This really goes with my last post but WordPress’s graphics editor is so yucky that I can’t integrate it, it overwrites one of the other pictures. This, like the shots with the clematis, was taken of the arbor in front of my front door.
Seven Sisters is the latest of my once-blooming spring roses.
Once-blooming roses are often ignored in favor of the many ever blooming roses on the market. But when I visited gardens where they were properly used, I realized that they make up for their short season with their extravagance of blossoms.
This weekend, I’ve trimmed a few bushels of spent blossoms from roses that I’ve featured in earlier posts. And I have a few more bushels to go.
The fact that clematis Jackmanii blossoms at the same time as Seven Sisters rose was pure luck, although I can take some credit for combining the colors.
About a yellow climbing rose with pictures for a gardens friend. At least that’s my excuse for another post on roses. And I’m sticking to it!
I don’t remember this rose being classified as a climber when I purchased it. But I planted it near an arbor because Austin roses do tend to throw long canes. I ordered it because I’d just lost a cat to old age, a cat with burnt yellow/orange markings, Sweet Georgia Brown. Her color; her name.
The place that I planted her has gotten shadier every year so Georgia is trying to walk down the hill toward the sun and away from the trellis. I either need to coax her back up the hill or come up with another method of supporting her.
She’s been robust and colorful every year in my zone 5b garden
Yes, there are other things happening in my garden besides roses, but can you blame me for being obsessed?
The gallery below starts with shots of the front walkway. The pink rose near the door is Gertrude Jekyll (yes, again) with a shot of City of York (white) and clematis Ramona on the walk light. More shots as it’s so pretty and it smells so good.
The gallery goes on with more flowers, the peonies that I thought I planted in front of the roses (oops), more Gertrude, golden-colored Austin rose Evelyn, rose Tropicana and two mountain laurels. No names for the peonies and white mountain laurel as I inherited them with the house, although I had to find the mountain laurel under overgrown forsythia. The red laurel is one that my neighbor planted on a strip between our houses that I think of as friendship alley.
[oqeygallery id=28]
While not the first to open, she is the first to put out a display in my garden.
When I was checking the spelling, I noticed her descrbed as a climber. I don’t think so. Like many Austin roses, she puts out long canes and does best with support. But she’s growing into seven sisters, the rose over the arbor with still tight buds and that’s a true climber.
(Dear State of Massachusetts, If I had to post these cheesy paper plate signs in order to avoid getting sprayed, you really didn’t think that I’d stop at just “no spray”, did you?)
I miss toads. When I moved here, and for years afterwards, they were so plentiful that when I mowed the lawn, I had to mow slowly and carefully, looking for the small brown flick of a toad moving out of the way at the last minute. I was always worried about the ones that I didn’t see and worried that I might have reduced the population just by mowing.
By midsummer, they would have matured and staked out their territory in one flower bed or the other. As I worked, I’d learn which beds were their homes for the season. I’d keep a sheltered place and a source of water handy to encourage them.
But something has happened and it happened in the same timeframe that the town joined the mosquito spraying program that Massachusetts sponsors. As soon as I heard about it, I put myself on the no-spray list because people who have asthma are at some risk when they are spraying. But I also did some web searches on the pesticides that they use and found they will kill bees, birds and amphibians, among others. The logic seems to be that the risk to human lives from mosquito born diseases is worth the cost. And they try to minimize the benefit/cost ratio by spraying right at sundown, when mosquitos are most active and maybe those victim species are not.
While maybe sound in theory, the practice is not so simple to apply. First, the trucks run for several hours a night and sundown is a very short window. Bees maybe inactive but I’ve got shots of them spending the night in flowers; any in flowers or shrubs by the road are goners? And then there are the cardinal nests in the multiflora rose that grows up along the street.
And what are the risks to humans, really? Ted Williams, writing for Audubon magazine, compares West Nile Virus to the flu, both can kill, but he goes on to talk about evaluating the program in Grafton, MA, and finding that the incidence of the problem was nill, zip, nothing. No one had evidenced the disease in the spraying area. His excellent article can be read here.
