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By and large, we take a live and let-live attitude toward the deer. They provide endless entertainment from our dining room windows, and in return, they are allowed to browse at will. I will buy strawberries at the Farmers’ Market because the deer nibble the flowers before they can begin to develop into anything humans deem edible. Trees are a different matter. After the deer stripped a young eucalyptus of every trace of foliage (who knew that they would go for something so aromatic?) a remedy became necessary. Richard drove metal pipe into the ground to support deer netting that would surround each tender young tree. It proved effective and not especially unsightly. Still, those poles seemed to be begging for adornment.

This picture shows a hose guard made by a local ceramicist. I bought three of them several years ago because I fell hard for them. I don’t know about you, but try as I might, I just can’t make hose guards work for me. These beauties sat around waiting for the deer fence epiphany. The stake, meant to go into the ground, fits snugly into the top end of the metal pipe. Cute, huh? The first picture (above) features glass electrical insulators (hope I got that right) slipped over the tops of the pipes. These things always appealed to me, so whenever they popped up at garage sales, I would buy them. Never had a clue as to their fate until now.

I ran out of stashed goodies before the corralled trees ran out, so off to the local craft store for me. These 3″ wooden balls were intended to become dolls’ heads. With the application of red spray paint and a big long screw to slide into the top of the pipe, they become a variation on my post cap theme.

Visiting gardens and nurseries is a sure way to fill one’s memory banks with ideas . They might mingle in there for years before they pop out disguised as your own brilliant brainstorms. One garden owner (wish I could remember, so as to give full credit) had taken a paint pot to some poppy pods left standing after the petals fell. The result was a surreal parade of sculptural unflowers in an array of colors alien to most gardens. At Dancing Oaks Nursery they had crafted special stakes to hold their collection of electrical insulators, which spring, flower-like, from various beds. In other words, truly original ideas are few and far between, but out of the stew of influences we can often pluck a tasty morsel or two…and, in this case, deprive the deer of a few tasty morsels until the trees get big enough to fend for themselves.

You may have noticed posts on the 15th of the past couple of months with photos of what is blooming at the time. The brainchild of Carol at May Dreams Gardens, it attracts garden bloggers from far and wide. They post their pictures and comments, then leave a link on Carol’s site. What fun it is to tap into these avid gardeners’ personalities and to see what is blooming in different parts of the world. I always thought Portland OR was the mecca for growing things, but after skimming Pam’s site, I was almost ready to decamp to Texas. Of course it could very well have simply to do with Pam’s exceptional photography.

First up, as seen through branches of the acacia in the foreground, is sweet little Saxifraga andrewsii in combination with Penstemon newberryi. They seem happy in the gravel bed surrounding the pond.

In the woodland, Erythronium has followed me from place to place ever since I first dug a few from my mom’s yard. She had great swathes of them that had sprung up naturally, but I am still waiting for my three to start a family.

The apple trees are less showy than the cherries or the pears, but if one looks closely, their blossoms are the prettiest of all.

I must plant more of this Dicentra spectabilis so there will be plenty to add to spring posies. The white one (Alba) that was nearby has disappeared.

The flowers on Kalanchoe fedtschenkoi are an unexpected bonus. I bought it strictly for its scalloped leaves. Like the echeverias, these guys refuse to stick to the script, and keep morphing into new forms. Oh, well…that’s half the fun.

It almost seems like cheating to include something like this Armeria that went straight from the nursery into a pot on the deck, but I’ll do it anyway.

One of the few shrubs that came with the house was a full grown lilac. It fills the air with its perfume, and turns lovely rusty shades of red in the fall.

I once brought Silene to life from seed gathered on a camping trip in Canada. I mourned its loss when I tried, unsuccessfully, to move it. Now I find it growing wild all over the place, Yippee!

It takes a lot of anything to make an impression when the property is large. Rhododendrons are just the ticket. We buy a few each year, so our collection is starting to take on a wee bit of “gravitas”. ‘Horizon Monarch’ is right at that stage when you can see all of its stages at once, and how the color develops from bud to full flower. We try to seek out varieties with interesting foliage, so that they can hold their own after the fabulous flowers fade.

R ‘Misty Moonlight’ is in full bloom under the cedar trees.

Going from macro to micro, these little Ipheon ‘Wisley Blue’ are scattered at the base of the cherry trees. With the help of some scilla, they mask the dying foliage of the early tete a tete daffodils, but I haven’t come up with anything to take over once these go. Any ideas?

We’ve come a long way since March, when it was easy to cover every bloomin’ thing without fear of boring the audience. Now, with the whole world bursting at the seams, a bit of editing seems appropriate. Here’s the list of flowers that failed to make it onto my A-list: many Euphorbias upstaged by wulfenii, Polygonum bistorta ‘Superbum’, Myosotis scorpioides, Mahonia ‘King’s Ransom’, Galium odoratum (see previous post ‘May Wine’), Epimedium grandiflorum ‘Lilafree’, Choisya ‘Sun Dance’, iris, Poncirus trifoliata, and various tulips and viburnums.

