Category: the sideyard garden

Move it or lose it

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One of the trees I was given and impulsively planted in the wrong spot was a Hinoki cypress (Chamaecyparis obtusa ‘Gracilis’); a super sweet tree with deep green plumage and limbs spread like it’s stuck doing an interpretive dance. At the time it was given to us, by EB who happens to be the arborist in the family, it seemed like the best idea ever to plant it next to the house (quite close) on the back garden side. A few years later I planted a tiny alternate-leaved dogwood (Cornus alternifolia) on the lawn side of it because there was no other vacancy in the yard, and besides, I wanted to watch the dogwood’s birds from my bathroom window (à la Doug Tallamy). In the intervening years both plants grew. The dogwood far outpaced my expectations and the Hinoki has been no slouch growth-wise either (both are 10′ tall). Even though the Hinoki ended up half hidden by the dogwood, I could have kept living with those stoopid decisions for a while if Z and I hadn’t started talking again about putting in an outdoor shower. The Hinoki, we decided, had to go. But I didn’t want to lose it.

After consulting EB, who prudently suggested we wait until fall to move the tree, we prepped instead for a more immediate move by watering the tree for a couple of weeks, praying for rain (we got about an inch last week), identifying a new spot on the north side of the house, evicting what lived there (my beloved Rubus odoratus), and digging a hole.

The move this weekend took about 2 hours start to finish, which seemed quick to me but then I didn’t have to do much of the heavy lifting or cramped-quarters digging. Big thanks to EB and Z for all that. And so far, although both trees lost significant root mass, so good. I’ll baby both of them with mulch, plenty of water (the dogwood will eventually reap the benefits of shower run-off), and have promised to loosely tether the Hinoki to keep it from tipping over in the wind. I’m beyond grateful to EB for his expertise, hard labor after a heavy Sunday breakfast, and reassurances that all will be well.

EB and a Hinoki on the move.
New home for the Hinoki.
Alternate-leaved dogwood after separation, before shower installation.

Have you ever planted a tree in the wrong spot? How long did you wait before moving/losing it? Did it survive transplant and thrive?

Down to earth — room for improvement

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(Originally published on May 27, 2015 in East Bay / South Coast Life newspapers.)

My garden is as full of mistakes as it is of plants. When I’m feeling extra critical or envious of picture-perfect gardens in magazines I see all of the stupid ideas, misplaced plants, egregious wonkiness, and weeds. And then I pick at every error I’ve made through the years like a scab.

My first mistake was to start planting immediately. Every gardener (including me) will tell you to wait at least one year before adding anything or making major changes to a new property. We all agree it’s important to learn the lay of the land; where the sun shines as it arcs through the seasons, where the rain collects and doesn’t. Could I wait a single minute after signing the papers for this patch of earth? Nope. We gardeners are a patient bunch—we love to watch things grow—but I can’t imagine any of us being able to resist the urge to plant as soon as we have the chance. Because they also say it takes at least twelve years for a garden to come into its own. (“They” being those gardeners who have tended the same plot for twenty years or more.) Please. My garden is almost two-thirds of the way through its twelve year sentence and I still can’t wait that long.

But now, long since making the mistake of haste, I can see the virtue in thinking before digging. Not only do I wish I had spent more time planning my garden before filling it to the gills but sometimes I kick myself for not springing for a consultation with a professional designer. Someone with an eye for gracious spaces who might have preempted my inclinations for tall plants near entries, and narrow pathways.

Narrow sideyard path showing my favorite, gifted Lawson cypress before it died. (c. 2013)
Narrow sideyard path showing my favorite and gifted Lawson cypress before it died. (c. 2013)

Sticking to a plant list matching my garden’s specific cultural conditions and space considerations would have been a good idea too. My biggest challenge lies in falling in love with almost every plant that passes in front of my eyes or nose, and in being incapable of refusing friends’ generosity. Without a proper plan and list, it has been impossible not to break the cardinal rule of gardening: Plant the Right Plant in the Right Place. I have planted a lot of those gifts—right plants every one—in wrong places. Not a big deal when it comes to perennials that manage to survive long enough for me to replant them as appropriate spots become available, but more of a problem with trees and shrubs. Far too many of those have either outgrown their wrong place and clogged the path or failed to thrive in conditions not conducive to health and happiness.