In Information Security we measure risk as impact times probability. The impact that someone could die from a mosquito bite if the mosquito were carrying one of the target diseases may be a fair assertion but if the probability is zero, or even very low, it’s still low risk.
In our community, a further issue is our wetlands. The rules say don’t spray in lakes but wetlands are evidently fair game. At least I’ve seen them spraying along the road in mine. However, the spraying programs only reach a strip along roadways, or people’s yards, if they are invited to spray there. If a person is concerned about the risk of a mosquito bite, this near to the wetlands, they should take other precautions, anyway. Spraying program or no, if you don’t dress right or spray your body, you’re gonna get a mosquito bite if you hang about in my yard, early morning, late at night or some times of year, just in the shade. So it doesn’t even substantially reduce the risk for some of us.
And one can argue how much, but it absolutely does reduce the predators of mosquitos, most of whom cannot repopulate as quickly as the mosquito. If we MUST do this, there should be before and after counts taken of non-target species that we know are sensitive to the pesticides when these programs are implemented so that we have real data about what we are doing to the natural controls in our environment.
There is strong anecdotal evidence, including my observations, that it upsets the balance that I rely upon to keep my use of chemical controls at a minimum. Mosquitos are not my only pests and I rely on the same predators to keep down ticks, aphids, flea beetles, japanese beetles, slugs and many other pests that would destroy my ornamentals and food garden. I have never had to treat for slugs before this year; while they are always about, they’ve never had the numbers to completely destroy crops before. As I was trying to figure what changed, I realized that it was probably the little brown friends of mine that kept the populations down. I haven’t seen a single toad this year.
I miss toads.
I was evidently wrong when I opined that the dahlias wouldn’t take any harm if they waited for another week. I skipped out of the office on Friday night saying, “the dahlias are calling to me”; but when I got home and opened the box of tuber from Swan Dahlias, I saw a problem. The tubers were bagged together and had started growing. Many of them had long, ropey roots looping around the outside of the plastic bag. And the general rule is that dahlia roots don’t like to be disturbed.
I had planned on helping out at the Lancaster Garden Club Plant Sale Saturday (sorry friends) and maybe doing a little prep work, but most of the planting on Sunday. However, this was something that needed immediate attention.
Up at five, I quickly worked in another barrow of composted wood chips and placed the tubers and plants on top of the beds before the sun hit them. Then worked as fast as I could digging in the tubers and then the plants.
The plants are from Corralitos Gardens and I had missed the fact that I was actually buying plants. They’d looked pretty ratty when I took them out of their shipping package. Probably my fault because I hadn’t opened them the day they arrived. I was able to nurse almost all of them back to health, losing only one Harvey Koop and one of the bonus plants. Sad about Harvey as he was one of the biggest reasons for that order. It was named by/for the father of the woman who owns Hamilton Dahlia Farm that I visited in Michigan last year. I’d ordered two and the second one is still alive, although the weakest of the remaining plants. Fingers crossed for Harvey.
It was a little awkward to work with the mix of tubers and plants. They had different requirements for planting. But it will be interesting to compare performance in my garden. Some things I did differently this year:
One thing that made the task go quickly was the uncharacteristic planning work that I had done. With this many colors and sizes, I needed to be organized. All of my orders were documented in a spreadsheet where I captured key characteristics: height, bloom type, color and more. Then I used Visio to create a rough map of where I would put the dahlias, using cut-and-pasted pictures from the sellers. I had to make a few adjustments while planting because of bonus plants and plants from last year that I wanted to use, but having this Visio made the job go much faster. And it’s sorta pretty.
Although it’s two weeks earlier than I would like due to risk of cold weather.
All of the articles that I could find talked about growing things under LED lights were for just that purpose, growing things to maturity. There were also some cautions about how they could hurt seedlings. So I dithered about whether to use my old setup with shop lights or try the LED lights that I’d purchased for winter growing. I think the things that decided me are first, the shop lights are getting old and the recommendation is to use new bulbs. And second, the LED lights are cheap. My electric bills don’t show the use enough for me to know how much this lighting costs
I did hedge my bets and keep some of the seedlings under a single cool light fixture, but the ones that I put almost immediately under the LEDs did better. I did keep the LEDs a couple of feet away. I started lettuces and Piracicaba in the guest room under one light. When these cool weather plants were ready to go out, I moved the light down to the basement to enlarge the warm planting area where I can provide bottom heat, giving the tomatoes, basil and eggplants more time while the outside temps warm up.
