Kermit the Frog's initial lamentations eventually morph into an acceptance and celebration of the extraordinary in the seemingly mundane. He teaches us how to look, not simply see, just as we should learn how to listen and not merely hear.
So it is not without a bit of irony that on this day of celebration of all things chlorochrous (perhaps the same irony that green robbed from blue, the color traditionally associated with St. Patrick) that I look to other colors that begin to permeate the landscape--colors that not just punctuate the monotony of omnipresent green, but really highlight its variations in ways that we can more appreciate its distinctiveness and peculiarities.
An early morning walk in the garden revealed an astonishing juxtaposition of the amaranthine ajuga against a field of prasinous moss.
Last year's struggle with the placement of Citronelle Heuchera, if I may, ended with the right decision: the perfect accompaniment to the grey-green blades of Indigo Bearded Iris.
My Sexless, er, I mean Sawtooth Aucuba japonica Serratifolia displays its own sense of humor: a playful protrusion of chartreuse leaf encased florets against its leathery gray leaves that will soon open to reveal Imperial (Tyrian) Purple.
and the color is reflected elsewhere in the garden, closer to the ground, in the guise of the Britt Marie Crawford Ligularia
and, nearby, the (albeit differently colored) candy-cane like spikes of a Diamond Tiara Hosta.
Not to be outdone, blue must, too, make an appearance: a forced appearance, if you ask me. The Heart-Leaf Brunnera, which usually does not sport flowers until it is 5 times the size it is now (at least 6 inches tall), was compelled to bring the sky down, treated as it were with week-long temperatures in the 70s. Who can lament a cerulean blue in the garden, even if it is premature?
Hours before its partial eclipse, and hours before its totality, the waxing gibbous moon rose in the dusky blue sky above Wilmington. At first, it was barely noticeable, a faint disk set against a hazy, steel-blue backdrop. But as it ascended into the darkening azure sky, its color became more pronounced: its reddish hue became deeper, richer, then gradually shaded to salmon, and now, at 9:11 p.m., appears vibrant red-orange. Here it is: the Strawberry or Rose Moon, Vanguard of the Early Summer Evening Sky.
Red: the color of the lascivious and the corporeal. Red pulses through our veins; titillates the extremities and urges; commands attention; connotes courage; signals danger and, in some cultures, death; and pushes the bounds of excitability.
Tempestuous and audacious, the primal force of red awakens the creative spirit, propels, compels, seizes, and rejects. The most dynamic of colors, red magnifies its own power, elevates its self, and projects energy into the world. Paired with the vibrancy of green, red is intensified and uplifts. Juxtaposing red to yellows and oranges inflames its passion. Red set against blues or silvers at first dramatizes, then tames an otherwise mercurial display.
Red—electric and bedazzling—needs tempering, and I think Rose Mallow (Hibiscus coccineus, ‘Blaze Starr’ varietal) knows it. For now, she has swapped the stunning burgundy red hue she has donned over her deeply lobed, palmated leaves for a vibrant green. And I have a theory. In a few weeks, she will sport those accoutrements than have earned her the nickname ‘summer poinsettia’: stunning scarlet red flowers, each with 5 elongated petals, yearning to be ogled and touched.
Rose Mallow is a refreshing garden resident. Her stalwart beauty cheerily greets all who venture to 410’s front steps. And she is confident without being cocky; she relies not always on her floral display to attract attention, but is content to permit her unusual red-hued, serrated foliage to do the work for her. And yet even while she shines, she comfortably recedes into the panoply.
This year red lacks a prominent floral display in my garden: Rose Mallow and a blood red dahlia are left to carry the load that was once shared with red chrysanthemums, among others, which the February winter storms eliminated. But I am finding that lack of red acceptable, for it concentrates and thus heightens the impact of this most vibrant of colors.
