A Gathering In

 

This fall has been a long, slow, luxurious time for harvest. Mostly, it's been a gathering in of beauty. I really appreciate Japanese maples for their form and the beauty of their tiny baby-hand leaves. But I love them most in November, when they start coming into color as all the other trees lose their last leaves. Thank you, Japanese maples.

 These are the two liberated bonsais now living in the yard.

I enjoy imagining them back in their tiny pots, twenty-three years ago. They've always been full-grown trees. It's just that being in the ground lets them realize their full potential of growth.

Here's to being planted in good ground.

I keep the bonsais out on display until they're pretty much leafless. Then it's time to put them to bed for the winter.

I've been thankful every minute for the mild, sunny weather this fall. It makes everything so much easier. 

As many of you know, I've been wintering these trees in a pit in the backyard. When they got too tall for the pit, I started heeling them in on their sides. Then I'd cover the pit with glass for the winter. I had to take it off and water them every couple of weeks. 

When they got too big for that, I built the pit higher with cinder blocks. 

And then they got too big for that.

This fall I'd finally had it with trying  to shoehorn them into the pit. They were losing branches from being half-buried on their sides.  And I realized I had been fighting this for more than a decade, and decided to change the program.

I decided to ask Bill to dig a hole in the nice loose loam of our vegetable garden, and bury the unpotted trees halfway up their trunks. This would put them about 8" underground, far enough, I think, to keep the roots from freezing.  They'd be in a deer-proof enclosure as well in Jurassic Garden.

Bonsais awaiting burial. At this point, my back was still buggin' me and I couldn't do it myself. I was very grateful for the boys' help.

 I was there in a supervisory capacity, helping bury the trees. I hope this works. It's got to be better for the trees than being half-buried in soil. If it gets wickedly cold, I may heap fresh straw over them to help insulate the tops from the cold. But they should be just as hardy as the big trees in the yard.

While the boys dug, I harvested the sweet potatoes. Last spring I found a sprouty sweet potato in the cupboard and lopped off the top third and stuck it right in the garden soil.

The fork turned up the most marvelous treasure!

A dozen red yams from 1/3 of one--that's math I understand. And the coolest thing, to me, was the way the yam fragment I'd planted in May stayed intact. It didn't rot or wither away. It simply sent out a fountain of roots that then made a headdress of tubers. That we are now eating. 

Being a tropical plant, I wonder if this old yam piece would keep on going, throwing out tubers, but for November cold. I guess I'll never know.

As I worked around the yard, I took stock of all the lovely things still clinging to life after one frost.

My old tea rose "Rio Samba" is on its way out. It sent up only two blooms this year, off one thin stalk.  How fitting that it should push forth a flower in November.

I watched the bud swell, while the zinnia hung in there, waiting.

The rose seemed to find strength from the red zinnia that found itself in similar straits: blooming in November, the last leaf on the tree. 

I found myself going out at dawn, dusk and other times to photograph them together. I liked the way they clung together.

By and by the rose opened full, and the sweet sunny days wore on and on. 

All told, they had more than two weeks together, rain and shine, watching the winter come on. For flowers, that's an eternity. Something was keeping them fresh. Maybe the cold nights.

 I found myself visiting those two flowers at all times of the day. 

My favorite shot of them together conjured a Sheryl Crow lyric from "Home."

I want to watch the sun come up

In a stranger's arms

That same morning, looking the other way...you can see the Groanhouse twinkling with lights and flowers. I'm already looking inward, building my fortress against the dreary winter.
What's my choice? Killing frost and snow are coming soon. Get those twinkly lights up, girl. Bring in everything blooming, cheat winter as much as you can.

And the rose and zinnia bloom on.

 I think this will be the last blossom we see from Rio Samba. There's no way it's going to send up another shoot next spring. It's 20 years, and goodbye. You were the best rose of all.

And then I walked out to see them on November 21, and a deer had come in the night and nipped off the rose, leaving the classic angled snip of a white-tail's tooth. 

A single petal lay on the patio. And the zinnia bloomed on.  If she mourned her sweet fragrant friend she wasn't going to show it. She was going to trudge on, into winter.

But I thought she looked a little puffy under the eyes.

And just behind them, what was left of the great morning glory tower bloomed on, taking warmth from the cement patio.

 

I had cut the frost-bitten top off the vine, and carted it over to my brush dump. While taking another load days later, I found Zombie Glories still blooming on the pile. Rootless but hopeful.

 I kept shooting the morning glories that were left, this miniature landscape of ethereal color, withered balloons of flowers past and the twirled buds of flowers yet to come, frost permitting.

 

 I'm pretty sure this is my last photo of morning glories. November 21. That's darn late, and I'm thankful to have had their beauty, however tattered, for this long.

