The Dregs Of Summer

If you spend a lot of time outside you can undoubtedly feel on your skin, or in your nostrils, the very day when the season begins to change, when winter softens into spring, or spring hardens into summer.  It was yesterday I could sense on the wind the approach of Fall.  The air had a different texture, the sun had a different feel. 

The dregs of summer are all that remains.  The roses are monsterous tall, and need a whack back for a successful autumn:



The tomato plants are pulled, and it's time to add compost to the beds for cool-season crops:




The pumpkins are ripened and the plants are dying, which is about as conventionally Autumnal as it ever looks here, except for Halloween decorations:






Finally at long last the rest of the tomatoes are set on dry clean cardboard to ripen if they can.  Even picked green and reddened off the plant, they have more flavor than the store-bought kind.



It was a tough summer for the Koi, because it wasn't much of a summer.  The water hung at about 68F and didn't warm up until this past week.   They're okay, but it was the one and only drawback of a cooler-than-normal summer.



In the nearby field they still grow strawberries because the neighboring housing tract won't allow a grocery store to be built.   The property owner rents it out to a grower.  He's trying to wait out the homeowners and get his grocery store built, and the homeowners are trying to wait out the property owner.  In the meantime, truly local strawberries and corn to buy, and the crows glean the soil between crops, the soil still breathes and lives, not yet entombed in asphalt. 



In colder climates  the end of summer signals the growing season's end.  Here it signals the beginning of the autumn growing season.  It's not an end, merely a road with a bend.   Many more flowers ahead. 

Double Squill Thrill And Molineux

Rosa 'Molineux' had no trouble with the heat:
 

Urginea maritima was fine, too:


The Giant White Squill,  Urginea maritima, native to Crete, is a couple of weeks earlier than last year, and the big bulb has split in two, meaning two flowers, and two clusters of twisty foliage, instead of one.  The easiest plant in the garden:  pull off the dried flower stalk in October, clear away the dead foliage in June, and you are done.  No water required. 

The blast of heat the past three days kept me inside.  

Under the blazing blue sky:

The Old Yellow House Down The Road

 

Down the road is an old yellow house.  The landscape consists of:

1. Several Quercus Agrifolia that appear to have been there before the house was built.
2. Fallen oak leaves.
3. Dirt.

There isn't anything else.  Just the oaks and the soil.  There are no weeds--too dry and too shady is the only think I can think of to explain that, and maybe the thick blanket of fallen oak leaves also helps prevent weed growth.  When I first passed by that yard some years ago, I thought...what did I think?

"What a shame they don't do something with that yard!  So sad!"  Or worse:
"They forgot the rusted-out cars on blocks and the red-eyed pit-bull chained to a doghouse."  

The oaks are untrimmed.  They are irrigated by winter rain alone.  There is neither green waste nor compost.  No mow, no blow.  No pesticides or fungicides.  No PVC irrigation pipe and Red Hot Blue Glue to stick them all together.  No clippers, gloves, mowers, trimmers, or immigrant labor.    Just the oaks and the soil. 

What do I think now?  I think...differently.  I never thought the oaks should ever be touched, it seemed only that something was missing, but these days with the increasing awareness of the huge burden humanity is placing on our fragile planet, I'm drifting inexorably towards thoughts like:

"Like it or not, it's 100% "sustainable"".  And:  "No green waste, no gasoline burned, no water spilled."  And:  "Is anything more really necessary?"

If you do no work, does that mean it is not a garden?  Is a landscape of nothing more than a few native trees an eyesore, a trailer-trash heaven missing just the rusted-out car and the pit bull with chewed up ears?  

Surely a little more "design" or "art"--the hand of a beauty-lover--could add something--could add just enough to make it appear intentional, and thus say to the viewer, "This simplicity is deliberate.  This austere grove has a thinking, feeling mind behind it."  "This is:  On Purpose."  Something as simple as carefully added stones, local not exotic, their shape and texture complementing the oaks, or a path of gravel or flagstone.  Perhaps a handful of nasturtium seeds tossed out as the winter rains begin.  A couple of chairs brushed clean of leaves out under the great canopy of undulating limbs--to say to the world that someone sits under those trees, that it is a place for thought and conversation, not just for birds and insects, wind and rain. 

