Unidentified flowering object

I wanted a shrub to go under my kitchen window. And I wanted it to be fragrant, so the "sweet scent of summer could waft into the windows" as I washed the dinner dishes.

I spent hours pouring over plant catalogs determining which woody would be the just the right size and just the right shape and that would bloom at just the right time and in just the right color.

I finally found what I was looking for: Philadelphus 'Innocence' -- the most fragrant of all the mockoranges with simple, single, pure white flowers in June. Lovely!

I scoured the nurseries until I found a beautiful specimen, took it home, and lovingly placed it in a well-amended, twice-the-diameter-of-the-pot hole under the window. And then I waited. Two whole years I waited. Finally, this year, a bloom -- or to be more precise, a panicle -- a cone-shaped, oakleaf hydrangea-looking panicle.

WHAT!!!

Turns out I'd waited two years only to discover that I'd purchased a mislabeled shrub. I still don't know what it is. It's not an oakleaf hydrangea, this much I know. In fact, it's not any hydrangea that I've ever seen. Its leaves are narrow and pointed and stiff. Not soft. And its stems are twiggy-er than a hydrangea. It also doesn't wilt when hot or dry.

Oh, and did I mention that it has ABSOLUTELY NO FRAGRANCE?

If anybody knows what this shrub could be, I'd love to hear from you. I'm only keeping it because I'm afraid that it will turn out to be some new species and, the minute I dig it up and toss it into the chipper shredder, someone will inform me that I could have patented it and made millions of dollars...

P.S. The white flowers have now changed to pink -- again like an oakleaf hydrangea.

Maybe yes, maybe no

I spent the weekend in southern Indiana visiting family and friends. I had a great time catching up on current events and reminiscing about past ones. There was only one tiny downside: Everywhere I went, people were either asking me to install a garden for them or they were apologizing for what they considered to be their own 'inferior' gardening attempts.

I tried to discourage the first group and encourage the second.

In my opinion, anyone who asks someone else to install a garden for them is not a gardener. They may desire a beautiful landscape, but they have no interest in the plants that create it. They view them the same way they view a bench or a fountain -- as props used for effect.

But plants are more than props. They are living things. They require food and water and a safe environment. They require time and attention. And lots of it.

Group one would be better off hiring a designer, a landscape contractor and a maintenance crew.

Group two is a bit different. All they really need is someone to fan a flame that's already been lit. They've tried their hand at growing something and, even though their results may have been less than perfect, they're still excited about what they're going to do differently next season.

I love that!

And since I've had lots of experience at learning what works and what doesn't, I'm always happy to share with them.

So, here's my advice for both groups of gardeners: If you love it, just keep doing it. If you don't love it, stop. (How profound is that?)

Gardening is hard work. It's expensive and time consuming and unpredictable. But if it stirs your passion for creating, or if it just plain satisfies your soul, dive in and do it with both hands.

It'll be worth it. Guaranteed.

Blessed relief...

I'm feeling better.

The asters and sweet autumn clematis are in full bloom.

The chrysanthemums are covered in buds.

The 'Rozanne' geraniums and lobelia are still going strong. So are the plumbago I put in two years ago, the hibiscus we received as trial plants this spring and a sweet little dwarf phlox named 'White Flame' that's been blooming under the kitchen window for weeks.

The roses are coming back.

And those plants that I broke down and deadheaded in August (the balloon flowers, Shasta daisies, veronicas and ladybells)--well, they're back, too.

Even the birds have returned from their nearly-week-long sabbatical. I don't know where they were. But they are home now, feasting on the crab apples.

And all is right with my world...

The plain truth

I took my life in my hands this morning and ventured out into the garden before coming to work. (The mosquitoes did their best to carry me off, but I fought valiantly and managed to overcome the onslaught.)

It's been a difficult week and I just plain needed a garden fix.

I'm not sure what it is about taking a turn around the yard that does it, but I always come away feeling calmer and more brave.

Still, I'm feeling 'not sure' about a lot of things right now.

So here I am. Staring at this nearly-blank computer page and trying to fill it up with something that will appeal to anyone who happens to run across this blog. But honestly, I haven't got a clue what that might be...

What I saw in the garden?
(Two adorable Baby Blanket roses, some Rozanne geraniums that have hung in there all summer (bless their hearts) and various and sundry ratty-looking plants.)

My weekend plans?
(I hope to get the front door painted, the grass mowed and the laundry done.)

What I had for dinner last night?
(Barbecued ribs from the prepared food isle at Ultra Foods.)

I'm coming to the conclusion that blogging is kind of like talking to yourself--only people don't get the chance to look at you like you're crazy.

Or maybe you do...

Fall favorites

Sometimes I feel like all I do is whine. So, today, I'm making a concerted effort to say something positive about my garden. (And I will refrain from using the old joke, "OK, I'm POSITIVE my garden is a big, brown mess!)

One true late-summer 'positive' is Solidago rugosa 'Fireworks.' I bought the plant two years ago and moved it to its current location just last year. Still, it's already 4-feet tall and wide and, true to its name, looks like a cascading explosion of golden glitter. The plant's dark green leaves are rough, keeping it disease- and insect-free--another definite plus. And, unlike some other goldenrod varieties, 'Fireworks' is never barelegged. It keeps its foliage right down to its toes.

I'm growing my 'Fireworks' in a part-shade area, so it isn't as densely flowered as it might be. I actually think that I prefer it that way, though. Instead of a solid mass of yellow, its blooms look more like sparklers shooting off in every direction. Really cool!

