Not quite Tulip time, you say? True, if you mean the classic garden varieties that come in every paintbox color, the ones we see massed at Longwood and Keukenhof, gorgeous, lavish and eyepopping in their thousands. May is their month, here in the Hudson Valley.

But I'm talking about their wild and wonderful cousins, the species or botanical Tulips. Their time is now, blooming along with Daffodils, Hellebores, Forsythias and the other things that make the first big splash of spring color. These are the Tulips that get banished to the back pages of the bulb catalogs, with other "little bulbs" that apparently never sell very well. It's a damn shame, because in this group are some of the most arresting and rewarding of all bulbous plants we can grow here in the temperate north.

Their struggle to be appreciated in comparison with their showier cousins is longstanding... one of the great grande dames of American gardening, Louise Beebe Wilder, wrote in 1923  "To some of us who know them the wild Tulips of Central Asia, of Italy, of North Africa and elsewhere, so diverse in form, so sprightly and unspoiled, are more interesting and alluring than the splendid border forms."

I've tried quite a few of these over the years, most with some success, and several have become reliably perennial in my garden. It pays to remember that most of them come from parts of the old world that have brief, cool, wet springs followed by hot, dry summers and cold winters. Good drainage in our climate is essential or they will rot, so I find my terraced beds and our sandy loam suits many of them very well. And they like to be left alone, as Ms. Wilder writes, "in sheltered sunny corners where they will be safe from molestation by misguided zeal."  There's plenty of misguided zeal in my garden, but the species Tulips survive and thrive nonetheless.

These are Tulips for gardeners who don't particularly like Tulips... by which I mean, they find the modern hybrids perhaps too formal, too stiff, and altogether too much trouble to replant every year. The species Tulips have both the grace of wildflowers and the brilliant colors, so welcome in spring, of their hybrid descendants. Plus they tend to be much more perennial. I don't know the name of the beautifully marked pale yellow in the photo above (it came here as part of a mixed bag) but it's bloomed reliably for the last six or seven years, its clump increasing slowly but surely.

Tulipa praestans is another easy one that's available in a few nice cultivars like 'Fuselier' (above), an intense poppy red. I also grow 'Moondance', a bright orange (below) and 'Shogun' in softer shades of saffron and melon. All of them, like many species Tulips, throw multiple flowers from one bulb, an added color bonus.

'Moondance' must get its name from the cool, sinuous budding growth, because when the flowers open they're a very strong orange on the inside of the cup.

For a softer color scheme, Tulipa batalinii 'Bronze Charm' is certainly charming. I haven't grown it in a few years, but I had it at my old house where it was reliable in a raised bed with good drainage, sunny in early spring but partly shaded during the summer. Think I'll try it again.

I love the colors of emerging perennial foliage, and this variegated Iris is the perfect companion for this little yellow species Tulip. I can't remember whether this is Tulipa tarda or Tulipa dasystemon, and some sources list them as the same thing. No matter what name you get them under, just get them because they are easy, perennial and as cheerful as a sunny-side-up breakfast.

The Lady Tulips, Tulipa clusiana cultivars, have a very old pedigree in western gardens, having been brought to Florence from the Near East in 1606. They are charming, especially in their slender pointed bud stage that on sunny days opens to reveal a dark central blotch. They spread by stolons to form a colony when they're happy and have naturalized in parts of Spain and southern France. Good varieties are available here from most bulb merchants: 'Cynthia', 'Lady Jane', 'Tinka', and 'Tubergen's Gem', all worth a try.

I'm going in mostly for warm shades in the areas where I grow my species Tulips, so don't have many in the pink or purple range, but there are some really gorgeous kinds in that color palette. 'Persian Pearl' (above) is one such, a variety of Tulipa humilis in jewel tones of magenta and deep yellow, the outer petals flushed with silver-grey.

Tulipa bakeri 'Lilac Wonder' is another in that part of the color wheel, but softer and sweeter with lilac pink petals opening to reveal a golden yellow blotch. Easy and prolific, a good one for newbies.