The area over floweth. In addition to my seed starts, one of the dahlia companies sent me plants, not tubers, so I’m babying them on the heat mats that are no longer needed by the bigger seedlings.
My remaining worry is that the plants are so comfortable in the basement that they will sulk outside. I’ve been removing suckers and even blossoms, which tells me that they are too happy. Next year I move back the start date by at least two weeks (the seed went into the cubes on 3/25/2012.) It’s also a clue that I should probably be using a more limited spectrum of lights for seedlings. In addition, Supersweet 100 is the plant that wants to blossom so that also suggests a tomato I should try inside this winter, if I want to. Here’s a shot under normal light for those of us who can’t see through the lurid LED colors.
Hard to believe that these will ever grow again. I’ve always grown my own from seed and always had small (but yummy) onions. Ailsa Craig, a sweet, large (for others) onion is my favorite. When I saw that Johnny’s had them as plants for sale I decided to try them. They arrived on a Wednesday and instructions said do not water, leave in a cool dry place. They should be able to live for three weeks off the bulb. So this is what they looked like on Saturday.
Cleaned off the dry stuff and trimmed the ends again. Planted in a staggered swath like little solders. Slightly drunken soldiers but that’s my fault. Johnny’s suggested an elaborate system of raised beds and a trough running through the middle with a couple of inches of fertilizer in it. I gave up on that plan when I read that the rows needed to be 36″ apart. It may grow prize winners but I don’t have that kind of space.
As I was harvesting compost from a sort-of pile around the sort-of wood pile; well decomposed for a wood pile at this time; I found another plant where it should not be. But what a pretty picture!
As well as a large thistle hiding under the edge of the tarp in the purchased soil. I don’t have problems with thistle, so expect this is another hitchhiker with that exotic, strangely alkaline stuff. Notice the finely cut, deep green leaves. If it were embroidery, you’d have to pay a bundle. Nature is extravagant.
I’ve been ignoring the wild strawberries that grow here and there in some of the wilder spots in my yard for years, but they are taking over. They love to leap across my mulch with their runners and establish whole new colonies in the flower beds. They attract birds; good news, who poop out the seeds and spread them even further, bad news. I probably will never be able to completely kill them off. This is about the benefits of losing the battle. It’s all about things that are out of their place. Most of us call them weeds. Some of us look the other way and hope the neighbors understand.
The next three pictures are from my lawn. Bugleweed is actually a bigger problem, if these things are a problem to you, but it’s not open yet. You can see a tight bud mixed in the shot of the blue violets.
Chrysogonum, the garden friend who gave it to me admitted it was a little invasive.
Then I moved on to the neighbors.
I thought these were violets with an upright habit until I got close. Phlox? That’s my best guess because they were growing in the lawn near the pink phlox below
This is not a weed but definately out of place. Friends suggest I can blame the gardener.
Good plan.
Canolli wishes she could work with me in the garden but I signed a contract that she and sister would be indoor cats. And we have coyotes.
[wpvideo uZF6aBqp]The thing is, I don’t like crowds. And the Paris Agricultural Salon ‘s web site says that I was one of 681,213 visitors; it felt like most of them were there on the same day I visited. One of the many reasons for the timing of my late winter French trip was the Salon. Imagine the biggest state fair that you can and then make it bigger. No, bigger; and more crowded, too. I’d been there some years ago and enjoyed the wide variety of exhibitors and exhibition subjects from animals to growing stuff to regional food product.
I arrived in the morning and tried to head to the back of the show area, thinking maybe fewer crowds, but got distracted by cows. I’m tall, and cows are big enough to see over the heads of others. The French maintain many regional varieties with distinctive coloring for each; brown spots, black spots; the Normandy cows have a distinctive black ring around the eye. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen such variety. I even sat in the judging area while judges slowly reviewed cows for features beyond my comprehension and watched a few (cows, not judges) make victory laps around the ring.