Many years ago I had a studio in a place called Hillside Center. It was a loose coalition of artists who paid small amounts of rent to inhabit a cluster of shabbily elegant buildings that had once housed a private school for girls. It was perched in a lovely setting, surrounded by trees and upscale neighbors who seemed threatened by what they perceived as an entirely too freewheeling style of life. In truth, my fellow Hillsiders were some of the most dedicated, serious and responsible people I have known, all appearances to the contrary. In a studio near mine toiled a woman whose art had been derived from careful study of ancient techniques lost to us over time. Through her research, she was able to reconstruct formulas and processes to create works of great beauty. Her historical bent extended to all facets of life. In the spring, she would serve a punch she called May Wine. It had a festive air about it, summoning up visions of maidens dancing about Maypoles in gossamer gowns. The celebratory mood was created with humble ingredients (jug wine was the norm among us in those days). I was never much of a fan of Rhine wine, perhaps because the jug variety was my only exposure, but with the added fillip of sprigs of sweet woodruff floating in a lovely bowl with ice, it became something easy to pass off as ambrosia.

These are memories sparked by spotting the Galium odoratum (sweet woodruff) springing to life when I was tramping around the yard the other day. The carpet of square stems punctuated by whorls of shapely, medium-green leaves is just beginning to produce clusters of diminutive white star-shaped flowers. This is the very best time, because just a few of the flowers have opened, with those to come still looking like white and greenish beads.

Having duly admired the sparkling effect in a shady spot, I logged on to see if I could recreate the spring elixer of those halcyon days. What I found were a number of recipes, all different, with the only common ingredient being the woodruff. What a relief! I was off the hook. No need to feel some historical imperative to use cloyingly sweet Rhine wine. I could invent my own version with impunity. My gardening books described woodruff’s taste as haylike. I would venture to call it grassy, but extremely subtle. The flavor is not the main asset here, but rather the sprightly decorative touch it adds to the punch bowl. A white zinfandel, chosen primarily for its pale blush of color, provides just the right degree of sweetness. The ice cubes could be plain, but why? I chose to make them by puddling a small amount of water in the ice tray with a borage blossom in each compartment. Freeze that thoroughly, then top off with water and freeze again. If you fail to completely freeze the first step, the flower will float to the top and stick out of the cube. I tried making them with tea, but it made for cloudy cubes, obscuring the blossoms. My answer was to make a few plain cubes with tea. Almost any tea that is very pale when brewed works aesthetically. Chamomile introduces another interesting flavor. I like to brew the tea with some borage and woodruff in the pot. After making the ice cubes, I combine the remaining tea with a bottle of white zinfandel in a jar in the fridge. By the next day, it is ready to be strained off over the pretty ice cubes in a bowl, for a party of several; or a glass, for a party of one. Toss in a few sprigs of your floral garnish and prepare to feel like the monarch of May.

Planting a tree is an act of optimism - a clear statement of belief in the future. You must have vision, especially if the tree is a mere whip at planting time. The spreading umbrella of shade or the pouf of fragrant blossom will take time to materialize. It may not achieve its full majesty in our lifetime, but a carefully planted specimen will reward us with untold pleasure as we watch it develop from year to year. I find myself driving by my old neighborhoods just to see how something I planted there is getting on. It’s like visiting the best longtime friends with shared memories. It always surprises me to see how something that I planted as a sapling has become a real tree in my absence.

Unlike perennials that can be put in willy nilly and moved around at will, a tree demands forethought. Its mature height and spread will need to be considered. Some are fast growers; others take their own sweet time. Impulse buys are best avoided on pain of creating a monument to rashness that can only be remedied with a chain saw. My natural inclination is to be haphazard. It doesn’t bode well for the siting of trees, so I enlist the aid of my partner in life, who is more inclined to take the long view. A case in point is the magnolia . We took turns standing on a proposed spot, while the other went inside to peruse the effect from various windows. After much wild gesticulating (a little to the left, back, back, not quite so far…no, that won’t do at all…), we agreed upon a setting where the little tree glows against the darker background of the forest and can be seen to advantage from three windows of the dining room. It has plenty of room to reach for the sky. I can all but see the monster blossoms unfurling to dinner plate magnificence. What a day that will be!

