Adult Pleasures VI: Boozing it up

Oh baby! (We've not had some dirty thoughts in such a long time...so be forewarned! After all, wasn’t Santa looking out for nice and naughty?! And isn't that hoary frost on my Euphorbia?!)

It’s that time of year when we’re all rockin’ around the Christmas Tree (or the Hanukkah Bush), having a little egg nog with our Bourbon, and sipping on (more than) a few Pomegranate Martinis. Sip on too many and maybe you might just see that bright red nosed reindeer that Johnny Marks, Jewish-American songwriter, so affectionately called Rudolph, high in the sky!

Or are those red-tips from something else entirely?

Why don’t you just save yourself a not-so-merry little hangover and come on over to my garden instead! Euphorbia x martini Rudolph Waleuphrud is gradually succeeding the Asteraceae family on his way to becoming the star of the winterizing front sun garden—and what a specimen he is! How could he not be?! With Martini in his name and sporty red-tips his game, he offers something for everyone: with circular bracts of joyful apple and lime green florets surrounding stunningly red star-shaped centers in the spring; clumping upright habit of dark green with reddish undertoned evergreen (that is, non-herbaceous) leaves; and red rosettes (like Rudolph's fabled nose!) throughout winter that offer just that dose of holiday cheer we so desperately need during the monotonous pre-snow brown-season, Rudolph adds unexpected joy (unexpected for me, since I fixated on the term “Martini” and conveniently glossed over all other relevant information … “what a lush!” my dear reader must be uttering!).

Rudolph, with your bracts so bright, won’t you guide my garden tonight (and until spring)? [Keep singing...]

Oh how the gardeners love him,

As they shout his name with glee,

Rudolph the red-tipped Euphorbia,

You’ll go down ever so easy!

Uh, yeah, that last line had more to do with my Pomegranate martini than my dear Rudolph…You certainly wouldn’t want to drink him because he is, like all Euphorbias, poisonous—so poisonous in fact that his milky-white liquid on your skin will produce quite the nasty rash!

Ah, Rudolph Waleuphrud… he’s so dreamy.

If he loves you, he’ll do wondrous things before your eyes… like send up this lone and quite unseasonal spike of florets, tempting me towards spring which feels at the moment ever so far away. Any man who brings me cut flowers...well, now... he must be hot for me. (But then again, his red leafed rosettes are not quite as red as the garden guides indicate. True, these things take time, and the process of reddening has only just begun.)

Regardless: I blush with excitement.

(Or perhaps that’s the Pomegranate Martini I drink in his honor.)

Arendt in my Garden

Faced with adversity, we may flee or we may battle—“flight or fight,” so the adage goes—but we may do something else that the adage neglects: we may retreat into ourselves.

True, the category of “flight” may be construed as including anything that does not constitute fighting. But here, as with most clichés, we encounter definitional imprecision and categorical difficulty. Does retreat to strategize, to formulate a method of attack—an ode to that human capacity for reasoning/thinking, I suppose—constitute fight or flight? The problem is that the adage confines us to animalistic predisposition; possibilities are superficially reduced; categories are broadened beyond reasonable interpretation.

Thus it may seem odd, given the human – animal antimony I pose above to look to the plant kingdom for answers. But we find that the Rhododendron and the evergreen Viburnums, among others, teach us something not just about themselves, but about ourselves.

As winter increasingly grips the region with its icy clutches, the Rhododendrons and the Viburnums retreat back into themselves. To protect their leathlike leaves, they bring them closer to their bodies, curling their sides and reducing their aerial spread—as if their stems exude an imperceptible but salvational warmth that delivers those leaves from winter’s harsh desiccating winds and bouts of frigidity.

This is a strategy, a method that our adage would relegate to flight, but which really is both and neither. It is a time-tested coping mechanism, simultaneously a form of flight from winter (though deciduous and herbaceous they are not!) and a form of fight against winter (an intrepid resilience in the face of adversity that cannot change reality, but adapts to it).