I finally tore myself away and decided to get back to my plan. Heading to the back exhibition halls would also put me near to the food area and it was getting to be lunch time. No rush; which was a good thing as the crowds were getting so thick that you could only move at the speed of the people around you.
The back of the hall was also the location for the small booths where vendors were direct-selling food products. It was an incredible assortment of cheeses, cured meats, wines and herbal remedies. But I had to keep moving; I wasn’t staying in Paris and didn’t want to try to carry the stuff around. Most of it wouldn’t have been allowed back into the US, even if I’d tried. I did think that the number of wholesalers that I remembered (who offered free or cheap tastes of their products) had been replaced by retailers who wanted to sell you something. Meeting the eye of someone behind the counter risked a high pressure sales encounter.
Lunch was yummy if simple; salmon in a white sauce, roasted potatoes and salad at a Scandinavian restaurant; simple trestle seating, delineated by timber and bright banners from the rest of the similar restaurants. After lunch, I intended to wander gradually back through the displays and to the front halls, this time through the dogs and cats.
The most remarkable, if somewhat scary events happened as I was wandering back through a section that narrowed between two of the exhibition halls. Between me and my destination were cameras and bright lights everywhere and a crush of people. Since I couldn’t tell exactly where the crowd was going or why, I decided to find a spot and hold my ground until I could see an escape. It became obvious that there was a person at the center of that mass who was the focus. At some point, I asked a person near me who it was and I heard “Mitterrand”. Being a badly raised Tasuni, with a poor knowledge of French history, I didn’t realize that this notable was deceased and thought he was the reason for the crowds. Holding my ground became harder as the notable at the focus of attention moved toward me. The mass shifted in my direction then flowed around me as he moved toward the man next to me and shook his hand. (It feels like moving water under your feet, btw, and you have to keep them under you in a similar way.) My irrational thoughts at close encounter, (flight/fight must have been kicking in) were first that I was much bigger than this notable and could easily take him in a fight and then that his bodyguard, placed firmly (and somewhat intimately) between me and the notable was a small man, too. Hand shaken, the moving mass pulled away from me as I congratulated myself on my crowd surfing survival skills.
There is a certain excitement in these things and even disliking crowds, I’m not immune. I found what I thought was a safer place, near a wall, and took commemorative photos of the crowd, the high hanging microphones and bright lights. Speeches were made and shouts sounded in acclamation. Once again the mass started to move. It started to move through the area by my wall, and then shifted direction again, toward me! No place to go; I once again held my ground as the notable moved toward me. This time, the women next to me got firmly kissed on both cheeks. I probably could have shaken his hand that time but for the camera in hand, doggedly videotaping.
When I could, I decided to leave by a side door rather than try to make it through the crush in the hall. There I found his cavalcade of cars, more security and police. And cameras; real French paparazzi! Someone asked me who and explained that it couldn’t be Mitterrand, maybe Mélenchon, who was slightly left of Sarkozy and doing well that week in the poles? It made much more sense that a candidate would put himself through that craziness. I cattily wondered about the big American (probably armored) SUV parked with the outside security guards and whether a French politician could actually afford to be seen getting into one.
Circling back to follow the plan, the dogs couldn’t be seen behind the crowds. Children were out of luck unless placed on the shoulders of parents. And the crowds had raised the temperature in the pavilion, along with hundreds of other animals, to the point where everyone was uncomfortable. I let the crush move me to the door, found the Metro and called it a day.
Back at my hotel, watching the evening news, along with the headline that the show was setting records for attendance, I saw a familiar face being featured. My close encounters were with François Hollande, the Socialist Candidate for President. And he had worked closely with Mitterrande in his day so I may have heard the name and misunderstood the reference.
And isn’t that just like travel! You start off with a destination and a plan for what you want to see, plants and animals, and all of a sudden, the topic changes to culture and politics! And your trip is richer for it, enhanced with small dangers and the chance to learn new things through intimate exposure. Suddenly, an ignorant Tasuni has a motivation to watch French elections more closely, to see how the petite, hardworking, courageous and affable Socialist candidate influences his country. Whether he wins or not, his leadership of the Socialist party will drive policy for the near future.
