The Jeweled Thicket

Spotted Jewelweed or Touch-Me-Not

(Impatiens capensis)

There is a whole thicket of these colourful critters blooming in the moist earth along the creek in the woods, and we were happy to find them this past weekend.

Jewelweed is a wild herbal with known medicinal benefits, and it has been used by indigenous groups for centuries. They used infusions made with the leaves to treat measles and fevers, poultices of bruised stems for the pain and itching of skin ailments like poison ivy, poison oak and poison sumac. The plant contains compounds which neutralize uroshiol, the chemical causing contact dermatitis, and it is a fine addition to one's medicine chest.

The plant is also an important nectar source for hummingbirds, and they are usually about when it is in bloom. When hummers reach into the bell-shaped blooms with their long beaks and brush up against nearby seed pods, the pods explode, propelling seeds some distance into the air, hence the common name, Touch-Me-Not.

For years, I cultivated jewelweed in my garden, and thanks to its exploding seed pods, it came up everywhere. Keeping it in check was quite an undertaking, and I eventually removed it from the garden altogether. I have just harvested seeds from the thicket in the woods and am about to give the species another try.

Jewelweed is cheerful stuff, and I like the freckled faces on the flowers when the plants are in bloom. In addition to being a "tried and true" wild medicinal, it provides nourishment for hummers, bees and other insects, and that makes it a clear winner in my book. Here we go again!

Lilies of the Day

 Daylily (Hemerocallis spp.)

Why give such gorgeous creatures names like ditch lily, railroad lily, roadside lily, outhouse lily, and wash-house lily? Outhouse lily? For heaven's lofty sake, such magnificent blooms deserve a little respect and more elegant monikers, names redolent of summer, sunlight and warmth.

Daylilies are sun worshipers of the highest order, and they don't open in cloudy weather, remaining tightly furled until the clouds roll away and the sun comes out. The flowers last for only a day, but what a show they put on in the garden, their spires rising from cool spinneys of arching green leaves, each crowned by gracefully swaying blooms with expansive golden hearts.

At first light, it is not uncommon for the daylilies in the garden to be wearing dragonflies - the little dears are waiting for the sun to warm their wings and grant them the power of unfettered, swooping flight. Could there be there a better place to warm up than a lily in bloom? I think not.

Armed, Dangerous and Canadian (Eh?)

My William Baffin rose bloomed overnight, and it is covered with luscious blooms in pink and white. Lovely to see from the kitchen window as I lean against the counter with a mug of something dark and aromatic in my gnarly paws.

The rose is a hybrid Kordesii bred by Felicatas Svejda at the Canadian Department of Agriculture's research division during the seventies, and her creation is one of the hardiest roses in existence. It flourishes in some of the most glacial corners of Canada, cheerfully enduring winter temperatures of -50 Celsius and even colder. My prickly friend blooms gloriously all summer long, but it is only slightly fragrant.

To call the William Baffin ebullient is an understatement. An aggressive climber, it can reach ten feet high in no time at all, and it has thorns by golly - the critter is armed and dangerous. Most roses are rather sedate in their growth habits, but keeping this one in check requires pruning shears, gauntlets and constant vigilance.

At times, the rose reminds me of something out of The Little Shop of Horrors, but I admire its attitude, and we have fine conversations while I am trying to rein it in and curb its enthusiasm. One has to love something with such a boundless, unrepentant zest for life. As far as I know, it has not actually ingested anyone.

First Roses

Great Maiden's Blush

(Rosa x alba) 'Maiden's Blush')

This rose makes its home along the fence on the west side of the garden, and it is almost seven feet high. It is in full, riotous bloom at the moment, and it is very fragrant, filled with intoxicated, dancing, madly buzzing bee sisters.

The Albas are among the most ancient roses, and they are thought to be naturally occurring hybrids of Rosa canina (the dog rose) and Rosa gallica (the Gallic rose). Disease resistant and winter hardy, they do just fine in Canadian winters. They bloom only once in a calendar year, but oh, how they bloom when they do! 

One of my rose's ancient kin is the 'Apothecary’s Rose' (Rosa gallica officinalis), probably the oldest cultivated rose in existence.  It was grown by the Romans, and legions carried it with them in pots all over Europe during their military expeditions. The rose was prized for its medicinal qualities, and  medieval monks cultivated it extensively for use in healing tisanes, tinctures and balms.

I have a passion for all the Albas, but this one is probably my favourite. 'Königin von Dänemark', 'Maxima', 'Belle Amour' and 'Mme Legras de St Germain' are others, and I wish I had room in my garden for them all. Being somewhat ancient myself, I love their origins, and if I ever have to leave the little blue house in the village, I shall have to find a way to take them with me.

