Road Trip

On a lovely summer Friday, I took a day off so we could go on a garden-related excursion.


Usually we make a couple of pilgrimages each season to what has been until now our garden mecca -- Whiteflower Farm.  Located just south of Litchfield, Connecticut, Whiteflower is well known both for its encyclopedic seasonal catalogs of available plants and for its spectacular gardens. It's not inexpensive, but the plants are always healthy and we always misbehave badly there.  


A few years ago, good friends of ours moved to Salisbury, Connecticut, about 1/2 hour from Whiteflower, giving us an additional reason for visiting the area.  On one of those trips, they introduced us to a craftsman in nearby Falls Village who does custom metalwork. Battle Hill Forge is owned and operated by Israel Fitch.  And while his trade is welding, he truly is an artist, making remarkable garden structures and even more remarkable entries into an annual Halloween welding contest!  

Prize-winning entry in Halloween  Contest!

One of the really fun parts of gardening is sculpting the landscape with various shapes and sizes of plants, as well as varying the color. There are spots that cry out for something vertical, and those better suited to low growing horizontal shapes.  Climbers are great upright accents -- as long as they have a structure to cling to. So when we first found Israel, we bought several of his simpler pyramids to anchor our raspberry patch and a clematis or two.

Plant support systems

Really cool structures

We continued to visit each year and continued to be amazed at the craft and inventiveness, and behaved ourselves pretty well.  Until this year.  We had no choice, really.  The two clematis that flank the opening into our front garden have totally overgrown the dinky little trellis we started with.  There they were, grasping futilely for some support and encouragement, only to have to fall back upon themselves in a tangled heap.  How could we not help?

Clematis in need of support

So we commissioned two six foot tall trellises which we can use next year to give these clematis more room to climb.  And we made our trip last week to pick them up from the forge, planning to stop by Whiteflower Farm on the way home.

As we pulled in, we interrupted one of Israel's partners, Willy, who was literally putting the last few welds on the trellises.  He suggested that to kill some time (and give the metal time to cool!) we make a quick trip to Falls Village Flower Farm which was just around the corner. We had heard of this particular nursery, but hadn't visited it because -- well, what could be better than Whiteflower, we foolishly thought.

All I can say is that the scales have fallen from my eyes, and I now have a new favorite place to misbehave.  Falls Village Flower Farm is a much humbler mecca.  All the plants are propagated there, and the proprietess, Roberta, will spend as much time as you have walking through the display gardens to share location and growing tips.  She also has varieties and plants I've never seen anywhere else, and you can choose from 1- 2- and 3- year old plants depending on just how impatient you are.

Many varieties of interesting plants

Display gardens

I could have done an awful lot of damage there.  But as luck would have it, we had Mr. Mulch's truck with us, and the bed was reserved for the trellises, so we had only the limited space in the cab to work with.  I made the most of it -- 6 ligularia in two different varieties -- 5 low growing, with thick burgundy heart shaped leaves, and one taller green variety with almost palm-frond like foliage -- and 10 Jacob's Ladder -- a lovely variegated grass-like plant which will send up flowers late in the summer.  They all fit -- just barely.

Misbehavior tucked into the cab

Roberta calculating the damage

 I'll have to go back there again for the 6 foot tall Thalictrum Rochebruian -- a crazy gorgeous purple stemmed part shade plant that forms tall bamboo-ish stands and flowers with wispy purple blooms in late summer.  They will look perfect lining the inside of our deer fencing. And though they're supposedly deer resistant, I wouldn't want to tempt fate. But they'd have had to go in the back of the truck and that was already reserved.

So... we headed back to the forge, where Israel was ready for us.  It's hard to see in this shot, but he really outdid himself.  The trellises are rectangular, with a series of vine-like branches winding their way up the middle.  What you can't see is that he actually made them dimensional, so that they not only twist side to side, but also have movement front to back.

Israel and his trellis

When you look at them close up, you can really see his artistry.  Instead of welding the supports at the sides, they twist onto the frame just like the vines that will one day twist around the trellis.  They almost feel alive.  

Detail of the handiwork

We were delighted with them, and being impatient as we always are, wanted to get home with our booty in time to lay it all out and see how it would look.  

Which we did.  So here's where everything will go...

Trellis in a temporary spot in the front garden

Jacob's Ladder in its new home on the hill

Detail of Jacob's Ladder foliage

Big momma Ligularia surrounded by smaller friends

Oh, and we never did make it to Whiteflower Farm.  And I'm thinking we might not for quite some time.  After all, now that the truck is empty, maybe it's time to head back to Falls Village for that Thalictrum...