I can't get enough of this little one... it's Tulipa orphanidea subspecies whittalii  (sorry folks, no common name). Which is indeed a mouthful for such a little flower. But it packs a substantial color punch, with burnt orange petals that are accented by black and olive markings on the inside of the cup. Really cute coming up through low-growing perennials like Sedums or Creeping Phlox, and reliably perennial for me in my terraced beds that drain well and bake in the summertime.

Lastly, my very favorite that I've grown (so far)... the Woodland Tulip, Tulipa sylvestris. Very happy here on a sandy loam bank in part shade, among Forget-Me-Nots, Epimediums, Crested Iris, Japanese Woodland Peonies and other like-minded companions. This one truly has the bearing of a wildflower with its slightly nodding flowers that move in the breeze. It's a very adaptable species, ranging naturally all the way from Portugal and North Africa, through the Near East and into parts of China.

One more reason to try these:  they're relatively cheap to buy... 25 bulbs will typically run under $10, so you can afford to plant in quantity and experiment. Success is not assured, but likely, if you can provide their minimal requirements... all of them will bloom the first season and with a little luck some of them will find that your garden suits them very well, and remain permanent residents.

The few I've profiled here are only the ones with which I have some familiarity. There are many, many others that are available from the popular bulb merchants and, with a little searching, from specialist growers. If you want a real treat, take a minute to look at the slide show at tulipsinthewild.com. Breathtaking photographs of Tulips in their native settings, with an interactive map showing their distribution.

Easy, prolific, inexpensive, colorful and fascinating... with so many things going for them it's hard to understand why more gardeners don't give these wonderful little bulbs a try. Maybe you'll be prompted to order a few this fall and, next spring, you'll see why I'm so enthusiastic about growing them.

Another wintry week, following on teasing breaks in the weather that only hint of things to come.

It's a good time to get away, briefly, for those of us fortunate enough to be able to travel. For the rest of us, it's an endurance test.

Still, I wouldn't trade our winters for something less definitely seasonal. Just last week I was back home in Louisiana, where the camellias were glorious and the saucer magnolias, sweet olive, and winter honeysuckle were all in full flower. But it was damp and cloudy, with a wet chill that permeates everything... typical Deep South winter weather. And with the woods full of pine, holly and magnolia, there's (dare I say it) an unrelenting greenness to the landscape that made me miss our stark and spare northeastern winter.

Make no mistake, I'm as anxious for spring as anyone. But before the warm weather arrives, with its rush and push of growing things and the attendant tasks, I'd like to pause and appreciate this most unloved of seasons.

To gardeners, these are the gifts of a harsh, definitive winter. . .

With snow covering the ground the air is clean, dry and refreshing, so it's a fine time to take a walk or just appreciate the stars at night. Seems to clear my head too, making space for sorting things out. In the garden, clarity of vision as the strengths and weaknesses of our designs reveal themselves, stripped of the forgiving layers of leaf and flower. We see improvements to be made, lines to be altered, branches to be removed. The structure of trees and shrubs is revealed against sky and snow, and the stripped-down color palette of white, black, brown and grey, like a Brueghel painting, is surprisingly satisfying.

Blessed relief from my bottomless summer to-do list. A chance to reorganize the garden shed and clean the tools, without being rushed on to the next job by the realization that growing things can't wait. Getting the seed-starting materials together and, unhurried, perusing the catalogs in front of a toasty fire, cat on lap. Looking back over the hundreds of garden photos I take every season, amazed that the frigid, withered scene out the window was, just months ago, so lush and colorful and bursting with growth.

I get a bit annoyed when what I call Sunday Gardeners say, "oh it's winter, everything's dead!"  It's not, of course... maybe your petunias are, but real gardens are never dead. Here in the Hudson Valley we usually have a snow cover during the coldest months, keeping sleeping perennials insulated from drying winter wind and the thawing that winter sunlight can induce. We take for granted that so many of the plants we consider easy to grow here:  bearded iris, peonies, hostas and many more, actually require this dormancy in order to grow and flower normally. Gardeners in parts of the world with mild winters struggle to satisfy them. My mom spent an entire winter once, dumping ice cube trays on a spindly peony crown, trying to induce a bloom... as gardeners, we always pine for what we can't grow.