Is the presence of a Mind required to say, "Yes, this is a garden."?  When I look up through the oaks, it feels like nothing more is needed, but a light touch could add, don't you think, without taking away?

Sitting Places

Your typical gardener works like a slave to create beautiful sitting places, and then never sits down to enjoy them--choosing instead to pick weeds, tweak plants--anything but sit, relax, and experience.

I am a typical gardener. Lovely places to sit, but I sit just long enough to notice something needs doing and jump up to do it.

I  like the patio in the morning just before sunrise.  It's cool, the sound of the water splashing into the pond is soothing,  and the morning sun comes up to light Cypress and roses from behind, imparting to them for a few moments, golden halos.

This is where I sit the most.  I feed the koi, and watch them swim around.  So peaceful.  Anxiety floats away with the swing of a koi's tail. 




Waiting for the dogs to complete their Visit To The Lawn, I sit here.  Sometimes I go through junk mail, sometimes I watch the moon rise.


The best place for bird and lizard watching is in back.  This bit of the garden is tucked away down the slope behind the house.   It's best in the winter when the sun is not too hot.  The rose I planted to cover and shade the pergola has not done the job, and the neighbor's air conditioning machine, which runs 24/7 in summer is noisy.  They finally replaced their clanking old unit, and the new one is much quieter, but I still hear a hum. 
The birds are wonderful.  One early morning I looked up and a Barn Owl was looking back down at me.  Hawks, towhees, hummers, finches, crows, while the lizards scurry about and bees buzz in the alyssum.  It's my wild place.



Another shady spot to have some lunch or an open-air dinner, but rarely is it used.  Our loss.



I sit on the path here every once in a while. The shade is deep, the place is cool, there are roses within reach and the neighbor's monster Bougainvillea to gaze up at. 
 A chair is not always necessary.  Shade is enough.  






Now after looking  over what I have written, perhaps I sit in the garden more than I think I do.  I'd better jump up and weed more.

Hymenocallis littoralis (I think)

I forgot how beautiful these are. I had a Hymenocallis littoralis by the gate where it was at first fat and happy, but then it grew so much more fat and happy I couldn't get through the gate anymore and was fearful it would be a Bermuda Triangle of sorts for small pets and children.



I exiled the beast to a grim dry spot under the Brugmansia, where it has finally recovered--and triumphed--after three years of struggling against drought.

I'm not completely sure of the species. I've searched via The Google, and see multiple identifications. Part of the complexity in identification is bloom time--apparently there are very similar species differentiated by their general bloom time.



The only place I've seen another Hymenocallis is the Huntington, and it was a different species. I've never seen it for sale in a local garden center.

I got mine from a neighbor; her landscape architect selected and planted it back around 1972. It's been an increasing clump ever since, and my neighbor gave me an offset. I'm surprised it isn't popular, because it's easy; the only serious problem is snails. Mine grows with help from me beyond proper placement (part shade) and water.



The foliage is strap-like and resembles Agapanthus foliage in size and color, but with less substance. Snails love the foliage for both housing and meals, so a grim dry location was somewhat a favor as well as a punishment: I've seen no snail damage at all. I really did forget how beautiful they are--my specimen chose to survive and remind me.

Hymenocallis means "beautiful membrane". A common name is "Spider Lily"; it should be noted that other genus are also known by that common name. The genus is a member of the Amaryllidaceae family. Some more information here explains perhaps why I'm not sure of the species, because many species seem to have
very similar flowers--at least they look similar in tiny little pictures.

It's Just About Orb Spider Time

Late August and September is the time of year when the Orb spiders build magnificent webs for me to walk right into in the morning.  I then yelp and do my frantic best to make sure the spider is off onto the nearest plant, not crawling into my clothes.  It does wake me up.