In Flagrante Delicto

No, this is not a post about Congressional misbehavior.  Though there's no shortage of material.  


It is, instead, about the apparent vitality of one segment of the publishing industry.  While many publications seem to be struggling to retain their readership, the Insect Informer seems to be thriving.  While most periodicals are tightening belts and cutting staffs, they recently expanded their editorial team to meet the needs of their growing constituency.  To my dismay, this week provided incontrovertible evidence that their audience is, in fact, multiplying at an alarming pace.

Standard Hydrangea

About halfway up our hill, right next to the midway seating area, we planted a standard hydrangea last year.  It's leafed out nicely in this, it's first full, season, and we're hoping for an equally prolific bloom later this month.  It seems to be happy in this location -- a minor triumph that we don't always achieve.  While we do follow the dictates of those tyrannical  plant tags which prescribe the exact lighting conditions without which the plants will perish, the plants themselves aren't always inclined to follow the same rules.  As a result, some of our vegetation actually has amassed enough frequent traveler points for a winter vacation in Boca as we've moved it from one location to another, another, and another.  I know, because I've driven plants to the airport. Really.

First hint of trouble

Anyway, we were enjoying a cocktail at the end of a lovely Father's Day yesterday, and walked over to see if there were any blooms forming on the hydrangea yet.  We noticed there were a few brownish leaves on the north side of the bush.  Concerned, we moved closer to inspect, and discovered to our horror, that we were witnessing real time literal growth of the Insect Informer's audience.




There, on no less than 4 leaves, some variety of moth-like creature had deposited her eggs and carefully spun a tent to shelter them from weather, predators, and wrathful gardeners (really just another less rational form of predator).  Those eggs had now produced what looked like gazillions of tiny but voracious wriggly green caterpillars with bulgy black eyes.

Uh oh, looks like we've got company...

Well, maybe "gazillions" was a bit of an overstatement, but I certainly felt overrun.  With all due respect and apologies to Eric Carle, these Very Hungry Caterpillars were not at all cuddly. Far from being cute, they had an extremely high cringeworthy "ick" factor, and they were going to town on my hydrangea!

HUNDREDS of very hungry caterpillars!!!

But wait, it gets worse.  As I staggered down the steps to sound the alarm and get reinforcements, I paused in the herb garden where I found myselt interrupting yet another renegade dining experience.  There, on the parsley in full -- yet unsuccessful -- camouflage was a clear descendant of one Thomas Blendin, the Tomato Hornworm who met his untimely fate in last year's garden.  This creepy crawly was apparently enjoying a palate-cleansing parsley appetizer before moving on to the tomato plants.

Caught in the act!

When I plucked him off this stem, I wonder if he thought he was being magically transported to the raised beds where tomato nirvana waited.  But no, that was not to be his fate. I temporarily set him down in no-man's land and seized the moment for a pre-execution close-up photo opp.  As you can see below, the most intriguing aspect of this insect is that when threatened, his horns pop up to make him look fierce and -- judging from what happened when I set him down on a paving stone -- he also pees.

Defiant Tomato Hornworm

I will spare you the gory details of how we dispatched these latest garden invaders, but dispatch them, we did.  Suffice it to say there will be some serious obituaries in the next issue of the Insect Informer.  I'll also be on the lookout for the Rodent Report, which will probably cover the demise of the mouse that was visiting our kitchen garbage compactor.  He really shouldn't have left all those tiny torpedo-shaped calling cards.

I'm under no illusion that I've got the circulation for either of those periodicals under control. But, considering all those nights I read this book to my kids, delighting in both the illustrations and the insatiable appetite of the central critter, on some cosmic level I probably brought this on myself.

Idyll, Interrupted

Fair warning: this post will have no original photos associated with it for reasons that will be glaringly clear shortly.

We had one of those picture perfect spring mornings a few days ago.  Bright sunshine, low humidity, the garden freshly washed from showers the night before, birds tweeting (the original kind, not on twitter).  You could almost hear the soundtrack from the scene in Snow White where she wakes up in the forest surrounded by all the animals.



Snow White and her forest friends


The hemlock trees rustled a bit in a light breeze, their shadows dancing on the hill.  Twitterpated squirrels chased one another up and down tree trunks.  A chipmunk scampered into sight, and stopped to savor the early sunshine on the top of a stone wall in a rare moment of rodent repose. It was a totally bucolic moment, which I was idly observing through the bathroom window while I brushed my teeth, waiting for the morning fog to clear from my brain. 


Then... WHOOMP!

A hawk swooped in from the left, speared the chipmunk on its talons, and carried it off.

