The blog is where I post pictures and stories about my beautiful children. The following photos are of not officially of them. these are flowers. but it still counts. they are almost like offspring. I nurture, feed, coax and occasionally neglect my plants, just the same as my kids, okay?
I planted this clematis at the base of a young Acer maple tree. It was a $3 garden center clearance plant, just a root bound orphan in a cracked plastic pot when I brought her home 2 years ago. Now, (thanks to the rabbit’s prolific droppings) she is thriving.
Here is a favorite combination…foxglove and columbine growing together in the shade garden. I love that they are self-seeding and about as “cottagey” as you can get. But they are in danger if I don’t spend time weeding soon. Do you see that threatening blackberry in front? The ominous rising of poor mans orchid in the back?! “I will save you my dears! Even if it means no blog posting until Monday, I will defend your little green lives!”
These red opium poppies are all over the vegetable garden. Red doesn’t go with my pink/purple/blue flower theme in back so I scattered the tiny black seeds among the raspberries.Now after 2 years they come back so thick as to choke out the hardy raspberries! They are a wonderful souvenir from our family reunion. There was a field of them behind Aunt Hilary’s new home in Madras. She passed out baggies as we walked around, and we popped the fat seedheads into the ziplocs. I really didn’t think more than a few would come back but these poppies are a lot like my family. Tough. Colorful. Resilient. and umm, prolific.
Mom, do you still have this rose? I had to get a picture of it now because you see those little black spots back there? That is blackspot. It was birthed in the wet Willamette valley and lives to destroy rose leaves. In a few short weeks every green bit of this 5 foot tall plant will just drop off. The roses will mutely hold their heads high and continue blooming, pretending not to realize they are stark raving nude. It’s ugly and more than a little ridiculous. I know it ought to be shovel pruned but it seems cruel, somehow. I can’t bring myself to put it out of its misery when it’s will to live is so strong.
The only work these beauties (more columbine) require of me is deadheading, once. This is like that firstborn child I brag on so often. If all my plants were this beautiful and easy I could have 3 acres of perennial gardens. Alas, most of the plants I fall head over heels in love with require specific soil conditions, weekly fertilizing, precise pruning and a knowledge of Latin. Kind of like Caleb, the child of whom we have often joked “If he wasn’t so adorable he’d be beaten weekly.”
These are Dianthus. I can’t get enough of their rich old fashioned scent! Along with white sweet Alyssum, they make the best edging. Is it the lack of girls in the house that makes me crave a plant named “Pinks”? But the edges of the tiny flowers DO look like they were made by little elf pinking shears…must get more of these.
And in the interest of “keeping it real”, here is a rebel, a black hearted thistle I do not intend to finish raising. If I had had my leather gloves instead of a Kodak near, this atrocity would be withering as we speak. The whole garden is weed-filled (you see all the flowers were close up shots?!) but the house is half-painted. I keep telling myself that is the priority this season, mumbling it to myself as I walk through the yard with a roller in my hand instead of a spade. It’s sunny out right now though, and I could paint later. I suppose I could post this and go get a diet pepsi. find my gloves. get outside. Time to crack down and re-acquaint my wild yard with discipline…