Seasons of flowers

Seasons of flowers

When the last heap of the winter’s snow melts into the warming earth, and the Lupines burst out of the ground like small green flames, fresh looking, and ready for another season I inhale.  I waited for them all winter long, relishing on the assurance that once the snow recedes and the ground warms up they will break open from its frozen hold. Soon their heads constitute of dozens purple beads will mature and open.

After eight years of tending to my garden I now know what to expect, first the Lupines, then the orange Azalea, in the corner of the front garden. It will be followed by the green wide-leafed Hostas, (commonly known as hostas, plantain lilies particularly in Britain, and occasionally by the Japanese name giboshi.) and already I am peeking every morning at the far end of the lawn watching for the Rhododendron to show its clusters of pink flowers, relieved that it survived another winter. I watch the Lilacs in the back, heavy with fragrant flowers, and just as the Lupines fade the Wisteria is coming to life. So dazzled by the spring bloom I almost forget to notice my Clematis, the one I uprooted and brought with me when we moved here, and is now rewarding me, clinging to my entrance door, with its glorious giant flowers.

Talking about uprooting I think of my Wild Orange Daylilies (Hemerocallis fulva). Those I met for the first time when I came to the US. Seeing them growing at the side of the road, they immediately became my favorites. There were none on the grounds of the motel when we got here, but I read that they can be easily transplanted from other gardens and that what I did.  One of the ladies in our housekeeping stuff brought me a box full, and I planted them along the ditch that runs the length of our front border, separating the motel from the road. I was not sure how the young plants were going to take, but with each year they become bigger and bigger. This year marks the sixth year from the time I planted them.  As I mow the lawn, I make sure to inspect them and marvel at their somewhat unruly appearance, and bright orange flowers that can be seen clearly from the far side of our lawn. Each one blooms for one day and is gone until next year.

I give myself credit for another small addition to our lawn’s flora; this one took just a small intervention on my side when I planted some new nine cattails (Typha latifolia) in the muddy ditch. A bunch of them grew on the right side of the road leading in, but being another favorite of mine I wanted them to spread to the other side. So I bought some young shoots and climbed into the murky water to plant them. They are still young and frail looking, but holding their ground. 

Three months of glory in my garden, starting with anticipation and the swelling of the buds, to the burst of growing, ending with the slow process of perish.

Then fall comes with its pallet of reds and yellows that fade into somber browns. With the fall come my least favorite flowers, the mums, (Wild Chrysanthemum taxa). When I see them, I feel how tired I am from the summer frenzy, maybe ready for the winter slumber. I am ashamed to say that everything about this flower annoys me, and for years I refused to plant them, but being an obvious choice to give my decks some last minute color, I resign to buying few and stick them in the planters.

When the curtains finally draw and winter descends I think of my wild lilies, and the next summer when I will zoom by them caressing them with proud maternal look, they make me ponder about patience, and persistence, and about living it for all it worth when all you have is one day to live.

*Names of plants from Wikipedia