I would hope that my candid musings are not offensive, because if I had the chance to talk to him I would tell him how much I respect and admire the people of a country where gardens and gardening are so valued. I come back time and time to France to visit because I know that I’ll find inspiration; beauty and history, expressed through plants. I know that people need jobs and justice, but I selfishly hope that those problems can be solved while preserving the cultural values that I love.
Be sure to see both the video and photo gallery below. This garden has been on my list for many years. I’d traveled to Nice on both business and pleasure and it was after one of these trips that I’d read about the gardens at the nearby Villa. This garden is also tied to the history of a woman, Béatrice de Rothschild. She was not officially royalty; the day when kings and queens ruled Europe was over; but all of the elements were there. Disparities of income; excesses of the rich. A single woman after her separation from her bankrupt banker husband, she raced horses and flew airplanes. She must have had a considerable amount of spunk.
The garden was built in the first decade of the 1900s on a rocky, windswept promotory. According to the Villa’s web site. In a manner much like the garden designers for kings, they dynamited the rocks that were in the way and brought in enormous quantities of earth to create flat spaces for gardening. If you visit, be sure to use the free audio tours to learn more about this woman and her times. The pink, birthday-cake of a villa holds world-class museum collections of porcelin and art, among other things.
This garden also has themed spaces; the French garden forms a classic vista on the top of the hill, from the vila to a belvedere in the distance. The reflecting pools between the rough formed water feature at the end of the garden play fountains, coreographed to music in the best Las Vegas fashion. The other gardens play down the hill, below the French garden and as I wandered through them, I would hear a new piece of music play for the fountains and wonder, what are the fountains doing with that? This short video shows the transition from the water feature where it drops from the level of the belvedere.[wpvideo YttGZv9u]
The desk person at my hotel in Bealieu sur Mer told me that I could walk to the gardens. The benefit of adding a few miles of walking to my day in the garden was a wonderful pedestrian-only cliff walk, along the edge of the ocean, most of the way to the gardens.The phot gallery starts there. [oqeygallery id=27]
(Photo Gallery below) Compared to many of the historic, public gardens in France, the Domaine du Rayol is a latecomer. This beautiful, unspoiled promontory, a short distance from Toulon, was discovered by a few families at the turn of the century. The buildings and gardens went through two periods of consolidation and development. First, 1910-1940, when they were owned by a Parisian businessman, who eventually sold the main residence for use as a hotel and built a smaller structure near the ocean for himself and his wife; and later, in 1940 when war forced an aircraft manufacturer to buy the property as a refuge. The domain’s web site says that with his staff and dozens of gardeners, this was a time of glory for the garden. After the hostilities, it was used only as a summer home and then deserted. Protected by environmentalists from development, the Coastal Conservancy bought the property in 1989. Influential French Garden Designer, Giles Clement, has further developed garden interest by integrating plants from other Mediterranean climates in a patchwork of international gardens. Although, to be honest, as I wandered around, I threw out the map and just enjoyed the juxtaposition of cactus against succulent against rock against tree against ocean. Blossoms everywhere.
This was another great location for breathing; often and deeply. Eucalyptus added spice to the quiet sweet smell of the mimosas, all mixed together on the sea breezes. Paths wound their way up and down and crossed the bluff from the entrance hall to the ocean; enticing the visitor to go here; no there; well, maybe there; just as a well-designed garden should. The ocean views could be enjoyed from many locations, including a terrace that lead to a small beach, although the beach was closed to the public. It was all right; I found another spot that day to put my feet into the Mediterranean.
The ground between plantings was almost always covered with clover, probably planted to keep things lush and fertile.