Likewise, we humans use our bodies to indicate to others our modes of response to adversity around us. I watched a colleague in a meeting yesterday. She rested her elbows on the table, brought her arms close together against her body, her hands either clasped under her chin or her hands resting against the sides of her face—as if she withdrew into herself, looking ardently at the table and papers in front of her, listening intently as we discussed sensitive issues. I spoke not to my colleagues, but to the table, carefully and deliberately avoiding eye contact thinking that if I did I would not provoke an angry response or any unfavorable reaction. Others spoke more forcefully and directly at and to others. In the end, issues were resolved—but not primarily through fight or flight, but through what I think of as retreat. Each of us, in our own peculiar ways, withdrew back into the recesses of ourselves, guided and constrained by an initial decision that essentially and strategically clipped the wings of all present—a brilliant strategy precisely because it emphasized, whether intentionally or not, that the options at stake were really not objectionable. Preferences could and did harden when countered with other preferences, but really those preferences were more innocuous than not. “Clipping our wings” or curling our leaves and reducing their aerial spread underscored that in the end we adapt to the realities before us even as we try to shape those realities. Clichés simply cannot capture such nuance.

The eminent political theorist Hannah Arendt (1906 – 1975) warned us of the dangers of a life lived as thoughtless adherence to cliché in her reports of the 1961 trial of Adolf Eichmann for The New Yorker, which she reworked and published as the (at the time) controversial book Eichmann in Jerusalem. And so I think of her as I think of that meeting and look to the winterizing landscape, foretold by the rhododendrons and viburnum, and feel a particular warmth exuded by the knowledge that Arendt lives on in so many ways—the garden perhaps being the most unexpected.  

Remains of the Day

Our lives, it seems, are mostly spent in the service of others, though the terms of our service both vary—educating youth or trading stock, fire fighting or serving food, nursing patients or manufacturing products—and are (for most of us, anyhow) much less repugnant than in times past.

We do not, I observe, often reflect on such service, or even think of what we do as serving others. So self-referential has become the I, that the presence of the Other, the You, recedes far into the background not as a subject but as an object to be controlled, manipulated, managed. Consequently, our conception of community becomes diluted.

Our preferred formulations of that which we do have lost a vocabulary and a certain sense of service: “I work at ____ [fill in the blank]” or “I am a _____” are statements in which the self or the singular "I" stand at the center of our individual universes. There is no necessary danger in that. Rather, the danger is in thinking this universe is the all of our lives. As one Wilmington, Delaware billboard facing the northbound lanes of I-95 tells me, “It Really is All About You.”

Students, patients, customers, consumers: these become not the subjects of our professions but, if we are not careful, the scourge of them.

To be fair, that billboard is the advertisement of a local bank, and thus the subject of it is the customer. Surely, we would all agree, our hard-earned money is ours, and we care that it is not recklessly invested, FDIC guarantees notwithstanding. We intuit the billboard’s message as ultimately acceptable not for what it says in the literal sense, but for what it communicates.

And so I wonder what we make of service: what remains at the end of the day?

Stevens, the imperturbable butler in Kazuo Ishiguro’s 1989 Booker Prize masterpiece, The Remains of the Day, played ever so superlatively by Anthony Hopkins in the eponymous film adaptation, has, after a near-lifetime of service to others, finally the opportunity to reflect on the terms of his service to Lord Darlington--a staunch advocate, if not architect, of appeasement (an obviously not dangerous word in some British circles, 1938). To complicate matters, he must manage his feeling for Miss Kenton, the head housekeeper, played by the ever brilliant actress, Emma Thompson--which he manages the same way he manages the death of his father, the former chief butler of the Darlington estate. Stevens’ self-imposed repressive silence drips off the page, or off the screen. The reader/viewer feels the angst and the tension. {I feel it now while writing this.} Stevens does not question, for he has taken our condition to the opposite extreme: the terms of service to others dictate the annihilation of self outside of “private hours” (of which, in such a grand estate, there were few).  

In what may seem a tangential connection to the garden, I do reflect on the nature of my service to the 2010 garden and the nature of my garden’s service to me, especially as late autumn has settled into the Delaware Valley. The competition between seasons has intensified, and after an unseasonable bout of warm, humid weather several days ago, the temperatures suddenly plunged in the wake of a cold front. The long range forecast calls for evening lows in the 20s, and daytime high in the 30s or 40s. {Not cold for some of you, but the beginnings of a Delaware winter nevertheless.}

With the hard frosts last week, the garden has passed into memory. Le (2010) jardin c’est mort. Vive le jardin.

