That’s A Wrap!

I hope you don’t mind, but in honor of Thanksgiving, I’m offering some leftovers — in the form of a repost.  I’ve reworked it a bit to make it more palatable, but the gist is the same: a couple of crazy Long Islanders will do just about anything to give their yard a tropical look.  Besides, it’s way to cold and blustery today — too cold to hold the camera to redocument this process.

Enjoy — and fresh material is on its way.

I may be the gardener of the house, but Joe also has his landscape loves.  One of his greatest is palm trees.  His absolute fave is Cocos nucifera, the coconut palm.  If it were up to him, coconut palms would be growing everywhere.  We often joke that he would be to coconut palms what Johnny Appleseed was  to apples — only he would be called Joey Coconuts, which does sound a little — alright, a lot — like a character from “The Sopranos.”

Bloomin’ Update 35: Uncle!

Dahlia leaves didn’t appreciate the post-Sandy freeze.

This was supposed to be a post about how I kept myself occupied after Sandy while waiting for my work to resume.  Schools have been closed since the storm.

Fortunately, Joe and I had power throughout the Sandy ordeal, but the gas shortage had me staying close to home — which gave me the perfect chance to clean the yard.

And The Beautiful Blogger Award Goes To . . .

Sandy’s opening gusts on Long Island.

Today is far from a beautiful day.  Sandy is on her way, and Joe and I have packed up the yard and we’re now inside watching fall actually fall.  Autumn foliage is falling like confetti now, as the first gusts of wind make their way to Long Island.  Flocks of birds are racing for cover; squirrels are gathering their provisions.  Even the air feels strange.  Sandy is a tropical system, but the air is chilled, as the tropics crash into a cold front.

And that’s why I find it so ironic that I’m creating a post about beautiful things.  I can think of so many things that are beautiful.  Sunsets.  Rainbows.  Dahlias.  Maybe even waves of blowing leaves on a gusty day.  But something with the words “nitty” and “gritty” and “dirt?”  No way.

Looking Up Before Leaves Fall

Dogwood.

What has happened to raking?

I always remember raking as a communal event, one that involved most neighbors and all members of the family in some capacity.  Give the neighbors a perfect autumn day, and they’ll give you one universal thought: “It’s cool and crisp and there isn’t a breeze – this is a perfect day for raking.”

Autumn In Peyton Place

Indian summer is like a woman.  Ripe, hotly passionate, but fickle, she comes and goes as she pleases so that one is never sure whether she will come at all, nor for how long she will stay.

This is the quote that runs through my mind on any autumn day when summer-like temperatures breathe their last breaths – much like this past Friday when an October day, with its changing leaves and angled sunlight, seemed to conflict with the June-like temperature.

Bloomin’ Update 34: Everybody’s Talkin’ ‘Bout Miss Thing

There is a certain sadness when I look about the waning October garden.  So many blooms have faded and turned to seed; so many leaves have dulled.

And then there are the red hot flowers, looking a bit out of place and overly made-up amid the first flush of autumn’s golds and yellows and rusts.

Celosia — a few plants from last summer reseeded themselves for this year’s garden. Surprise!

And that’s when my imagination takes hold.

#$&@! My Shed Says

I’m a fraud.  A fake.  A pretender.  And the proof is in the potting shed.

Yes, this is my jewel of a potting shed – the one that takes center stage in many of my photos, the place where I find peace in the middle of winter as I start my seeds, the backyard structure that allows me to believe that I have a Martha (no need for last names here) existence.

Clearly, though, nothing could be further from the truth.

I came to the realization long ago that I am not, no matter how hard I try, Martha-esque.  I get dirty when I garden.  I have a tendency to use every pot in the kitchen when I cook (although I now know to clean as I go).  And I have been known to step on the prongs of a rake, sending the handle swinging up into the side of my head — on more than one occasion.  But it’s the condition of this shed that really says, “You, sir, are no Martha.”