I stood there slack-jawed, as my toothbrush hit the floor and the reality of what just happened sank in.  I guess there were no hawks in Snow White's forest!

Changing of the Guard... en

Just two posts ago, the garden was a profusion of pink and blue.  Generally it stays like that for almost a month in Spring, but this year we seem to be skipping that season and going straight from Winter to Summer.  We've had a succession of above 80 degree days (with a record 100 degree day last Thursday -- ugh!) which is, to put it mildly, a rather abrupt debut for Summer.


As a result, we have some very unhappy peas.  They don't like hot weather at all, and while we had initially anticipated a bumper crop, I'll be lucky to get more than three meals' worth out of what we planted.  Maybe I can stretch it a bit with an inventive pasta primavera or by adding some greenery to a carbonara, but five meals tops.


The heat has also hastened the demise of some of last week's rosy show-offs.  But as compensation, it has also sped up the arrival of the next wave of color in the garden -- bright, hot, summery yellow on ground covers, tempered by the cooler white blooms on several shrubs. And if the thermometer stays in the upper reaches, we'll also soon have a red/orange/yellow rainbow of daylillies.


We have several varieties of sedum -- one which we fondly call "weedum" for it's ability to insinuate itself just about anywhere in the garden -- cracks between paving stones, in the gravel pathways, and nooks and crannies so far removed from its original location that it had to get a visa to move there. This would normally be called invasive, except that it makes such a lovely carpet and it's easy to rip out anywhere I really don't want it. 

A carpet of "weedum" blooming

Close up of "weedum" blooms

We just filled some of the stone outcroppings at the top of the hill with topsoil and planted them with other varieties of sedum -- also known, fittingly -- as Stonecrop.  All of that has started to bloom as well, unaware that it won't be summer for another two weeks.

Sedum kamtschaticum

Lower down on the hill, the Alchemilla (Lady's Mantle) is also putting on a display.  It's a more ladylike yellow -- paler and at a discreet distance from the foliage, looking very much like the lace mantilla from which it probably got its common name.

Lady's Mantle

Here's another groundcover gone wild: Creeping Jenny.  We have this in several places, though I'm responsible for its propagation -- it's not as forward as the sedum.  It does a really good job of choking out weeds, and as long as I keep it caterpillar free, it displays its sunny disposition with a carpet of bright yellow blossoms every year.  I also love the way it drapes over stone walls, filling in cracks and cascading from one stone to another.

Creeping Jenny just starting to bloom

Creeping Jenny creeping

The white counterpoint starts with Penstemon, new to the garden this year.  I originally bought it  because I fell for the dark red leaves, a nice counterpoint to all the greenery.  But in bloom, it's even more alluring, since the foliage sets off stalks of trumpet shaped flowers.

Penstemon

Then we have our Kousas -- several Japanese flowering dogwoods, both tree and shrub variety.  These are not prone to the disease that has wiped out most of the common dogwood in our area.  They are sturdy and reliable, but their bloom varies drastically year to year.  Last year we had hardly any blooms at all, and it wasn't just us; I didn't see a single Kousa with more than 10% of the blooms it ought to have.  This year's weather was clearly more conducive to Kousas.  Everywhere I look I see the trees totally covered with about two years' worth of flowers, and ours are no exception.  In the photo below you see shrub version to the right of the ramp and a tree Kousa just outside the parking area.  The other white object is my younger daughter's 1996 Volvo which is not part of the horticultural display, but happens to match nicely.

Kousas and Volvo

It's hard to see in the photo above, but we also have some lovely hydrangea quercifolia just in front of the Kousa on the ramp.  That's a woodier more shrubby variety than the big bush hydrangea that I often misprune.  The quercifolia grow more directly up than out.  Unfortunately, we have them in locations where I'd rather they grow out than up, and I routinely lop off all their new vertical growth each spring, hoping to coax them wider.  They defy me with just as much determination and we seem locked in eternal conflict over their shape.  In the meantime, I grant them clemency because they produce a lovely lacework of white blossoms.

Hydrangea Quercifolia blossoms

And despite all my anxiety over the big bush hydrangea (Hydrangea Macrophylla), I'm delighted to report that it looks like we'll see blooms on them before long... many many blooms.  It may just be dumb luck, or perhaps I've finally figured it out, but in another week or so it looks like I'll be able to showcase some beautiful softball-sized hydrangea blossoms.  


Unless this is the shortest Summer on record and we zoom back into Fall.  Wouldn't that be a bitch?

The Insect Informer
Vol. 5, Issue 1, 2011

We're delighted to announce that we have made two terrific additions to our editorial field staff.  