In the Heart of Perfection

Lupins and Early Light

I never walk past a stand of lupins without thinking of a sketch in the thirty-seventh episode of Monty Python's Flying Circus. A bumbling highwayman named Dennis Moore (played by John Cleese) steals lupins from the rich ("Your lupins or your life!") and tries to give them to the local peasantry. The peasants tire of lupins and start demanding other things like money, Titian paintings, Venetian silver and art glass.

This morning's lupins live in the hedgerow along a hydro corridor in the village. They are descendants of those that once lived in the garden of a a small brick bungalow owned by my friend Sadie. Her house was surrounded by fences and high hedges, and its enclosures were filled with fruit trees, old roses and heirloom perennials. Although she and her garden are long gone, Beau and I remember them every time we pass the lupin children on our morning walk. 

Seeing Red

Wordless Wednesday - On the Edge

Seeing Red in June

June would not be June without clay pots, boxes and planters of red geraniums (cranesbills) blooming at the entrances of houses in the village. Here we are again, pottering along in June and heading toward another summer solstice, and there are geraniums everywhere.

On early morning walks, Beau and I have noticed that many of this year's geranium offerings are attended by purple petunias and marigolds. There are also some splendid coleuses in rainbow shades, and sometimes all four dwell comfortably in the same pot, geraniums, petunias, marigolds and coleus. What a riot of aestival color!

My gypsy soul craves spectacular coleus strains like "Dragon Heart, "Rainbow Dragon", "Kingswood Torch" and "Chocolate Covered Cherry", and I am looking for other places in the garden to plant them this year. Ditto some of the more arty amaranth varieties in local nurseries like "Joseph's Coat", "Molten Fire" and "Early Splendor".

A pot of geraniums on the threshold is a long standing tradition, and every year, I think of their ancestors who graced our entry in years past and greeted everyone who came to the door. I remember their shape, their color, their texture, their green and rather peppery fragrance, their joyous flowering. They were perfect expressions of summer, and I thank them. Happy June everyone, happy blooming!

In the Pink

Wordless Wednesday - Village Magnolias Blooming

Spring's Golden Lily

Trout lily or Dogtooth violet

(Erythronium americanum)

A single bright golden flower tops a slender solitary stem above two mottled green and purple leaves. The lilies open only on bright sunny days, bending toward the ground with gently nodding heads - it always seems to me that they are listening to the awakening earth. The three petals and three sepals with their burgundy streaked outward surfaces curl gracefully backward like tricorns or Turkish hats, disclosing six stamens with rusty red, sometimes brownish anthers. 

We call it "trout lily" because its artfully dappled leaves resemble the coloration of a brook trout, sometimes “adder’s tongue” because the shape of its sharply pointed leaves resemble a snake's forked tongue as they poke through the detritus of last autumn. The lily is sometimes called "fawn lily" because it blooms just as spring fawns are being born, and “dogtooth violet” for the toothy appearance of the underground corm, although the plant is not a violet by any means.

Trout lilies are some of the first springtime blooms, and they play a vital role in maintaining sylvan balance by capturing nutrients from decaying leaf matter. They do it long before the woodland around them has awakened from its winter slumber. When their blooming time has passed, and the lilies have died away for another year, the nutrients are returned to the trees, nourishing them as they stretch their branches skyward and leaf out exuberantly.

The woods are filled with golden trout lilies at the moment, and I am sad to say that the other tenants in their leafy alcoves are dense biting clouds of black flies. We go out and visit them anyway - it is something we would not miss for all the world, bugs or no bugs. Out comes the lemongrass lotion, and off we go.

Sunday was Mother's Day, and the Old Wild Mother (Earth) is the mother of us all. Here's to you, Mama. Deep bows and heartfelt thanks from an elderly (and somewhat creaky) daughter who loves you more than words can say. 

And There In the Woods...

Bloodroot (Sanguinaria canadensis)

Friday Ramble - Bloom

Foliage popping out everywhere, avian courtship rites and nests cobbled together in every tree - the village is greening up before our eyes as Beau and I potter about and peer into gardens and hedgerows. Spring does not make a quiet entrance this far north - she comes over the hill with an exuberant bound, reaches out with a twiggy hand, and everything bursts into bloom. On a recent morning walk, the first crocus of the season was blooming in a protected alcove, and we both did a little dance. We were drenched by a squall on the way home and didn't mind at all.

