Oh, the things we say...

We bought paper towels at Costco many weeks ago--you know, the gigantic "500 saver pack" that requires a McMansion to store them--and in the throes of frustration cleaning up cat vomit (do cats ever NOT vomit?! And why do they ALWAYS vomit on my expensive Herats or Kashmiris, or my Bijar or favorite Suzani?) I paused long enough to spy that which I did not--or refused--to earlier see: nasty little depictions of potted flowers accompanied by kitschy garden sayings designed for the "country kitchen."


"Friends are flowers in a life's garden."

Puh-lease.

"No two days are the same in one garden."

This one is palatable, as is this one: "No two gardens are the same." Both are very true, empirically speaking.

"You can bury a lot of troubles digging in the dirt" resonates, while "the flowers of tomorrow are the seeds of today"  nauseates.

And "gardening is a way of showing you believe in tomorrow" just makes me want to hurl.

Separately, one can overlook (er, ignore) them (as I have done), but together, they constitute a veritable menagerie of the most unattractive cutesy kitsch. 

But then I began to think of other garden- or agricultural-inspired aphorisms.

"We make our own beds, and we must lie in them."

"We reap what we sow."

"Even the most beautiful roses have thorns."

We populate our lives with adages, "old wives' tales," aphorisms, and proverbs. Their veracity is reified and magnified by an economy of words; their effects are seemingly more damning if we neglect their wisdom.

Pithiness in the world of adages is empowerment; wisdom trickles, then oozes, from the spoken word.

A parallel phenomenon happens in the garden at this time of year. Amidst the clutter of fallen leaves stand poignant reminders of the mix of seasons and the dominance of an emerging chill that lays to rest all that has lived.

The camellia blooms while the mums retreat, and the berries of Nandina sharpen in fiery intensity, signalling a  transition to barren fulfillment.

{Please note: I have exceeded the photo storage capacity of Blogger and therefore cannot post additional photos.}

Tricks and Treats

A title fitting for Halloween, don't you think?

But shall we agree not to unnecessarily or arbitrarily compartmentalize?  After all, I write from northern Delaware in a time of global warming and thus in the midst of unexpected October snowstorms and deep autumnal warmth.

Late November has brought with it several hard frosts, though none so punishing as to excise the most hardy perennials from the rear shade garden. Even this potted geranium persists, notwithstanding occasional frosty sparkles upon its scalloped, reniform leaves. 

Now that the canopy provided by the maple tree has finally (post-Thanksgiving) been swept away by November winds, I expect my landscape to change rather soon.


Imagine my surprise and delight, then, walking in the garden late last week to discover several additional flowers on the Camellia (Sasanqua x oleifera Survivor) I planted this spring!

Its deep corbeau leaves echo the coloration of the Sawtooth Aucuba japonica Serratifolia across the walkway, and its slight margins accented in lime mirror the Euonymous aureomarginatus japonicus in the background, and the Cintronelle Heuchera at its base.

But those white flowers, jarring against the browning landscape, are the real show stopper: exuberant if pedantic in their perseverance.

We cannot but be taken by their unusual appearance, seemingly delicate, their coloration garishly malapropos, their stamens begging for stimulation by wayward insects that have, despite the weather, largely gone into hiberation after millennia of genetic programming. Nature tries to outdo herself; yet her progeny are slow to catch up.


A trick of (or for?) the season, a treat for the senses! No matter: for they are what they are, and we accept what is offered to us.