I have also found opportunity in those winter losses: I welcomed both Rose Mallow and a Japanese maple into the garden this spring. And I have (re)discovered the joys of texture, color, and variation of foliage—certainly a more understated approach to introducing diversity into the garden, and, I sometimes think, a more effective way of communicating to the outside world and working with color. Sure, we all want to seduced by brilliant, colorful flowers—but too much can be, well, too much. The eye scans, cannot rest, and the garden is a blur. Pockets of color interspersed among rich tapestries of textured, serrated, variegated, hued foliage offers the eye and, more importantly the mind, opportunity for repose and reflection. The garden becomes you, and you become the garden. And we take it with us.
This year, the brilliant red new growth star-shaped leaves of Mountain Fire Pieris japonica, Rose Mallow’s burgundy attire, the potted Vancouver Geranium’s rich burnt red (which intensifies with increased exposure to the sun), Ligularia dentate (Britt Marie Crawford) and the quintessential red Japanese maple serve as the Vanguard of the Garden, quietly ascending, offering, like the Strawberry Moon, a dazzling array of colorful variation and permitting us to see deep into and beyond the early summer haze.
Viet promised me a surprise on 7 May, but there was a catch: I needed to bring with me $100 in cash. Any reasonable person would think this suspicious, but as I do not pretend to be reasonable, I trekked to the ATM after my hair appointment and withdrew my cash. (Note to friends: this trick may not work in the future, so please don’t try it on me.) Being familiar with Viet’s tortured relationship with cardinal directions, I asked if he knew how to get to this undisclosed location (hoping Cheney would not be there…sorry, I couldn’t resist!), and he gleefully announced that he checked Mapquest. We were on our way.
At first I thought he was deliberately trying to disguise the destination by veering down odd side streets, but then it became clear: he was lost. He asked if I knew Rockford Park, and I blurted, “We’re going to the Rockford Park Plant Sale?!”
He tried to deny it of course, but then we had to ask construction workers for directions. Once we arrived, we left the car. He insisted that this was not the plant sale but a Mother’s Day carnival. I was skeptical, but as we ascended the hill (the only one in Delaware?), a Ferris Wheel gradually came into view. An inverse relationship developed: for every increase in elevation, my mood descended into disappointment. To disguise this, I simply reminded him that I had a thesis defense to conduct in 3 hours (which was true).
We crested the hill and I surveyed the landscape: amusement park rides, food booths, tents… and, huh? Plants? One tent for “donor plants,” another for “perennials,” one for herbs, another for vegetables, one for annuals and one for houseplants… The effect, especially after a bout of disappointment, cannot be described: here I was at Wilmington’s celebrated annual ROCKFORD PARK PLANT SALE with $115 in my pocket. This was my orgiastic moment, my immediate future!
I left with $2 in my pocket. Viet knows me well--hence his prescience to limit my available funds.
My purchases, you wonder?
Three Corsican mint plants; two patchouli plants; 2 lemon thyme; 1 lemon grass; 1 Gaura Whirling Butterfly; 1 Guacamole hosta; 1 Ligularia dentate (Britt-Marie Crawford); 1 Hellebore (an unusual, palm and lace leaf style white hellebore); 1 large Lady’s Mantle to replace the two Gramsci generously watered; and one red Japanese maple.
Owing to my insane work schedule of late, I’ve only gradually planted these sources of happiness. A few days ago, the lemon thyme plants found their way in the front garden, and the patchouli in a pot. But the Guacamole hosta remains pot-bound. I can’t figure out where to put it.
So now I experience Viet’s syndrome: being lost in space. If his strain manifests as being directionally challenged, then mine appears in the form of being situationally challenged. Space itself has eluded me. True, the beds are lush this year, but room remains. Somehow, though, Guacamole hosta doesn’t seem to “pop” anywhere I place it. It is a showcase plant—and deserves, like the deep red stemmed and purple-leafed Ligularia Britt-Marie Crawford, to be situated "just-so."
For now, though, "Guac's" residence in a plastic pot, root-bound, yearning to spread its roots and make nice with its new neighbors, testifies to my inabilities and is a consequence of my aesthetic desire for perfection. But, as Viet cleverly salvaged his surprise from the grips of his “affliction,” (aided no doubt by the presence of carnival rides), Guacamole hosta salvages me from, well, me. She reminds me that all things good are not necessarily all perfect. And we shouldn’t have it any other way.