How can this week's word be anything except bloom? The word originates in the Middle English blo or blome, meaning to open up and flower lavishly, to glow with health and well-being, to be as sleek and glossy as an otter, as dewy and flushed with sunlight as a garden tulip or an early blooming orchid in a wild and wooded place. There are probable connections (or roots) between bloom and bhel in Proto-Indo-European, the hypothetical common ancestor of all modern European languages, In that ancient, oral and unscribed tongue, bhel means to unfold, to leaf out or come into flower.

Perhaps a better word for this week would be sex, because that is what springtime's lush colors, alluring fragrances, velvet textures and warbling ballads are about - the Old Wild Mother's madcap dance of exuberance, fertility and fruitfulness. Every species on the planet seems focused on perpetuating its own heady genetic brew, and the collective pleasure in being alive is almost tangible.

Forsaking appointed chores, we poke around in the garden, lurch about in village thickets, peer into trees and contemplate the blue sky for long intervals. It's simply a matter of blooming wherever one happens to be planted. Beau is already a master of that splendid Zen art, and his silly old mum is working on it.

Spring in a Jar

It will be a week or two until the "daffies" in the park are up and blooming, but I could not resist bringing home a gorgeous bouquet of heirloom specimens from a tin pail near the entrance of a village market a few days ago.

Everyone nearing the place stopped to look at the narcissi on display, most of us heading home with a generous bunch clutched in our paws along with our coffee beans, artisanal cheese and freshly baked croissants. Gotta love weekends!

Daffodils are the essence of springtime, and my blooms have a delicate, sweet fragrance with just a hint of spice. Lovingly arranged in a jar in the dining room, their velvety white petals and glowing centers make my heart glad. 

Bunch of Gladness

Seeing Red

Friday Ramble - A Lily By Any Name

Why give such gorgeous creatures names like ditch lily, railroad lily, roadside lily, outhouse lily, and wash-house lily? Outhouse lily? For heaven's lofty sake, such blooms deserve a little respect and more elegant monikers, names redolent of summer, sunlight and warmth, sweetness and vibrant color.

Daylilies are sun worshipers of the highest order, and they don't open in cloudy weather, remaining tightly furled until the clouds roll away and the sun comes out. The flowers last for only a day, but what a show they put on in the garden, their spires rising from cool spinneys of arching green leaves, each crowned by gracefully swaying blooms with expansive golden hearts.

Dragonflies love daylilies, and at first light, it is not uncommon for the blooms in our garden to be wearing dragonflies - the little dears are waiting for the sun to warm their wings and grant them the power of unfettered, swooping flight. Could there be there a better place to warm up than a lily in bloom? I think not.

Happy July, everyone! 

Let There Be Red

June would not be June without clay pots and cauldrons and planters of red geraniums (cranesbills) blooming on the thresholds of houses in the village, and today is the third day of the quintessential summer month. How can it be? The season has just arrived, but the midsummer solstice is only three weeks away.

Beau and I have noticed on early morning walks that many of this year's geranium offerings are accompanied by purple petunias and marigolds. There are also some splendid coleuses in rainbow shades, and sometimes all four dwell comfortably in the same pot, geraniums, petunias, marigold and coleus. What a riot of aestival color!

My gypsy soul craves coleus strains like "Dragon Heart, "Rainbow Dragon", "Kingswood Torch" and "Chocolate Covered Cherry", and I am looking for other places in the garden to plant them this year. Ditto some of the arty amaranth varieties in local nurseries like "Joseph's Coat", "Molten Fire" and "Early Splendor". Whatever I add this time around, it has to be something the little bee sisters and the hummers will love.

A pot of geraniums on the threshold of the little blue house is a long standing summer tradition. Every year, I remember the specimens that graced the threshold in past years, welcoming everyone who came to the red (Benjamin Moore 2080-10 Raspberry Truffle) front door. I remember their shape, their color, their texture, their green and rather peppery fragrance, their jubilant, unfettered flowering.

May there be geraniums at your door too. May there be blooming in your life.

The Purple Eyes of Heaven

Bearded Iris (Iris germanica vulgaris)

This morning's sumptuous blooms are named for the goddess of the rainbow, Iris, messenger of the gods on Mount Olympus. She was charged with carrying their messages along the rainbow bridge between heaven and earth.

Iris also escorted the souls of virtuous dead women to their final resting places in the Elysian fields. In Greece, irises were planted on graves by grieving family members, that the goddess might recognize and guide their departed loved ones home.

Purple is one of my favourite colours, and when bearded irises bloom, they make my heart glad. That is surely what gardens and flowers are all about. A rainbow is a happy thing, and the flower's association with it seems appropriate.

Typing this, I remembered a silky, deep purple ribbon I wore in my hair as a child. The adults in my family thought the colour was not appropriate for someone so young, but I wore it anyway. It seems my love of purple goes back a very long way.