As you know, we take great pride in the award winning team we've assembled here at the Insect Informer, and the accolades they've collected over the years is testimony to their expertise.  Last year alone, we collected a record number of BUGGies (Best Underground Green Guide awards) most notably for the heroic work Thomas Blendin did covering the carnage done to the Tomato Hornworm population by a sharp-eyed gardener and his sadistic wife in Waccabuc.  His photographs chronicled the deadly outcome of incomplete camouflage during field maneuvers.  Sadly, Mr. Blendin's award was delivered posthumously.  Although he was well hidden and indistinguishable from the stem of the Brandywine that was his vantage point, a momentary sunglare off the lens of his camera betrayed his location.  With one swift heartless gesture, he was plucked from his perch and unceremoniously squished.


But on to happier news.  Let us introduce the two new staffers.

Ms. Gina Aubrey

Please welcome Gina Aubrey.  She comes to us fresh from a stint at Cornell School of Agriculture where she did her graduate work, and is certified to be destructive to 37 varieties of eggplant in at least 6 languages.  She's already established herself in Waccabuc  and is sending daily dispatches from  several raised beds on Perch Bay Road.  She recently filed a report detailing the feeble attempt to divert insect attention by interplanting eggplant with cucumbers and tomatoes.  Her photography vividly illustrates this strategic failure.

Eggplant after Ms. Aubrey's visit 

We look forward to hearing more tales from Gina about outsmarting the owner of this garden in particular, since this is the scene of the tragic events that took Mr. Blendin's life last year. And we certainly hope she's on her guard at all times -- especially regarding the gardener's merciless wife.  Witnesses reported that Mr. Blendin's final words were faint, but ominous... "I heard her mention Rotenone..."

Mr. Lucas Henry

The other addition we've made is to augment our coverage of flowering bulbs.  Please welcome Lucas Henry.  He brings a unique look to our team (he's a rather flashy dresser) but don't let that fool you -- he's as industrious as he is stylish. He got to work immediately and has made a real impact. On the lillies most dramatically.  He made short work of the three stands of large lillies on the back of the mound at Perch Bay.  And then applied himself to the dwarf lillies in the front of the mound.  

Mr. Henry's handiwork

If you're detecting a bit of a vendetta against this garden and gardeners, you would be right.  And can you blame us?  Not only do we have the aforementioned Mr Blendin in mind, but there was also that episode with the carpet of caterpillars who were happily dining on Creeping Jenny when they were wiped out by a noxious spray of something not entirely organic last year.  So far, the aphids have withstood the classic "Marigold Maneuver,"  and the roses have been treated with that totally useless "green" fungicide we snuck onto the market so successfully.  But with the specter of Rotenone looming, we do declare that the proper approach to the Perch Bay Garden is "no mercy."


We look forward to hearing more from both Gina Aubrey and Lucas Henry in the months to come.

(Real editor's note:  See earlier post for background on the Insect Informer)

Pink... Blue... Pink... Blue

At the very (happy) end of Disney's animated Sleeping Beauty, two of Princess Aurora's fairy godmothers happily watch her waltzing with her prince in her beautiful white ball gown.  Despite the virginal appropriateness of such a chaste color, each godmother wants to magically change the gown to her favorite color.  Flora gets to it first, and with a triumphant flourish of her wand, waves it pink. Merryweather shouts "blue" and changes it back, Flora shouts "Pink," and reverses it again, and so on... Blue, Pink, Blue, Pink, Blue, Pink, as the music fades and the credits roll.  This scene was a source of endless amusement for my older daughter when she was little.  At that time I was powerless to duplicate that sequence, though we tried often enough.

Now, probably a little too late for flights of childish fantasy, the garden in early June seems to bring the spirit of those fairy godmothers to life.  It's all blues and pinks, and makes me think it's more than coincidental that one of the godmothers is named "Flora."

If I close my eyes and pretend I'm twirling in the arms of a prince, I can open them and see pink, close them and twirl further and open to... blue... then pink... then blue...

Like this...



Pink... Peony

Blue... Clematis

Pink... Carpet Rose



Blue... Columbine



Pink... Geranium



Blue... Amsonia

Pink... Foxglove

Blue... Siberian Iris



Pink... Dianthus



 In a few weeks, this palette will change completely.  As the sedum blooms and the daylilies start their display, the colors will heat up to match the summer temperatures, with yellows, oranges and reds filling in as the pinks fade.  Blues should stick around through the transition, that is, they should -- as long as the hydrangea anxiety of early March turns out to be unfounded.  Fingers crossed; we should know soon enough.