As my garden grows, I’m getting better at saying, “No, thank you” to offers of plants I didn’t know I wanted. That said, every impulsively placed plant has taught me something new about my garden; every edit, transplant, eviction, and untimely death has shown me where there’s room for improvement. Mistakes are great that way. I pick at their scabs not because I want to beat myself up for being a lousy designer, but because it’s the mistakes, more than the successes, that make the garden interesting, and keep it changing and coming into its own, week to week and year by year.

Stay tuned. Z and I just removed a stupidly sited flowering raspberry (Rubus odorous — the leafy green bramble on the right in the above pic). Not only did it crowd the path and bug Z every time he tried to mow (Literally. He kept being stung by its bees.) but it occupied the perfect location for a gifted Hinoki cypress we need move to make way for a house project. Incidentally, I transplanted a few of the raspberry’s suckers into the back border where another gifted evergreen, a cryptomeria this time, suddenly recently failed to thrive. 

What do you learn from your mistakes? Or do you get it right the first time?

Down to earth – winter wish list

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(Originally published in East Bay/South Coast life on February 7, 2015, right after our first blizzard.)

When I spoke before about being underwhelmed by winter, I probably should have knocked wood. Not that I feel powerful enough to conjure a blizzard, and not that I minded. As storms go, this one (are we calling it Juno?) struck a sublime balance between excitement and compulsory coziness. I wasn’t the least bit inconvenienced by being forced to spend an entire day on the couch with a dog on my feet, and a cup of tea in my paw. And I’m grateful that the blizzard didn’t interfere with any important travel plans. Unless you count the window-rattling gusts that kept waking me from the tour I took of my garden — and everyone else’s — while I lounged on the couch.

Hamamelis x intermedia 'Jelena' -- before the snow.
Hamamelis x intermedia ‘Jelena’ — before the snow.

A week or two ago, when I was still under the impression that winter would prove uneventful, I noticed my witch hazel (Hamamelis × intermedia ‘Jelena’) beginning to bloom and went out to stick my nose into its tiny twist-tie petals. I didn’t expect much. It was a cold day and the petals were still pretty tightly furled. Now that the shrub is half buried in a snow drift, they’re even less likely to release a scent. That’s okay. The promise alone gave me the focus I needed to start working on this year’s wish list.

For starters, I’d like to shoehorn at least one more witch hazel into my garden. Because what could be better than mid-winter flowers that bloom despite blizzards and, come a February thaw will throw a sweet scent across the garden? Never mind that they grow 10-feet tall (or more) with branches like outstretched arms, and there’s no more room at the inn. According to several catalog descriptions, my ‘Jelena’ is unscented. I beg to differ but even so, I’ll keep my eyes out for an H. mollis ‘Boskoop’, which has a reputation for being “intensely fragrant” and decorates itself in bright yellow flowers that thumb their noses at winter’s dull palette even more than Jelena’s orange ones do.

Jelena still blooming under a drift.
Jelena still blooming under a drift.

Speaking of fragrant, and speaking of plants in the witch hazel family (Hamamelidaceae) that bloom before the garden gets going, I almost forgot that winter hazel (Corylopsis glabrescens) has been on my must-have list for years. Ever since I first watched ruffled chains of pale greenish-yellow flowers emerge like handkerchiefs out of a magician’s sleeve from the buds of cultivar ‘Longwood Chimes’ in Blithewold’s Water Garden. I could sit under that shrub for hours just breathing in. (It’s a wonder I ever get any work done at all.)

Never mind, again, that my garden can’t accommodate a 10-15 foot tall shrub with a similar wingspan. Perhaps instead I’ll keep my eye out for the slightly smaller (6 by 8 foot) Corylopsis ‘Winterthur’, a cross between C. pauciflora, which is on the delicate side, and C. spicata, which is supposed to be awesome in every way. Both winter hazels will bloom towards the end of March. They, and the witch hazel, want a spot in partial shade with decent well-drained soil.

Such a wish list — and of course this is only the start — requires a list of another sort. Given that I can’t afford to buy an adjoining piece of property and there isn’t much lawn left to rip out, in order to make room for every new tenant I’ll have to start handing out eviction notices. But that was exactly my plan when I filled this garden with plants that spread with wanton abandon and/or self-sow madly. They have been placeholders. Easy come, easy go. She says. What I need is another day — doesn’t have to be a snow day if that would be inconvenient for any of you — to take a couch-bound tour of the garden again with my hands wrapped around a steaming teacup and a dog on my feet.

By now we’ve had no end of snow days (not that I was here for all of them — more on that later) but I still don’t have a clue how I’m going to shoehorn my wish list in. Do you have room for all of the plants on your list? 

