The First

Fans (er, addicts anyone?) of Downton Abbey will understand all too well the emphasis on firsts--but not just any firsts. Special firsts, as in the law or custom of primogeniture that permits the firstborn the right of complete inheritance to the exclusion of younger siblings. The French, it seems, were much more advanced than their English rivals across the Channel, for they practiced an absolute or lineal primogeniture whereby the eldest surviving child, no matter the gender, would inherit an estate. As we know with Lady Mary, being female in Britain negated the possibility of such inheritance--hence she was looked upon to wed her cousin just to keep her childhood home and money.  At least Matthew is a dashing blond. I could think of worst looking cousins with whom to produce an heir.

In this way, Vita Sackville-West lost inheritance of her family's famed estate, Knole, to her younger brother. But then we may never have gotten the splendid gardens of Sissinghurst. (I can't help but question myself: is that a gender-assaulting silver lining?)

In any case, even firsts are disaggregated, re-classified, so as to deny the privileges presumably accruing from being first.

March also falls into that class of demoted firsts. In ancient Roman times, Martius was the first month, the month of spring and the rebirth of the earth. Named after Mars, the Latin name for Ares, the Greek God of war, the month also harbored a more sinister meaning: spring weather was conducive to the launching of military campaigns, hence its nomenclature. One wonders if history might have turned out differently had the Romans launched offensives during the winter months, when invasions were not quite expected.

But as we know, March has lost its place of prime importance, for it is now the third month in the Roman-derived calendar. We owe that fall from grace to the improbably named second king of Rome (715-673 B.C.E.), Numa Pompilius, who added not one but two prefixes to the calendar: Ianuarius and Februarius. Pompous indeed, altering with social constructions of time!

Thus we might seek refuge in the Finnish, for its name for March, Maaliskuu, gets at the reality we customarily know in the pre-global warming, weather weirdness days: for Maaliskuu, derived from maallinen kuu meaning "earthy month," is named for that month during which the ground once again becomes visible as snow retreats.

Now, if I wasn't lazy or preoccupied with other obligations, I would have posted this yesterday, on 1 March.  Or, if I had a sense of irony, I would wait and post this tomorrow, the 3rd, as homage to all those firsts fallen from grace.

But as it is, possessed neither with humor nor irony, neither patience nor time, I post this today, a compromise position to make us more immediately aware of the importance of both days.

In honor of fallen firsts, I celebrate not the daffodils, the heir apparent of March, which now appear with dramatic frequency here in my fair (and in parts trashy) city of Wilmington, and which are nearing the bursting of buds in my garden,

but the flowers of Leatherleaf Mahonia, or Oregon Grape Holly, which actually are well past their prime, only the more protected strands of flowers deep into the foliage now in bloom, other strands situated at the exterior reaches of the plant having bloomed several weeks ago sans benefit of pollinators (hence we may not see the strands of berries that look like grapes later in the season to feed the birds),

and Petasites japonica, or Giant Butterbur, which proudly displays its muscular, artichoke-like flowers whether in snow or draped with frost, arriving like clockwork each late February and early March (once, of course, the snows first disappear so as to make way for their emergence).

Next year, these firsts may be displaced. I have no Snowdrops nor Crocuses, so by what only nature might know.

Leap Year

Yes, this is a leap year folks!

There is no 29 February on your calendar?! The next leap year is 2012?!  (One extra day to prolong the misery of February, one extra day before one gets paid: what is there to actually love about leap year day?!)

Forget what conventional wisdom tells you.

No, folks. This is my leap year (though I admit, this may not be your leap year).

On what basis do I argue this?

There is an old gardening adage when it comes to the plant kingdom: the first year they sleep, the second year they creep, and the third year they leap!

Now, forget what I just told you about conventional wisdom. This adage is right. It is no longer a hypothesis, but a veritable nugget of wisdom cultivated in fields of black gold.

(I agree: the metaphors were mixed, the image idiotic, and the sentence just plain stupid.)

But the proof is in the pudding (ha! gotcha with another metaphor!). Try it.


While dating my garden is difficult to do--one always adds and subtracts, things die over the winter, etc.--the entire front sun garden dates to 2008, as does the East Side Shade Bed which I renovated late last fall. And the two beds that run along the backyard deck also date to 2008. The newly-dubbed Lantern bed was planted in 2009. So for much of my garden (construed as a whole, not simply as the aggregate of its many parts), this marks the 3rd year of existence.

And already I see signs of lots of "leaping!"  (I haven't space to showcase particular plants, so I've opted to provide "aerial" shots of the back shade garden, some taken in the rain.)

Keep in mind that some plants--especially those in the deep shade of the extension of the Buddha Bed,  the autumn ferns, and the blue based hostas--have only recently emerged. Keep in mind that though we've had some rather unseasonable heat, the temperatures have wildly fluctuated over the last 6 weeks (indeed, just late last week did we experience temperatures in the 30s with a threat of frost last Thursday evening).

Despite those caveats, the many specimens are flourishing thus far!

The Lantern Bed (of 2009; so this would be the year of creep)

My blue bed: a veritable sea lashing against the shores of Sedum ellacombanium, with the towering red mountains of Pieris japonica and Sum and Substance Hosta presiding...

 The renovated East Side Shade Bed, with Kerria japonica now past its prime flowering, with color being provided by the flowering blue spikes of ajuga and the yellow-oranges of Orange Marmalade Hosta and the Golden Kate Spiderwort

More of the ESSB and the Buddha bed, with the neighbors fragrant Viburnum towering above

The Lantern Bed looking back at the newly renovated rear corner, with Ostrich ferns proudly dominating over the new addition to the garden, Leatherleaf Mahonia