I have to admit that I actually tried to eradicate my next fall favorite, the anemone. I thought that I'd dug them all out, but I missed a grouping of plants along the picket fence. I'm glad that I did because now I realize that all these late bloomers needed was an extra year or so to mature. Their soft mauve flowers float over coarse large (not browned out!) leaves like butterflies on the wind. I'm not really sure if mine are Anemone tomentosa 'Robustissima' or Anemone hupehensis 'September Charm.' Either should do well for you if you decide to try them, too.

For the birds

It was like an episode of The Twilight Zone. Or maybe a Hitchcock movie--only opposite.

When I took my coffee out into the garden Saturday morning, I knew something was wrong right away, but I couldn't put my finger on what it was. Everything looked the same. And it was a beautiful late summer morning. I made my usual route around the flower beds before sitting on the porch to contemplate the deep mysteries of life (like whether to spend the day painting the front door or edging the border).

I'd been there for several minutes before it dawned on me. Everything was still. Too still. There was not a single bird chirping. I checked the maple next to the patio. Nothing. I looked out into the shrub border, scanned the ground and did a sweep of the birdbaths. Still nothing. Not a cardinal or blue jay or dove or wren or even a sparrow--anywhere.

How bizarre.

I'd never seen, or heard, anything like it. I kept checking throughout the day, but nothing. I started feeling like maybe the animals knew something that I didn't know and that the New Madrid fault was finally going to blow or that this was the day that Jesus was coming back. But the day passed and nothing happened.

The first thing I did Sunday morning was go out and look for a bird--any bird. It took a while, but finally one lone blue jay came in for an early morning bath. A little later my husband spotted a cardinal at the top of the spruce tree and a few starlings perched on the telephone wire behind our neighbor's house. It was nothing like the usual morning cacophony, but better than nothing.

I was away the rest of the day and got too busy this morning to remember that the world might be coming to an end. But now I'm wondering if this was some kind of area-wide phenomenon or if it was just the birds in my own yard that decided to attend an Audubon Society convention or something...

Help!

I like variegated liriope.

Asters are OK. At least they're colorful.

But aconitum? Chelone? Trycertis? Callicarpa? Honestly, not so much.

By the time the first three begin to flower in the fall, their foliage is already so ratty looking that no matter how beautiful the flower, the overall effect is less than pleasing.

And, yes, callicarpa's purple berries are vibrant and beautiful, but you practically have to have your nose stuck in the shrub before you really notice them.

So what are my alternatives for the shady fall border? Really, I'm pretty desperate here. Am I going to have to resort to impatiens?

Picture perfect

Now is a good time to get outside and take some photos of your garden. No, it may not be at the peak of perfection at the moment, but that's just the point. Photos taken at this time of year will capture those problem areas before they get lost in the fog of elapsed time and poor memory.

It's also great fun to settle into an overstuffed chair on a January day, plant catalogs and photos in hand, and plan ways to fill in those gaps come spring.

And, in a few years, you'll be amazed at just how much your garden has changed over time. Sometimes, as I look back over some of my own pictures, I can't believe how handsome my garden really was. And I'm even more amazed that I didn't recognize it at the time. (Too busy focusing on the 'holes,' I guess.)

Digital cameras are great for doing this. You don't have to have the best one on the market, so prices are pretty reasonable. I just start at one end of the garden and keep clicking in sequence until I get to the other end. Then I print out the photos on 8 by 10 inch paper so I can write notes all over them.

I don't always stick to the plan I make, of course. Sometimes the plants I choose aren't available or I'll see something that steals my heart once I get to the nursery, but having the photos still allows me to find a spot for new additions without wandering all over the garden -- pots in hand.

Good-bye, old friend

Like any long-term relationship, you come to take some garden stalwarts for granted after a while. You just expect peonies to parade their showy spring blooms every year and for goldenrod to light up your fall border. These plants don't demand extra attention. They just do what's expected of them.

Yellow foxglove (Digitalis grandiflora) is one of those steady-on kinds of plants. I never gave mine much thought--just appreciated the soft yellow blooms that never failed to show up in the shady spot next to the patio.

That is, until this year.

Truth be told, they were not my first choice. I tried (and tried and tried) to establish the more common foxglove, Digitalis purpurea, in that area. I love the look of its soft pink flowers and taller stems. But, like delphiniums, I couldn't manage to keep them alive for more than a few years and, even if I did get blooms, they were never the stately spires that I so admired in English cottage gardens.

So, I 'settled' for the yellow foxglove--at first a pleasant and unassuming replacement, but so reliable that it eventually grew on me.

I should have noticed when it didn't bloom in June this year, but with so many other flowers to admire I didn't. And in July I was busy watering and weeding. When August came, it dawned on me that something was amiss, but I couldn't place just what it was until the other day when I noticed that the turtlehead looked lonely.

I understand that yellow foxglove has a life expectancy of four to six years. I'm sure these plants had exceeded that. Still, I'm saddened by their demise. Not a garden standout, but an exceptional supporting player, I'll be planting more. They deserve an encore.

My, oh, my!

It was a perfect weekend. (Maybe the fact that it was four days long for me had something to do with that...) I worked a little, played a little and -- my favorite -- puttered a little.

It was during one of those puttering moments that I came to realize something: I'm actually living in a Walt Disney cartoon!

I was resting on the patio after transplanting a few seedlings when I noticed it. As I sat -- surrounded by flowers and greenery -- butterflies flitted about my head, birds crooned their happy little tunes and squirrels darted here and there during a game of tag.

Why, Uncle Remus would have been proud! I could almost hear him humming "Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah!"

(This reminds me of an autumn day a few years ago when I spent several hours watching yellow leaves fall from my birch tree. Even now, I'm convinced that it was just so beautiful I couldn't take my eyes away. My mother and husband have a different version, though. They insist it had more to do with the medication I was on at the time, having just had surgery. But what do they know? I'll bet neither of them has ever had a bluebird on their shoulder...)