Turn, Turn, Turn...

The Byrds had it right (though to be fair they did adopt and rearrange the words from Ecclesiastes 3:1):

“To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)

There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn)

And a time to every purpose under Heaven

A time to be born, a time to die

A time to plant, a time to reap

A time to kill, a time to heal

A time to laugh, a time to weep…”

And the song goes on….

I had pondered an entry on “the August garden,” usually a time of repose when plants seem suspended in time, weighted down by sultry days, the air thick with humidity and the sounds of the cicadas. But, as I wrote in my journal, we’ve had “August heat in June and since” and, despite my long absence and the unrelenting early spring – late July drought, my garden in August is offering quite a show.

Until now.

I have noticed that since my return 3 particular plants (one in the sun garden, two in the shade garden) have not been performing well. I did lose my lovely white Gaura (Whirling Butterfly) in my absence, and next to it Carpathian Harebells (Campanula carpatica Blue Clips) finally died yesterday (it, too, required additional care during its first year of transplant, and the heat and parched conditions in my absence clearly took their toll, as did the fact that I dropped a bag of mulch onto it in early July, effectively splitting Campanula in half). But the rest: spectacular! The dahlias launched into overdrive the other day, probably to compensate for Rudbeckia’s waning display. I am quite pleased, as are my neighbors!

In the rear shade garden, two of my prized hostas—Lemon Drop and June Plantain (about which I wrote in “On Metamorphosis”)—looked to be suffering a bit, and I quickly diagnosed their woes: drought. The enormous maple tree acts as an umbrella to both, and dry conditions are further exacerbated by the canopy provided by Nandina and the Oakleaf Hydrangea in the case of the Lemon Drop hosta, and the Oakleaf in the case of June Plantain. In the height of summer, both do receive a few hours of mid to late morning sun—and both can tolerate it—but not without moisture.

Careful watering only marginally improved Lemon Drop’s situation (its leaves were baked a crispy brown), and noticeably June Plantain’s. But then by late last week June Plantain sported one yellow leaf after another, and I discovered yesterday that she was succumbing to the always fatal Sclerotium rolfsii, a soil-based fungus that is, according to the many horticultural sources I’ve consulted, impossible to eradicate but able to be managed if caught early.

If the previous week was a week of coincidences, then this is the week of infection and rot: eggs and salmonella, Viet’s computer and an internal rot (not a virus), and now, a few of my prized hostas and Sclerotium rolfsii.

The bad news is that Sclerotium rolfsii, as mentioned, cannot be eradicated. Not even harsh winters of prolonged below-zero temperatures can kill the Sclerota, small white then, as they mature, brown-red protective spheres the size of mustard seeds that have allowed this fungus to survive since before the dinosaurs ruled the earth. Hostas, peonies, ajuga, Aquilegia (columbine), Campanula, day lilies, foxgloves, wood ferns, and 192 other plants both sun and shade tolerant succumb to the disease.

There isn’t much good news. One can plant hostas such that the crown (the area where the leaf petioles emerge from the root base) rests above the soil, in hopes of minimizing petiole contact with the soil (this is an effective method, though nearly an impossible condition to ensure as rain almost inevitably splatters the Sclerota onto the plant, which actually is the chief method of fungal spread). One can spray a 10% bleach solution on infected areas, which will not kill the fungus but will slow its advance and thus may save whatever remains of your prized specimens. Fungicides such as flutolanil (marketed as Contrast), and products containing PCNB, including Terraclor, Defend, Pennstar, and (all formal names are registered trademarks) have proven effective, but care must be taken with these as phytotoxic reactions (from yellowing to death) may occur. One can remove all of the soil from the infected area (be sure to dig down at least 8 inches), and replace it with uninfected dirt.

The good news, in the end, may reside in the fact that, despite the loss, the mourning, the frustration, and the unsightly bare spots in the garden, one can look beyond. For everything there is a season: a time to plant, a time to die, and a time to plan for the future.

Greetings and Goodbyes

Between the self and the world stands the greeting and the goodbye: the former an act of integration, the latter an act of separation. But despite their different functions, both are verbal indicators of involvement if not entrenchment in the world, a partaking of communality either for a moment or over a lifetime. Both are the essential, diametrical vocabulary of amor mundi, or love of the world.