The best are when it is dewy, and the dew hangs from the webs like jewels:


And there's 'Belinda's Dream', yet again looking so splendid I wonder (yet again) why I bother with any other rose. 



But that is facile;  of course there are many other excellent roses--just none better.

Native California Sedum, Sedum spathulifolium

Sedum spathulifolium:



I think more of Europe and the Caucasus when  I think of Sedum,  but we  have our own native Sedum--native if you count Northern California, but close enough for me:  Sedum spathulifolium.  I got the purple version (purpureum) from Native Sons.  Sedum spathulifolium is native from mid-California north into Oregon, so I'm guessing it is used to more water than is normally provided by rain here.  The purple-burgundy color is lovely;  it's a good companion to Agave 'Blue Glow'.

I have long had an uneasy relationship with Sedum.  I used to have Sedum sieboldii--beautiful plant, but decidious, and at the time, I was unsure of deciduous succulents.  I still am.

I have been fortunate to have avoided Sedum 'Autumn Joy', which must look good somewhere, though it's simply not a plant I can tolerate.  There are newer, more compact variations on 'Autumn Joy' that are supposed to be better--if they are better looking, that will probably be enough.

Sedum 'Angelina':

 
Sedum 'Angelina' has  never been  as chartreuse for me as it was when I got it, and I nearly killed it last winter by not watering it at al--it was under patio cover, got no rain, and didn't like that at all, though when I dumped some rainwater in the bowl it came back rapidly.  Other than expecting water at least once or twice a year, Sedum 'Angelina' has been undemanding.   I expect Sedum to act like most other succulents, able to go for months without water, but that hasn't been the case.  I lost a patch of the beautiful chartreuse Sedum makinoi 'Ogon' to lack of water, but since I had several other patches that did  get some water, I still have the plant.

I have so much affection for Sedum 'Coppertone', I forget it is a sedum.  Given time it can fill quite a large area;  I've seen several dense clumps of  3'x3' (1m x 1m) and they looked great.  I hope mine becomes as good.  

Sedum 'Coppertone':


I have what is purported to be a pink sport of the standard "pork  and  beans" Sedum,  Sedum rubrotinctum (love  that name) and  it is quite reddish pink.  I need to add  a picture of that, as I find there isn't one on  my  computer after all, nor of  S. makinoi 'Ogon', nor of my 'Big Burro' Sedeveria,  which is a cross of Sedum morganianum and an Echeveria, nor 'Sedeveria 'Vera Higgins', a waxy mocha and lime beauty.

'Big Burro' Sedeveria:


If you live in southern California and  have  a patio with hanging baskets, Sedum morganianum seems to be a requirement.  I just barely remember being taken as small child by my parents to visit a neighbor with a back yard like nothing I'd ever seen:  it was one big lathhouse filled with succulents, among them a hanging basket of Sedum morganianum like I've never seen since:  it must have been 6 feet (2 m)  long, without a bare spot anywhere, dozens and dozens of thick ropes of Sedum hanging down.   A big startling impression when most every yard was a patch of bermuda grass and a couple of Oleanders, which were considered kid-friendly plants at a certain point in time.



As a small child I was not allowed near such a magnificent thing (no argument here)  but I remember it.  What riches of  plant-loving hearts lived in my childhood neighborhood, and me too young and too shy to absorb that knowledge!   The  Dudleys across the street with their pink house and their back yard full of roses and peach trees, the Luciers next to the Dudleys with  their cacti lifted from the California desert (collected long before it was made illegal) and their twenty-foot-tall pink Hibiscus.

Sedum 'Lemon Belle'


We used to visit there also, and were allowed to pick the Hibiscus flowers and feed them to the Lucier's Desert Tortoise (also courtesy of the California desert, unfortunately--though they took good care of him, and  he led a long, fat, and happy, if celibate life).  His triagular shaped tongue, as I remember, was the same shade of bright pink as the Hibiscus flower.