When we planted street trees, we did the research, made our choice and planted two flowering pears across the front of the house. They had been growing there for three years when the need for a third tree became apparent. I called my horticulturist friend, Michelle, to tell her what we were after. She came to measure the circumference of the trunks of the existing trees so she could allow for transplant shock. The new tree would have to be slightly bigger or it would never catch up. She then sought out a specimen meeting all of the requirements and delivered it to the site. Her detailed instructions for its care left us feeling she was parting with her first-born child. Now that is what I call a dedicated nursery person. Too much to ask for? Not really. You may be surprised by the ardor of arborists - and why not? Beyond their physical beauty, trees do so much for us. They clean our air, shade us from the blazing sun, produce food and stand as sentinals over the history of a place. On a practical note, each tree adds to the value of a property.

As a rule, trees are big-ticket items worth every penny. To get around financial constraints, think about joining the National Arbor Day Foundation. For a nominal membership fee, they will express their thanks by sending you ten free trees. The flowering group includes two flowering dogwoods, two Kousa dogwoods, two crabapples, two Washington hawthorns and two American redbuds. Alternatively, you can opt for a selection of two each of five varieties of oaks or ten Colorado Blue Spruces. When I received my ten free trees, I was distracted by other things. The poor little trees languished on the back porch. When I finally got around to planting them, I had little hope for their survival. I was in for a surprise. They thrived despite my shameful neglect, and within two years were flaunting pride of place and contributing considerable charm to the landscape. Imagine what might happen if one treated them with all due respect and followed the easy planting instructions to the letter.

So…what happens when you open your garden (for the first time, mind you) and nobody shows up?

I can hardly blame the Hardy Planters, as the day was bleak. Early in the week, we were promised a day of at least partial sunshine. The day dawned, we flipped on the TV to catch the weather guy, and were served up visions of wind, rain, hail, lightning and thunder…all of which duly put in appearances. To be honest, I appreciated the chance for a “dry run” (so to speak) to test out signage, banner placement, etc.

I had expected the cherry trees to be in full blossom, but they were running late. The only plant life really putting on a show was the Clematis armandii, a batch of daffodils, and Euphorbia wulfenii. What came off really well was the way banners can spark things up when Mother Nature refuses to cooperate.

The garden will be open one day of each month through October, so there will be plenty more opportunities for it to strut its stuff. The schedule, as listed in the HPSO Open Gardens book, is as follows: May 4, June 7, July 13, Aug 10 and Sept 7, all from 11am to 5pm, and June 9 from 4 to 9pm. If you would like directions, or to make an appointment for some other time, please call: 503 248 9670.

My totem project got me to looking at cast-off household items through new eyes. Back when I had an art deco-ish black and silver bathroom, my kids gave me this black ceramic hand, which attaches to the wall and becomes a soap dish. I have gone through several bathrooms since then, but could never bring myself to discard the hand, even though it broke into several pieces in removing it from its original place of honor. After careful gluing, it is still missing a finger…but the violets cover any defects, and I love the rather macabre impression of a lost soul reaching through a sea of violets to the light of day.

When I bought this plant, Acacia pravissima, in 2004, I had only seen it as a fairly small specimen. I appreciated its architectural qualities, not anticipating the rapid growth, much less flowers. This photo is a little out of focus, but I like that about it. It captures the fuzziness of the flowers, in sharp contrast to the crisp spikiness of the foliage.

Here is the Clematis armandii as it looks today. It began blooming early in March under the plastic roof of the deck. While those flowers are nearly spent, these on the outside of the deck are just coming on. We get a prolonged blooming season this way. The scent becomes more pronounced as the blossoms begin to fade. It is hard to resist spending the bulk of my time idling on the deck wreathed in delicious aroma.

Anemone blanda seems happy here, where others (Mt Hood daffodils, for instance) have failed. I bought only a few, just to see how they would do, because an earlier experiment was less than stellar. Now I will have to order more if I am to enjoy them in drifts. Actually, I rather like them scattered sparsely like this, so that the form stands out against the dark background. Maybe I will just wait and let them colonize on their own, if they are so inclined.

I bought a little bag of these bulbs from a highly regarded nearby nursery. They were labeled Camassia. What I got was Leucojum instead, but they look very sweet in the woodland.

These little grape hyacinths crept furtively into the garden, I know not how. Seems like a good idea. There will be more.

I promised last time to keep a running account of the progress of E. wulfenii. This is about as exuberant as it gets. To give you an idea of scale, it is roughly waist hight on a six foot person.

The cherry trees are just coming on. They won’t last long, if we have our usual hard rains…just long enough for the bees to find them and do their thing. There are two of these ancients out front, placed exactly the right distance apart to support a hammock. I truly hope there will be at least one day fine enough to lay in the hammock gazing up through the blossoms and listening to the buzzing of the bees.

Meanwhile, out in the woods, a volunteer cherry puts on a show, using the darkness of the surrounding cedars as a backdrop.