Down to earth — late-summer spring cleaning

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(Originally published on September 17, 2014 in East Bay RI/South Coast Life.)

I think I have it a bit backwards. Isn’t spring supposed to be the time for cleaning and clearing the clutter? I’m on a tear to create some space now. Within reason, of course. I have no intention of tidying up my desk, and I’m certainly not ready to put the garden “to bed.” There are miles of summer and fall left to go and I prefer to leave seedheads standing through the winter anyway. But right now my garden is at its fullest. It’s tall and it’s buzzingly busy with activity. It’s so full, in fact, that the wildlife and I can afford to let a few plants go here and there. This is a great time to think about changes to make next year and try them on for size.

Pennisetum orientale 'Karley Rose' about to eat a daphne
Pennisetum orientale ‘Karley Rose’ about to eat a daphne

Against my better judgment, last year I plunked a fountain grass, Pennisetum orientale ‘Karley Rose’ into one of my foundation beds alongside a tiny hydrangea cutting and a precious little daphne. This spring I threw a few dahlias and nicotiana into the mix. Even at her best, Karley Rose has a late-summer habit that Great Dixter’s Christopher Lloyd might describe as sleazy. She grew at a prodigious rate, especially considering the lousy soil I planted her in, and has lately taken to lounging around, plumes and foliage flopped all over her more interesting bedfellows. Before I evict this plant for good (anyone have just the spot?) I’m going to whack it back by at least half to give those other plants some breathing room again and make extra-sure I’ll prefer the bed without it.

Late entries -- brachyscome and orange zinnias
Late entries — brachyscome and orange zinnias

There are still swallowtail butterflies in the garden thanks to a healthy crop of fennel (plants in the parsley family are swallowtail caterpillar hosts) growing in the bed closest to my driveway, but I wanted to see what life might be like if we could actually walk down the path to the plantry door, and edited out a good two-thirds. It’s as if that bed’s edges have been sharpened. And the holes I created were just right for tucking in some last-minute color: bright orange zinnias and a companionable blue brachyscome daisy. I know without even looking that I want more of those colors in my garden next year.

I’m in love with the rice paper plant (Tetrapanax paperifer ‘Steroidal Giant’) planted in my backyard border. Its 18-inch wide matte-green pinwheel leaves change the scale of the garden and make me smile. But they also provide a little too much shade for all of the regular-sized plants tucked in nearby. This season, the rice paper plant’s third in my garden, it finally sent out a few suckers that filled some gaps along the back of the border and grew to shade out a bit more of the front. The other day I removed a couple of offshoots to let the daylight back into the bed (they’re shallow-rooted and easy to pull) and just like when my handsome husband finally shaved off his hilarious mustache, I wished them back again as soon as they were out. But I’m learning to enjoy the look of my garden’s upper lip without them.

I’ll start on container plants next. The more I consign to the compost now (such as the enormous angel’s trumpet that never bloomed), the fewer will crowd my plantry, living room and cellar this winter. She says.
I’m itching to move some shrubs around, if not out, and a few perennials too. But we’d all be wise to wait for a good soaking rain before rearranging the furniture. In the meantime we can do some spring cleaning to clear the clutter and create some space to play with ideas for next year’s garden.

What kinds of changes are you thinking of making? Are you trying them on for size now too?

Spring cure

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Driving home today with a flat of blue and orange pansies in the wayback I thought about how dependent I have become on their funny monkey faces to cure my spring blues. (Is it just me or do you feel overwhelmed to the point of inertia by the potential of spring?) Almost as soon as the nurseries put pansies out I’m there. This year it feels like very early days but evidently I couldn’t wait. I even tried to resist the urge and then, right before the nearest nursery closed today I invented excuses to go. I suddenly needed to replace a gardening hat I lost over a year ago. I had to buy a pruner holster because I just put mine … somewhere… (It was an expensive flat this year.) potted pansies and stipa 4-13-14My garden is still in its not-pretty-yet stage and the cheerful pots of pansies by my plantry door are totally lipstick-on-a-pig but since I’m not quite ready to tackle all of the dividing and transplanting that my garden requires in spring (it’s Plantiful, doncha know) it felt like the perfect way to ease back into the groove of growing again. And I think I’m a titch happier for it. Money well spent.

It occurred to me to post an old down to earth column on the subject of spring blues and the pansy cure but then I discovered that I already had. Last year. Here.

Do you get the spring blues too? What’s your cure?