Mrs. Lucier gave me this Sedum dasyphullum over 40 years ago:
 

There were also the people by the school with a back yard that was one big miniature railroad--we were only allowed a brief glimpse of it, just once--and those people around the corner who had the lathhouse, as magical as Wonderland to a five-year-old.  I never knew their name, never got growing advice, no tips, no suggestions, no comparisons of successes and failures.  Surely I was just in the way, something to worry about, potential damage to a beloved Crassulae or Agave.  Yet something got passed along--here I am decades on, thinking about plants.  

I'm becoming more reconciled to Sedums now that I've developed some familiarity with them.  I guess I saw too many dried and neglected  'Pork And Beans' in too many pots on too many patios along the long road to here.  It's a good Genus (except 'Autumn Joy').  Familiarity bred contempt at first, but then I learned.

Key, Mexican, or Bartender's Lime, Citrus aurantifolia 'Swingle'

What ever you choose to call  it, Citrus aurantifolia 'Swingle' is a steady and  prolific producer of  small (1.5" diameter) acidic fruit with a strong and complex flavor.  The size is just perfect;  one lime per avocado for guacamole.  Though ours is on true dwarf  rootstock,  it apparently doesn't grow all that large anyway.   Ours is a  little over six feet tall and 5 feet wide.  



I got the tree in 2004, and kept it in a pot for a couple of years.  Like all my potted plants, it was miserable--half defoliated and yellowed, so I eventually gave it a spot in the ground where it has been happy, healthy, and productive.  I got no fruit from it when it was potted, and it took about 2 years to recover after I got it into the  ground, but it's been producing all the limes we can handle since then.   We ran out of lemons for lemonade, and turned to limeade as a substitute.  It's surprisingly good, no more like commercial limeade than a home-grown tomato is like a store-bought one.  It has a more complex flavor than the larger 'Bearss' limes.  The ripe fruits fall off in a slow steady manner, a few at a time.  Some are seedy; most have one or two seeds, a few have none.



Though it is called a 'Mexican' lime, it's from the Malaysian/Indonesian part of the planet.  There's some interesting information here; the bit about the fruit being saltwater pickled and shipped to Boston as a popular snack for schoolchildren is kind of--huh?  Why Boston?  Why school children?  What about Irish policemen?  Why Boston and not New Haven?  How many other strange foods were fed to school children without my knowing about it?  But I digress.

 According to the Sunset Western Garden Book, this is a very cold-sensitive plant.  Ours has experienced a few light frosts, and came through just fine--no apparent damage at all, so perhaps Sunset's idea of cold is colder than my idea of cold.  The other possible disappointment is a surprising lack of fragrance to the flowers.  We were spoiled by the exquisite fragrance of 'Meyer' lemon and 'Valencia' orange blossoms, and expected something of the same heavenly scent from the lime flowers, but--nothing.  The fruit itself however is aromatic,  I can smell the limes on my fingers after I pick them up.

About the easiest pie recipe ever is Key Lime Pie.  The standard is  a can (around fourteen oz) of sweetened condensed milk,  four to five ounces of lime juice, two to four egg yolks, and eight ounces of cream cheese all blended together, poured into a graham cracker pie crust, baked for 10 minutes at 350F (for egg safety), then chilled.  Quick and simple.  One variation is replacing the eggs with a cup of heavy whipping cream, blending the mix until it becomes something like whipped  cream, and chilling the pie (no eggs means no bake).  If you wish to substitute Cool-Whip for heavy cream--well, let's not go there.  An  envelope of unflavored gelatin will make the whipped cream variation more "set".   I seem to remember a version where  the eggs are replaced by one or two envelopes of unflavored gelatin and  the pie is simply chilled, but I could not find that version and cannot confirm it.   Regular lime juice works just as well  as key lime juice. 

All in all, for the amount of space it takes up (not much) this is a good, petite tree to have around. Most citrus trees are quite ornamental;  this one is no exception.

This has nothing to do with Key Limes, but Abraham Darby was looking blatantly apricot today.  Usually he's a pink-peach-yellow blend, and in spring he can be very pink, but today he was overwhelmingly apricot.  Moody boy!



'Pure Poetry' is another rose that varies quite a bit.  It was looking pretty apricot, too.