I thought it would be cheery to be greeted by daffodils just as you turn in to our lane. I planted three different kinds so the bloom time would be staggered. My mistake. Luckily, the bulb catalogs are just hitting my desk while last year’s goof-up is plain to see. This time, I will shoot my wad on just one variety, in an attempt to make a bold statement.

Now these little dears thrive no matter what…and talk about drifts! I ask you: why are we so determined to struggle against nature’s success stories, when we could just relax and learn to make dandelion wine?

I go to art fairs and shows every now and then, where I find myself admiring garden ornaments like totems and towers by ceramic artists. Alas, my budget, after plants, simply will not stretch to include original works of art. But wait! What about all of those odds and ends…lids to jars that have broken, saucers and/or pots with no mates, the wobbly pot that I threw in college (too weird to use, but too significant to throw away). I gathered a bunch of this detritus and began stacking it up. Perhaps not so oddly, since my taste tends to run to celadons and naturals, there were plenty of pieces that harmonized as if it were planned from the start.

Glue is always a stumbling block in projects of this kind. I had recently graduated from Gorilla glue to an industrial strength craft adhesive called E6000, so I proceeded with all confidence in its ability to hold things together. I gave my finished tower a couple of days to cure in my workroom before moving it outside. After a night in which we had a light freeze, the join where my wobbly, hand-thrown pot met with a smooth, commercial saucer gave way. I thought it was simply a result of the uneven surface, so silicone caulk was pressed into service to fill in and cushion that point of contact. Great! It held! Then all of the other glue joints began to fail. Richard found me some clear silicone caulk (the first one was white) and I went to work cleaning surfaces and reassembling the whole thing using the new method. At this writing, the tower/totem is standing up to the job. You see it here, placed among cardoons and Stachys ‘Helon von Styne’ , which echo the tones in the ceramics perfectly (as does the dirt…oh,well…).

The cardoons were raised from seed from HPSO, and fill me with a mother’s pride. When I went out there to place my tower, you can imagine my consternation when I found that one of my lovely cardoons had been sucked down into the ground by whatever creature has been excavating tunnels around our grounds. Only a few wilty leaves and a deep hole about 4 inches in diameter testified to the crime. We have moles aplenty, which I do not mind, but this is another kettle of critter. Are there gophers in these parts? Any thoughts, fellow sufferers, will be greatly appreciated.

The dahlias beside Richard’s studio had been in place for four years, so I thought it was about time to dig up at least one of them. All of the tubers you see here came from one above ground plant. We had a number of freezes during the winter that we are having a hard time putting behind us. Expecting a cluster with many gone mushy from the cold, I was surprised to find nothing but plump, healthy, yam-like tubers in a cluster of about three feet across. Every article on dahlias calls for digging after the first frost. When I did that, they did not overwinter well…so I am going my own way here. The mud ball I unearthed required a lot of hosing, prying and more hosing, but I finally had about four dozen individual tubers of varying sizes. I spread them out to dry for a day or two. The size of the tuber is said to be immaterial to the size and vigor of the resulting plant. I potted up a few of the smaller ones, just to test out the theory. A few of the big ones went into the fence line border. The rest will go into a basket, free for the taking, when I open the garden for the first time Sunday next.
Lots of people “in the know” find dahlias garish and tasteless. Not me. In late summer, when things are looking a little tired and dusty, along come the can can dancers with their flirty skirts of many colors. They alone can hold their own in the harsh August sun and heat, and oh, what dramatic bouquets! This is one gardener (vulgar, perhaps) that could not do without dahlias.
I will keep you posted on the ongoing experiment.

When I had the sad task of going through my mother’s things, I found drawers, baskets and boxes filled with literally hundreds of snapshots, polaroids and slides of what must have been every bouquet she ever put together. The odd thing about them was that she never bothered to set the stage for these creations. At the edges of each shot would be scraps of paper, dirty dishes, whatever just happened to be lying about. Of course she didn’t have the convenience of digital, with its instant replay and Photoshop. I understand the impulse. Whenever the elements come together to make a nice composition, my instinct is to capture it in time.
I’ve already told you how cuckoo I am for rocks. My kitchen windowsill is filled with a nice assortment gathered from my daily walks (my normal route is nearly picked clean by now). When I was casting about for a tiny container for violets, I stumbled upon this highly textured pitcher. Our dining table is black lacquer. The runner is handwoven in many shades of earthen colors echoed by the rocks. I love the play of color and texture, and the one white violet(no scent) tucked in with the common purple. I found great swathes of the white violets under the cedars. In the four years we have been here, I had not seen them before. I am shamed by my lack of observation.
Hillary (my daughter) commented that I should have saved all of Mom’s pix and turned them into an art installation. What an idea…their slap-dash quality would have given a unique twist much more interesting and ‘avant garde’ than my merely pretty efforts.