Breaking Up With August Is Hard To Do

Hi, August.  It’s me.

Listen, I’m not going to beat around the bush on this one.  I’m just going to dive in and let you know . . .

It’s over between us.  I know I waited until the end of your days to tell you this, but I was really hoping you and I could have worked things out – maybe come to some sort of agreement on the nature of our relationship.  That seems to be out of the question now.

Each year, I hope to look forward to your arrival, but you are very skilled at trying my patience – and as quickly as my expectations rise, you find every opportunity to walk all over them.

Take my impatiens.  Please.  When I first saw that they weren’t thriving, that their stems were barren of leaves, I blamed myself (not enough water).  Then I blamed the slugs (they had to be munching all night).  And then I learned about the fungus.  Maybe you didn’t create the fungus, but your heat, humidity, and rain games certainly didn’t help.

Not-So-Wordless Wednesday: Gardeners Beware!

An Open Letter To All Home & Garden Centers

 

Dear Home & Garden Centers:

I have come to the conclusion that you are deliberately misleading the plant-buying public for your own profit by selling plants while not fully disclosing  the plant’s specific needs and growing conditions. 

I first became suspicious of  your tactic years ago, when I purchased a beautiful climbing vine that was covered with deep pink trumpet flowers.  The plastic tag said Mandevilla, and when I asked the salesperson if this can grow on Long Island, he said yes.  Although I was suspicious, it wasn’t a complete lie.  This tropical beauty did grow on Long Island — until the first frost.  Then, it was kaput.

Imagine my surprise this year, when I saw countless Zone 6 and 7 shoppers picking up pots of Croton, pictured above.  I had only seen the plant in South Florida — because it is native to the tropics.  Actually, it’s one of my favorite plants in South Florida — the leaves come in a variety of shapes, from flat to crinkly, wide to elongated, and the colors are brilliant hues of greens and reds and golds.  With autumnal colors like that, it’s no wonder that so many northern gardeners stocked up on the plant, punching up their fall flower displays.  

What saddens me in all this is the amount of money that homeowners shelled out for a plant that really would only last until the first frost — which, in this area, could happen a day or a week after purchase.  There’s no guarantee when frost will arrive, just know that it will — and when it does, your tropical treat will be a droopy disaster.

Equally frustrating is the amount of money the garden centers pull in by selling tropical plants at the end of the growing season.  I really cannot blame the gardening public.  For starters, they may not have any knowledge of the plant.  It’s the garden centers, though, which not only count on the consumers’ impulses but also have their expert salesperson guide the novice gardener into making the purchase.

That’s a lot of brown matter, as well as green matter — financial and organic.  It’s also a waste.  And it’s irresponsible.  And it teeters awfully close to being a scam.  But, hey, that’s business.  Right?

From now on, I will speak up when I see a shopper wasting his or her money on a plant that has no chance of surviving because of the climate.  The buyer and the gardener should certainly be aware, but so should the home and garden center — we  gardeners know your game and we know how to plant seeds.

Sincerely,

Nitty Gritty Dirt Man

Bloomin’ Update 13: A Walk In The Clouds

A cloud fell from the sky last night.  I’m not sure when it actually happened, since it was crystal clear when I went to sleep.  This morning, when I looked out of the window, I had to wonder, “Am I dreaming?”

Fog has a way of playing games with you.  That might be why I love it so much.  Ordinary objects become fuzzy.  Landscapes become otherworldly.  With imagination, I can be anywhere: my backyard or a Transylvanian woods.  Like snow, fog seems to muffle sound and makes you feel as if you’re the only person alive.  As I went exploring, I could hear the random drip of melting ice crystals, their misty evaporation rising into the air.  And as the sun warmed the atmosphere, the fog left and everything — including me — returned to it’s usual state of being. 

I hope these photos offer a glimpse of the gauzy wonder that was a Sunday morning fog in late November.