Fall rituals: the hoisting of the Halloween jack-o-lantern to the top of the tower for tossing off. Liam's up top, cranking the dumbwaiter to raise the pumpkin, which is in a laundry basket. It was so far gone that when tossed 42' to the ground, it vaporized on impact, which made us laugh for a long time.

And the dog warms his old bones by Liam's birthday fire. Like a cat, he jumps up, finds the warmth wherever it will be found.

Autumn Plant Love

Thought you might like a peek into the greenhouse on a rainy late autumn day. 

I lugged a huge Jasminum polyanthemum into the greenhouse this evening. I'd left it out through a light frost, then relented. I found that it had sunk roots right down through the drain holes of its pot, deep into the soil of my shade garden. No wonder it never seemed to fret when I forgot to water it!

That durn plant hasn't bloomed since I bought it as a tiny baby at Trader Joe's two winters ago. It bloomed its head off, then put all further energy for the next two years into foliar growth. It's taller than me now, and it has some tiny hopeful looking buds, but I've been fooled before. I'll give it one more winter. If it doesn't bloom this year, heave HO. Hear that, JP?

This abutilon has no such issues. Man, those things love to blossom. Not only that, they laugh at being dug up and repotted. Fine. Whatever. Get out of my way, I have another dozen flowers to make. Gotta love the Malvaceae. Some amazing plants in that family...see below.

I adore this pink and red Rex begonia. Can't leave it outside.

This truly extraordinary gardenia, sent by reader Diana Hunt via Smith and Hawken last winter after the Big Freeze. It's given and given and given, and it's gloriously healthy and just got its third repot. Still saying CHEER UP!! 

Who can ignore Hibiscus "The Path?" Not me! This, a gift from soul sister Donna in Virginia, also sent as a balm for the Big Freeze last winter. And she's dwarfing the tangerine-orange hibiscus that was my favorite before she flounced onto the scene.

Advance reviews from Logee's Greenhouse website stated that this big dramatic diva of a hibiscus would keel over and die if temperatures dipped below 60. Not so. She's fussy, and a bit of a princess, but she's faced low 50's and proven not prone to die. She's a welcome challenge. 

How could I not accommodate her demands?  A plant that flowers like this is like a singer hitting and holding that impossible high note, the one that raises the hair on your arms. 

Buttercrunch, anyone? It's finally cold enough to bring the "Container Babies" butterhead lettuce into the comforting warmth of the greenhouse. The white heliotrope is delighted to be indoors, too, and is blooming unabated, filling the air with cherry vanilla cinnamon bun scent. 

I asked a stolid and hearty Chet Baker to pose for me next to the best of my bonsais for the annual bonsai family portrait. Good boy, Bacon. You are a patient and long-suffering doggeh.  These not-so- little trees, waist high to me now, are a delight to the eye and heart when they turn. I remember the first fall I had them as tiny seedlings. There was something so magical about these potted seedlings turning color just like the big ones, and right on time. That magic has never faded.

A week later, the maroons and greens went to flame. And when the leaves reach their most brilliant scarlet, they fall. 

I've got the bonsais' overwintering pit all ready--weeded and the soil turned and loosened-- for them, but oh, how I hate to lay them to rest. I miss them all winter. But that's what the greenhouse is for, right?

 Think I'll head down there now.

A Bonsai, Liberated

We awoke on November 12 to find everything covered in 2" of fresh wet snow.

Man. That big red house looks boss against snow and icy blue cirrus-brushed skies. Whoo. 

A bit later the sun broke out, and a postcard-blue sky shone. I guess it's time to haul in the lawn furniture. November 12. Snow.  Huh. Somehow having a barn red house makes it more fun. 

I had a feeling the Japanese maple needed its picture taken.

Only a week earlier, it had turned the most amazing shades of maroon and glowing orange, underlain by forest green. I don't think there's a thing I don't love about Japanese maples. I love their tiny starry leaves, the way their graceful branches spread out, the dappled shade they throw, the way they stay small and compact for decades, their smooth graybrown limbs, the colors they turn in fall. 

 This one, believe it or not, was once one of my bonsais. It just wanted to grow straight up. It was having no part of being potted. So I planted it in the yard. Whooop! now that was a good decision. It's got a twin in the backyard who's just as lovely.

 I am eyeing two of my younger bonsais right now, in fact, thinking I will plant them out. They're no great shakes as potted specimens. Neither was this one. 

Planted out, this stubborn thin tree that wanted only to grow up instead of out changed its mind in the most magnificent way. 