Though we often attribute to taking leave, to our goodbyes, a poignancy, a difficulty, and an emotional drain, greetings, too, are enveloped in their own peculiar kind of anxiety. Greetings expose us to rejection, judgment, and self-doubt. Sometimes the greeting will enlighten and enrapture; other times the greeting will frustrate and enervate.

Take, for instance, two recent botanical greetings. Carpathian harebell (Campanula carpatica Blue Clips), which I welcomed to the garden on Friday, enjoys his new position, and cheerily tolls his bright blue-violet flowers, announcing his arrival with vigor and enthusiasm (even after I accidentally dropped a bag of mulch on him). Carpathian harebell surely is forgiving; perhaps his forgiveness is an homage to the orographic and geologic distinctiveness of its namesake mountains, a grouping of diversity that demands, whenever the unlike are thrown together, forgiveness, tolerance, and eventual acceptance. The smaller of the two Provence lavenders that survived the winter blizzards and which I transplanted last week (as Tall Purpletop Verbena was severely encroaching on its space), however, visibly remonstrates against her new residence. This week’s 100 degree plus temperatures and blazing sun surely won’t help her case, and I fear for her existence. A reluctant goodbye stands poised on my lips.

Yet any ache that may come from a failed reception to a greeting is invariably tempered by the fact that no previous relationship existed, and thus the losses may be minimal. And that is precisely why the goodbye possesses “a reputation.” Linguistically, we cover the goodbye with ‘see you later’, ‘so long’, or ‘until we meet again’—all in an effort to mask (perhaps) the pangs of sadness or loss we feel.

I approach the precipice of a goodbye in my own life, and this goodbye, though it shall be but a temporary one, weighs upon my heart (not to be overly dramatic about it, but also to be overly dramatic). Adventures await, life unfurls before us (we hope). This goodbye and its associated heaviness is very much an expression of amor mundi and the efforts expended on that love. But the division between that which came before and that which will come after demands to be marked: and goodbye is the most succinct symbol of demarcation that we linguistically, and perhaps emotionally, possess. Silence will not do.

And so I look to nature for my cue and my model. The spider waits ever so patiently, quietly, and when that particular vibration is felt across its web, it moves with alacrity, performing the necessary work to ensure a future meal. For the unfortunate, wayward insect, the parting is, I surmise, quick. Thus it shall be with this goodbye: recognition of the love, recognition of the life, a laconic verbal act of parting, and then a turning of the head to face the days ahead.

Fireworks, and a Happy 4th!

Lately I’ve been preoccupied with naughty girls—Rose Mallow and her Japanese beetle thug paramours, Rose Campion and Anise Hyssop. Today marks the anniversary of another naughty girl and her very rebellious act that so ceremoniously dumped the vengeful and neglectful parent.

However, today is but a filler in a sense, an explanation of a decision. If Richard Henry Lee brought before the Continental Congress of the United Colonies a resolution declaring independence from Great Britain and nearly a month of debate ensued, then the formal vote for the absolution of political ties to the Crown occurred on 2 July 1776. The Declaration “merely,” formally stated the reasons for doing so.

Certain of the gravitas of the vote, John Adams write to his wife Abigail that the 2^nd of July would “be the most memorable Epocha, in the History of America.” My, how history eludes even those most involved in its making.

 
And so, in a bit of metaphoric parallelism, I began mulching the front and back gardens on 2 July as a declaration of independence from our excessive heat and drought, a preparation for even more extreme temperatures to come this week. Mulching—as with the Congressional vote for independence, the debate that led up to it, and the opposition of Pennsylvania and South Carolina even down to the wire—was the hard work, the foundation that had to be set for the observances that would follow.

But the real display, the real celebration, comes on the 4^th. Today, as is customary in the United States, fireworks regale me, and the bells toll—but these aren’t the usual trappings of an American Fourth. (Really: can there be anything but an American Fourth?!) Tall Purpletop Verbena gesticulates towards the heavens, while Carpathian Harebells (Campanula carpatica Blue Clips) ring the certainty of life against the starburst of Rudbeckia. Not to be outdone in the shade garden, Obsidian heuchera sends upwards delicate plumes of diminutive flowers and the hostas, not grown for their flowers, offer their own floral display of appreciation.
 

Happy Fourth!