Some distance away from the ocean and following the sound of water, I found a small stream spilling down through the deeply shaded rocks. Crisscrossing the quickly falling stream eventually led me to a picturesque, vine covered structure, tucked into the low spot in the porous rock; a 20th century folly or a true well house? I could imagine milk jugs from the farm, cooling in the dark, damp hut but then garden follies often imitate functional structures. A mystery; for sure.[oqeygallery id=26]
Saul was a TV star. I saw him in Living Language videos long before I knew I would make his acquaintance. Hanging about with the likes of the Notre Dame Cathedral and the famous bridges of Paris, (Pont St. Louis between Ile St. Louis and Ile de la Cite) he was bound to attract attention. Shots of the Cathedral from the river always caught him, draped insouciantly over the concrete retainer wall, lounging in the sun. Just another good looking, well-placed tree.
But when I saw him in person, it was different. The way his branches whispered to me in the breezes; his cool, green demeanor in contrast to the hot summer pavement and his rugged maturity made me mad to know him better. I visited him every time I could. Most trips to Paris, the fence gates were closed and we had to commune from a distance. But one day I slipped through an open gate and placed my hand on his rugged bark. What strength and beauty; what a moment.
Sadly, one trip, they were trimming him drastically; cutting off branch after branch; leaving raw, blunt wounds where ever they’d snatched him bald. I fretted for his health but last time I saw him, he’d been recovering.
Many years and other loves have intervened; it’s been so long. I was eager to see him again but when I finally found our spot, he was gone. Not even a stump of Saul remains for me to mourn. I miss him and have commemorated him here. The good people of Paris have planted another, younger weeping willow in his place. Saul Jr. will have to do a lot of growing to fill his shoes. I’ll have to come back often to check on him.
(“Saule pleureur” is the French name for weeping willow. They are known as fast growing, but short-lived trees. Saul had probably outgrown the small space between the sidewalk and the concrete abutment near the bridge between Ile St. Louis and Ile de la Cite years ago and the size of his trunk would indicate he’d probably lived several times the life of most of his variety. I do wonder what finally ended his days. And I will miss him.)
While preparing for my trip to the South of France, I’d read about a pretty little villiage where mimosas were featured, Bormes les Mimosas. I stayed there the first night after the TVG (fast train) to Toulon. This actually IS the way to the villiage.
In spite of a small psych-out with the manual transmission of the rental car, reverse next to first; really Opel?!? I made it.
Blossoms everywhere and the warm afternoon sun was releasing a heavenly scent. I wandered around; climed to a high point above the villiage where I could see even more. Yes, that blue in the distance is the ocean.
Breathed a lot. Had Un Kir on the terrasse of the restaraunt, overlooking the valley and the sea in the distance. However, at that time of day, the favored item seemed to be huge and beatiful ice cream concoctions. My hotel room is one of the windows in the center of this shot.
I loved the way that the succulents on this corner made it look like someone had wrapped up the corner for Christmas.
The next day, I visited the nursury and on to Domain du Rayol, more later.
I just returned from a quick trip to France, spending most of my garden time in the south of France. I’d read that it is Mimosa time in that region and set out to learn what I could, camera at the ready. Michel Racine’s book on gardens in southern France recommended a nursery where they are propagated, Pepinieres Gerard Cavatore, in Bormes les Mimosas. I spent the night in the Village and found the nursery before I left the area. Not only did they let me wander around and take pictures, but Julien Cavatore answered my questions and gave me some basic information about the plants. Like Julian, their web site is full of information. This summer, they plan to move their operation to a bigger location and start adding additional plants that are suitable for the dry Mediterranean climate.
The plants that are called mimosa in France are Acacias. The exact numbers depend on the sources but there are well over 1200 varieties of Acacias, most of them originating in Australia. The Cavatores graft and sell over a hundred varieties. (I tried to count them on the website and gave up.) I read that they were imported to England by explorers in the late 1700s and brought to the south of France by the wealthy English who had winter villas there. They have thrived.
They color the air with a sweet scent when the sun warms the Cote d’Azure hills in early spring. The bees like them and they last well as cut flowers. They are a warm climate plant that does well in dry conditions. I don’t know why I don’t see them more in the southwest but Julian told me that Huntington Gardens in California does have a collection.
The Australian National Botanic Gardens Website has a good section on Acacias. Fun to learn they are called “wattle” in Australia.