I scan the garden beds. The community--the garden itself, the myriad of specimens and the singular "I" which exists to create and tend to the garden--has lapsed into a virtual silence. Remains of the season surround me: the dried conical vestiges of Oak Leaf Hydrangea, brown and crisp, neatly contrast to the slender verticality of yellowed Shenandoah Switch Grass.  The verdancy of Nandina assumes a fervid character in this yellowed and browned autumnal palette, its own preternaturally radiant red berries contrasting with itself. {The clumps of berries are sparse this year owing to the virus that caused the astonishing decimation of the Honey Bee, the Colony Collapse Disorder, which is a stark reminder of our sheer dependence on the little Honey Bee for pollination and, consequently the fruits (and vegetables!) of their labor.} And the still rose-burgundy globes of the Nikko Blue Hydrangea begin to enter their final phase: brown.

And I have come to a new realization. We do not so much preside over the end of one season, witness the deaths of tender plants, and watch the herbaceous perennials rapidly retreat back into the soil, and the deciduous tress and shrubs self-denude--the sinuous architecture of this Climbing Hydrangea a visceral reminder to all those who prefer the orgiastic delight of the flesh that beauty runs much deeper. To be more philosophical about it, this may very well embody Kant's pithy notation that "out of the crooked timber of humanity no straight thing was ever made." Sure, we did not make this Climbing Hydrangea--it unfolded not merely out of an internal teleology, but was shaped and prodded into development by the conditions in which it was situated. But in its imperfections, in its staunch resistance to the shapes we invariably impose on it, in its very naturalness, it nonetheless exudes an exceptionality and a beauty we cannot replicate.  


Rather, we prepare for the arrival of a new one. We collect our clay pots and scrub them with a bleach solution; we clean our tools; we decide which plants to overwinter and which to relegate to the grand garden in the sky; we cover beds with the compost we have let cook all season; we shred leaves and add to them the newly vacant compost heap; we plant our bulbs; and we begin our vigil for the next season, looking for hope in the space where Winter Aconite will appear in mild Januarys or to the winter blooming varietals of Witch Hazels…

Remains of the day are, yes, those remnants and residues of a life lived. Some do pass as the cycle of life dictates, but they are pause for reflection for the next stage. Our service to others, be they plants or animals or people, continues And so we beat on…encouraged by the verdant fortitude of the Holly Fern...borne  back ceaselessly into the past, but also, miraculously, deep into the future.

Busy as a Beaver

...so busy that I haven't been able to finish this post...

My camera is too unsophisticated, or, more correctly, I am too unsophisticated, to take a crisp, detailed photo of Sunday evening's full Beaver moon (21 November)--the kind of photos that ones sees in magazine spreads...or on other people's blogs.

Nevertheless, there was something captivating about the moon as it rose above the tree tops, yellow in hue, an aura of haze surrounding it. It was perfectly autumnal, appropriate in color and form for Thanksgiving.

That same day, the resident front garden Praying Mantis decided to relocate to the living room screen. I wonder if it was the male escaping the female's insatiable, post-coitus appetite, or if it was the female, sated.

Color in the Garden: Black

Black is not usually a color we associate with the garden, though black flowers are increasingly popular choices for those who wish to (a) make a statement; (b) create a “postmodern” flower garden—especially when the color palette is restricted to black, perhaps with pockets of white, and a few shades of deep purple—though I honestly have not seen such a garden, I certainly can envision it; and (c) cool down hot colors.

The choices are numerous: Queen of the Night Tulip (which I lugged back from the Netherlands this summer); “Superstition” Bearded Iris; Black Cosmos; “Romantika” Clematis; “Arabian Night” Dahlia; “Starling” Daylily; Fritillaria; Ace of Spades Scabiosa; and Sweet William Dianthus, among many others. However, for the purist, few of these will satisfy for the purple or maroon undertones are clearly present. 

Britons, however, will especially delight in the news that horticulturalist have bred into existence (after 4 years of attempts!) a new black petunia named “Black Velvet.” I seethe with jealousy.

But I refer not to black as the color of flowers, though now I’ve over-stimulated myself thinking of/planning a predominantly black flower bed, though I have no space for such indulgence.

No, the black I refer to is the black of the dahlia, post-frost. It is a pathetic color, nay, a condition or a malady that relegates once firm deep green leaves to a greenish-black mush, rather like those healthy veggie/fruit/grass concoctions one pays dearly for at Whole Foods.

Rest assured, these leaves are not going in my blender anytime soon.

The Fire that Was, but also Wasn’t

Every color in the garden speaks, and if one listens closely enough, one hears dramatic stories.

Some colors, of course, announce themselves with reckless abandon (Rose Mallow tends toward this extreme when in full bloom, though her stylish couture belies the fervency of her speech; but somehow we need and welcome her in the torpid height of summer). 

