Coming home

When I stepped out onto the porch early this morning, I was instantly captured by the crispness of the air and the puddles of moonshine on the lawn. It was fall at its best: quiet and cool and sparkling.

I had to stop in my tracks and just take a minute to stand there -- with my face to the stars -- and drink it all in.

Moments like that make autumn my favorite season. Yes, spring satisfies my passion and summer warms my soul, but fall comforts me and welcomes me home like an aproned mother holding a plate of just-baked cookies.

The Ultimate

Flame red and peach and pale yellow and burgundy and chartreuse and gold and scarlet and deep green and orange and oh, my gosh, were those leaves beautiful! And all under a bonny blue October sky.

As we traveled across southern Indiana and into Ohio this weekend, I was reminded that God is the ultimate garden designer.

Wooly worm watching

I don't know how I missed them. What was I so busy doing in September?

And now, how am I going to know whether I should buy that new wool coat or if my jacket from last year is going to suffice?

It's the wooly worms. I didn't see a single one this year. And I'm not happy about it.

Wooly worms are an important marker in my seasonal progressions. I know when I start seeing them crossing the road that fall is officially here and that it's time for me to start my 'cozy-ing in' process. (You know, buying extra sugar and white flour...)

It seems I'm not alone in my admiration for and dependence on these creatures. In fact, some areas of the country honor them with their own festivals. (Illinois had its first official wooly worm festival in Camargo last year.) They have wooly worm races and wooly worm weather predicting events. (Turns out they actually have about an 85 percent record for accuracy.)

But you know, wooly worms aren't really worms at all. They're caterpillars -- the larva of the Isabella tigermoth. Scientists say that their varying colors are not weather predictors but are caused by temperature levels and, possibly moisture, during the early days of their life. (But then, what do scientists know...See above.)

One truly remarkable tidbit: Once settled in for the winter, wooly worms hibernate by creating a natural organic antifreeze. They freeze bit by bit, until everything but the interior of their cells is frozen. They can -- and do -- survive to temperatures as low as -90F.

As a general rule, the darker the wooly worm, the colder the winter and the lighter the wooly worm the milder the winter. But when a worm has a band of dark color at its head and tail but a lighter band of brown in the middle, it means a cold start and finish to winter with mild weather for the rest of the season.

Just in case you missed them, too, here's the 'Official Wooly Worm Forecast' for 2007, courtesy of Judy Fraser, a weathercaster for WCIA 3 in Champaign: "Most of the worms were brown, copper, tan -- some banded and a few were white. Prediction: A mild winter with a bit of a chilly start and a cool finish ... rather skimpy on the snow ... but enough for Santa."

Guess I'll just go ahead and get last winter's jacket cleaned.

Catalog dos and don'ts

Two bulb catalogs were in my mail this morning. Both are from well-known and reputable companies. And both offer a wide variety of tulips, narcissi, lilies and minor bulbs.

But I'd never buy anything from one of them.

That's because it doesn't contain a single photograph. Oh, there are some very nice ink drawings, but nothing to appeal to my inner flower freak. I'll bet I didn't spend five minutes, total, looking the publication over.

The other catalog, however, is filled with full-color photos of glorious spring borders and single flower varieties. I'm not even a big fan of bulbs but this one makes me want to grab a cup of coffee, curl into my chair and read every resplendent page. It might even make me part with a dollar or two.

Viburnum 'Summer Snowflake'

Viburnums are a remarkably diverse group of shrubs. Right now, my American cranberrybush (Viburnum opulus var. americanum) is resplendent in its ensemble of red berries and burnished leaves.

My favorite viburnum, though, is the more tender and less readily available V. plicatum 'Shasta.' I love, love, love its horizontal branching habit -- especially when it's smothered in lacecap flowerheads in spring!

Unfortunately, last winter was hard on it. The alternate hot and cold cycles took their toll and I had lots of dieback.

A shrub that seems to combine the hardiness of the americanum with the flowers and form of the plicatum is rapidly winning my heart. V. plicatum f. tomentosum 'Summer Snowflake' also has the charming attribute of blooming all summer. While it doesn't produce that same springtime flourish of blossoms all season, the dabs of white that do show up are always welcome.

As a young shrub, 'Summer Snowflake' is growing more vertically now than its cousin, but I'm told that it will spread with age. I hope so. I'm expecting great things from this little beauty.