What struck me most is the wide range of sizes, shapes and colors for these plants, although the blossom is primarily found in shades of yellow. I’ve pulled together a gallery of shots that starts with variations in blossoms and leaves, some of the leaves are blue/grey into purple shades, and ends with shots of their use in the landscape. I’ll be posting more about the gardens and locations where these shots were taken, soon.
[oqeygallery id=25]
This was one of the first gardens that I visited in France. My first trips took me to the Loire Valley, along with many other visitors to the chateaux that dot the country and line its rivers. Although I’ve visited many other gardens in France with more horticultural interest, this is still a place where I return when I can. It has heart.
For one thing, it has a lovely vegetable garden, which is not well visited, btw. If you look carefully, you may find artifacts of intensive gardening, for which the French deserve so much credit. Many of my pictures were taken there, including the rampant flowers. Probably for cutting. Crafty products and flower arrangements are sold on the property. The Orangerie Restaurant is conveniently located near to the food gardens and I’ve enjoyed several really great meals on the patio, looking out over the lawns.
Another reason I may be soft on this place is the influence of women. There are many other sources for its history but all of them agree about the powerful and influential women who held and nurtured the buildings and gardens.
Note the pictures of the knot garden. The knots appeared to be lavender, cut close. That part of the garden was dressed in white that visit, with climbing white roses around the walls.
[oqeygallery id=24]
I just read the book “Madame Toussaud”, by Michelle Moran; bear with me here for a short deviation from gardens. Madame was an incredible woman, although she must have been all business first. If the characterization is true, I’m sure that she would have been called “hard” and unfeminine by many, especially in her day. I admire her for doing what was necessary. Moving back and forth between the worlds of both royalty and revolutionaries, she survived her central role in the French revolution by making wax death masks of the executed. When she could do so no longer, she was imprisoned. I highly recommend this book as a very readable but historically accurate depiction of life and death during the French Revolution. Winding back to the topic for this post, the book has her in prison, awaiting execution with as woman named Rose, who would later be known as Empress Josephine, or Josephine Bonnaparte.
Rose is another self-made woman from that era who was often described as being pragmatic, at best. Rose’s first husband from an arranged and failed marriage was executed, but after Robespierre’s execution, the prisons were opened and she survived to live on her wits and highly placed friends, until she married Napoleon. My mind is still open but it’s impossible for me to tell, from hundreds of years away, whether her contributions to the science of botany and her ambitious plant collections were a sign of a serious and capable woman, or symptomatic of leftover imperialistic ideals.
Whatever values they reflect in the woman, history does tell us of her successes. In a day when people were scouring the globe to bring home the new and novel, for study or the amusement of their friends, she amassed a small menagerie and a garden full of exotic plants at Malmaison, where she continued to live after her divorce from Napoleon. Roses were a favorite and she’s reported to have collected hundreds of varieties, helping to establish a source of breeding stock for early hybridizing efforts. She employed the premier garden designers and botanists of her time. Her gardens were immortalized in books and in paintings. The painter Redoubt captured hundreds of her roses alone, and was influential in having them converted to printed media.
After her death in 1814, through neglect and the influence of war, the gardens were destroyed. The Chateau has been restored as a museum to Bonaparte and the gardens, a restored wisp, a memory, a small fragment of their former glory can be seen today at Chateau Malmaison in a Rueil, a close-in suburb of Paris. It’s a chance to touch her spirit, even if time has diminished the impact. The pictures were taken in 2003.
[oqeygallery id=23]
Although we’ve had warm weather off and on, it only served to pack the snow tightly to make it harder to melt on warm days like yesterday.
Dry steps from the deck let me get to the garden to see if the mache was showing any growth and it was not. Friend Margaret thinks it’s a problem with the variety and recommends “Vit”. I think I’ve tried it with the same results but may try it again next year to be sure.
Lifted the glass to remove the snow. A little more light can’t hurt. Not that there IS a lot of light. This time of year our warm days come from the south and are usually overcast.
Inside, under the lights, I’m finding that the pea shoots, harvested as baby greens will put out a second growth. Probably not as robust as the first, but still another serving for me.
You can see a bit of my passive humidifier, water over glass stones. It doesn’t work terribly well in the cool basement but better than nothing.
