wane.  I sound like a broken record, but when I get a deer fence....

Right now, I'm looking out the window (actually a glass door), and there's that special light, reflecting off a Japanese holly that's a pretty good look-alike for a boxwood.  It's the way the sun settles softly on the leaves.  It may be hot, but in that light is the promise of autumn.

The Parc de Bagatelle - where I didn't get to go

First of all, I want to give credit where credit is due.  My friend Carol Tessier, who lives right outside Paris, took this photograph in the Parc de Bagatelle in the Bois de Boulogne.  I think I mentioned earlier that I never made it there when we went to Paris in June, so I was glad that Luc and Carol had been and had taken a camera along.

Thinking back, the last time I was even in the Bois de Boulogne was in the summer of 1968.  A French friend took me to the Bagatelle and then to the Racing Club de France, also in the Bois.  That was the year of the roundtable negotiations for the Vietnam War.  My sorority sister and her family were living there because her father, Cyrus Vance, later Secretary of State, was one of the negotiators.  At the Racing Club we saw Sargent and Eunice Kennedy Shriver (sister of President John F. Kennedy).  Mr. Shriver was the ambassador to France, so it was quite a thrill.

Sorry to digress so; I just remembered about being in the Bois.  So, it has been a wish of mine to go back to this beautiful park, especially now that I'm so interested in flowers and landscaping.  The Bagatelle is most famous for its 1,200 varieties of roses.  The parc dates back to 1777, when it was first opened to the public.  Marie Antionette had made a bet with the Count d'Artois, who had purchased the land, that he would not be able to establish a garden in 64 days.  The queen lost the bet.

Not to go into any more of the history (the Bagatelle changed over the years), but if you're in Paris from mid-May to mid-June, you'll hit the peak of roses, peonies and iris.  This time of year, dahlias are on display.  My dream is to return to the Bois de Boulogne, go out in a little rowboat on one of the lakes and then walk under the rose-covered arches in the Parc de Bagatelle.  I think I'll appreciate being there a lot more than I did so long ago at age 22.

The Parc de Bagatelle - where I didn't get to go

First of all, I want to give credit where credit is due.  My friend Carol Tessier, who lives right outside Paris, took this photograph in the Parc de Bagatelle in the Bois de Boulogne.  I think I mentioned earlier that I never made it there when we went to Paris in June, so I was glad that Luc and Carol had been and had taken a camera along.

Thinking back, the last time I was even in the Bois de Boulogne was in the summer of 1968.  A French friend took me to the Bagatelle and then to the Racing Club de France, also in the Bois.  That was the year of the roundtable negotiations for the Vietnam War.  My sorority sister and her family were living there because her father, Cyrus Vance, later Secretary of State, was one of the negotiators.  At the Racing Club we saw Sargent and Eunice Kennedy Shriver (sister of President John F. Kennedy).  Mr. Shriver was the ambassador to France, so it was quite a thrill.

Sorry to digress so; I just remembered about being in the Bois.  So, it has been a wish of mine to go back to this beautiful park, especially now that I'm so interested in flowers and landscaping.  The Bagatelle is most famous for its 1,200 varieties of roses.  The parc dates back to 1777, when it was first opened to the public.  Marie Antionette had made a bet with the Count d'Artois, who had purchased the land, that he would not be able to establish a garden in 64 days.  The queen lost the bet.

Not to go into any more of the history (the Bagatelle changed over the years), but if you're in Paris from mid-May to mid-June, you'll hit the peak of roses, peonies and iris.  This time of year, dahlias are on display.  My dream is to return to the Bois de Boulogne, go out in a little rowboat on one of the lakes and then walk under the rose-covered arches in the Parc de Bagatelle.  I think I'll appreciate being there a lot more than I did so long ago at age 22.