It's the same age as my big potted bonsais, but big enough to eat your lunch beneath. And that's just what the Before and After Remodeling crew did while they were re-siding and painting the house. It made me smile every time to see them using a bonsai as shade. Wish I'd taken a picture of that. Instead, here's Terry of the BatBoxes sharing his lunch with Chet beneath said maple. 

This morning, snow fell on that tree.

Snow on the baby hands.

An early snow, but a good one. 

I know the maple will soon drop all its leaves, like a tired woman drops her dress at the end of a long day. I have to look at her as much as I can until that time. 

Terry's observation bat box, waiting for tenants, looking toward spring. The maple, still in blazing beauty, looking toward winter. 

Autumn, Don't Leave.

Before. November 5, 2013, my biggest bonsai at its absolute peak of color. Ahhhh!

This morning, November 12, 2013. Siggghhh.

Autumn, don't leave.

I don't want to put my little beauties in their winter grave.

I knew they wouldn't stay this beautiful. I knew I had to look at them as much as possible before it would all be over. So I did.

And this morning, it was all over.  Ah, but still so graceful, so beautiful.

In the next week or so I'll have to bundle them up and prep them for the winter. This means taking them out of their pots, wrapping their trunks in aluminum foil (the only way I've found to foil bark-eating voles. I think it hurts their fillings.)

I'll dig all the spearmint and goosefoot out of the bonsai pit and I'll heel them carefully in, on their sides. I'll cover the rootballs with soil, water them in and lay a glass shower door over top of the pit.

I'll check them all winter and water them when they dry out. 

I've been doing this for 21 years in this place, and ten years before that for the big trees. 

Something so beautiful doesn't happen overnight.

Autumn, don't leave. 

Ouroboros!

In my last post, I mentioned that standing at ornithologist William Brewster's grave was a full-circle moment.


But that's Mt. Auburn Cemetery--full of such full circles. Like this one. How odd. A snake, eating its own tail.

And look! another one. What the heck? Back to the bricks to find out.

It's an ancient Greek symbol called an Ouroboros (from oura meaning "tail" and boros meaning "eating", thus "he who eats the tail". I was pleased that just looking at it and guessing, Hodge and I figured out what it must mean--that death is not an end but a renewal, a rebirth. Cyclicality, rebirth, re-invention. There are, of course, much more convoluted, Jungian meanings to the symbol, but we'll just leave it at that.

 A nice emblem for a mausoleum or headstone. And another thing to look for as we walk Halcyon Way. 

A feeble attempt to find out something about Lars Peter Larsen came to naught. Heck of a piece of rose quartz, though. It felt cool and soapy, utterly delightful that they left it in its uncut form, just this giant jewel dropped out of the sky with a plaque bolted to it.

And here is Charles Sumner, for whom Boston's Sumner Tunnel is named. Hodge says that 

she learned from reading David McCullough's Americans In Paris  that while studying philosophy at the Sorbonne, Sumner worked right alongside students from Africa, and had a gigantic epiphany that there could be no denying the intellectual equality of Africans, so cruelly enslaved and oppressed in his own country. He became an abolitionist and when he died, both whites and African Americans lined Boston's streets five deep to view his funeral cortege.

Hodge further advises that a congressman from South Carolina clocked Charles Sumner in the Senate chambers with a cane in 1856, a blow from which he never fully recovered. Here's to mouthy abolitionists. 

So many good, good people. So humbling, to stand above them.

All that, and Japanese Stewartia, too. Glorious bark, at its best in winter. 

 This one, planted in 1939 (!) to honor Ann Silverman Sheingold, Wife-Mother-Mentor-Friend. We'll leave it at that. Oh, all right. She was a therapist and clinical social worker, born in 1930, who passed away in 1995. Teacher and lecturer, too. A lovely tree in her memory. Stewartia pseudocamellia.

  I'm just trying to figure out how the tree could have gotten planted to honor her when she was nine. Maybe you can buy the right to put a plaque on an especially awesome tree that happens to be growing at Mt. Auburn, to honor a loved one after the fact. I'd pick a bendy old Japanese maple, that's what I'd pick. Put me under one o' them. 

On second thought, after a bit of shuffling around, I found this photo taken near Asheville NC of Phoebe with a Stewartia in full bloom. Good Grief!! I didn't even know what I was shooting at the time. Thought it was a real camellia. Nope. Stewartia. By gum. What a tree. Now I know what I want for my birthday...

Hmm. Still...maybe I'll have someone plant out one of my old bonsais in the orchard when I shoot through. I've been tending them for 30 years...just put them to bed for the winter...what tree could be nearer to my heart?

I know just the guy to do it. He should be digging a little better by then.

Life--when well-lived, it's full of ouroboros. Your challenge: Use my new favorite word in a sentence today.