Others prefer to converse in whisper (lavender, so ethereal, prefers, I think, her understated elegance; she converses not primarily through vocalization but through scent).

Reds tend to be associated with the former category, for obvious reasons. But remarkably red, if used in particular sorts of ways, can actually mollify.

The fire that was, but also wasn't: fortunately I write of a metaphoric fire, to the blazing Burning Bush which, for the first time in residence at 410, has offered the fieriness its name promises. In a mere 4 days, Burning Bush shed its green-burgundy hue and bled a hellacious red.

Burning Bush usually conquers the autumn landscape. When situated in grand spaces, in groups and without attendant competition, Burning Bush makes a majestic statement. Along the Interstate 95 corridor in Delaware, one sees clumps of Burning Bush in the median between northbound and southbound lanes: and the effect is sublimely wondrous (no doubt placement was planned: for as with the the masses of forsythia in the spring, drivers slow down to absorb the display).  

  

Perhaps surprisingly, then, Burning Bush, when set against a tapestry of greens, purples, violets, and other reds, is subdued. Depending on its hue, and depending on the garden scape within which it is set, Burning Bush’s repertoire changes. 

It may perform the magisterial bass in the autumn garden opera, the weighty authority figure lamenting the declining kingdom or the high priest issuing last rites for those over whom it once presided.

Or it may become the baritonal villain: dominating the somber autumn garden opera since the gardener has, wittingly or unwittingly, not written into script the myriad of others who make the opera the dialogue it is supposed to be.

Or it may perform the tenor, the illustrious romantic lead who sings a dramatic climax in the company of his lover(s), or seeps into emotive, gut-wrenching soliloquy when the love object passes. I use Burning Bush in singular, dramatic dose. He is the tenor in my opera; but I temper his effects by filtering out his color throughout the garden. The Tall Purpletop Verbena exposes his purple undertones, while Euphorbia echoes his blushing burgundy, and the dahlias, my many sopranos, mirror the richness of his love.

This interplay and diffusion of red is best captured, I think, by Henri Matisse: his

The Red Studio (1911), on display at MoMa in New York and The Red Room (1908), on view at The Hermitage in St. Petersburg, Russia, in particular portray red as the complex character it is. Red becomes but a background, establishes itself as a stage, and fades into itself: at once the necessary focal point, at once subdued, for other colors perform the work we usually attribute to red. But absent red, those other colors would fail to excite, and the paintings would be dull representations of themselves. Matisse intuited this, and gave us placated drama instead. The red in The Red Studio is a burnt, muted color, a one-dimensional caricature that, instead of instigating passion and artistry, simply feeds into itself, permitting the art and the objects within the studio to lift off the page and float in a mysterious space we want to be a room but may simply reflect the cerebral space of Matisse himself.

The Red Room (one of my favorite paintings) offers a study in contrast and complement. The green garden space, framed so beautifully by the window (or, we are compelled to ask, is it a painting of a garden?) soothes the eye, just as the flowers and vines on the walls and table cloth pull out the blue undertones of the red, thus subduing its harsher and titillating effects.  

 

Such is how I read red in the gardens at 410. Burning Bush commands this last act: he is the tenor belting out his principal aria in the moments before death. Yet Burning Bush also retreats back into itself and into the garden. And in the rear shade garden, the Oak Leaf Hydrangea, now a stunning shade of burgundy, somehow only becomes itself in the company of others. 

Confusion is Nothing New...

I dare admit I have been the witness to such perverse high drama of late--and I nearly squeal with delight at the thought of sharing with my readers!  If the drama were not so public, I would surely be labeled a gossip (though who doesn't enjoy a bit of gossip now and then?! Hence: there must be gossips!).

Autumn--one of the two remarkable bookends of the "growing season"--is dominated, if not "owned" in a figurative sense of the word, by the venerable (if deceptive) House of Asteraceae, just as spring is "owned" by the crocuses, narcissus, tulips, daffodils, and hyacinths, among others.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I saw these flowering trees yesterday morning on the University of Delaware campus. Cherry blossoms IN LATE NOVEMBER! Shocking!

And, bordering my backyard garden, this spring blooming Viburnum!

The Asteraceaes are in turmoil: upstaged by their spring antecedents.

True, there are autumn blooming cherry trees and viburnum, but these specimens belong to the spring. Odd weather we've had: an elongated, miserable summer of extremes, cold followed by a spell of moderate temperatures that confused these trees (and my narcissus which began to poke through the soil last week).

Confusion is certainly nothing new when it surrounds us in so many forms.