Without the foliage and under a pristine blanket of snow, the garden's structure is revealed like a three-dimensional, walk-through plan on paper, a clean slate for trying out fresh ways to improve the space. This is the time I like to lay out new planting areas, or expand existing ones (I know, I know) using 24" rebar rods from the lumber yard. These are cheap and can be driven into the frozen ground with a light hammer to delineate a curved line, or anchor the ends of a mason's line for a straight one. When I'm happy with the layout, I leave them in place until the spring when the ground is clear and dry enough to cut the line with a spade.

The greatest gift of our long, cold winters. A few months to relax, read, cook, enjoy the company of loved ones. There are winter chores for the gardener, of course, but they're not very pressing. And with the garden hibernating, I have no excuse not to tackle cleaning out the linen closet and reorganizing the pantry, the indoor tasks that are shoved aside during the gardening season.

It will come soon enough. As the sunlight strengthens and the days become, finally, noticeably longer, I'm savoring this moment. I'm appreciating that we have clearly defined seasons in our part of the world, each with its beauties and its obligations. I'm resting, renewing, reviving.

And, of course, I'm dreaming of springtime.

Down home in Louisiana, Epiphany or Twelfth Night signals the official beginning of carnival season... a time of parties, King Cakes and general silliness that culminates on Shrove Tuesday, aka Mardi Gras.

In that spirit (and also because it's damn boring out in the garden right now) I want to share some pictures of the silly, amusing and downright puzzling landscaping I've encountered over the past year.

2018 ended with our Holiday Possum-in-the-Manger, above, an unexpected squatter in our henhouse, where he was allowed to spend the night before being gently evicted next day. No damage to the resident poultry, although he may have consumed a couple of eggs.

Looking forward to 2019, here are some trends I've spotted that you might not like to emulate...

Mo' mulch, mo' mulch, mo' mulch!!!!!!

Hey do you think some plants would enhance my mulch display?

Dude, I was partyin' last night and I had this awesome idea about how to use that pile of stones we have...

Our motto: Love rocks, hate plants.

Connect the evergreens, see the bunny!

Tomato Gitmo.

Build houses for your lawn jockeys so they won't have to stand out in the snow!

For the connoisseur of the rare and unusual... the exquisite Daffodil-flowered Spruce, Picea narcissiflora 'King Alfred'.

Also, the seldom seen Flowering Stump Tree.

Hope springs eternal.

Wait, what? Hostas are shade plants???

Well, at least it's cheerful.

I love golden evergreens. I love them, I love them, I LOVE THEM!!!

It's a topiary made from Rudbeckia. A topiary. Made from Rudbeckia... Ok.

Hanging basket tree. Wrong, on so many levels. Just wrong.


Don't hate me, I'm really not a mean person. Have a Happy New Year, everyone.

We had our first killing frost last weekend, an event that marks time for every gardener in the temperate zones. As the growing season winds down, I try to assess each area of my garden, making notes and obsessive lists of what to move, divide, replace next year… which plants thrived and which were disappointments (or downright disasters). I take a lot of photos too, not just to remember the beauty of things at their moment of perfection, but also to document the gaps and the flops, and to record the process and progress of newly planted areas.

Failures are inevitable, and one of the things I admire about most really experienced gardeners is their ability to take disappointments in stride, to soldier on through inclement weather, plagues of disfiguring insects, epidemics of fungus and various other afflictions that descend upon those of us who’ve chosen this avocation. A lost plant is an opportunity to rethink and replace, and except in the case of very old or rare specimens, seldom mourned for long.

We lost this Spruce over the summer. It predates our ownership of the house by many years, and I never even bothered to research what type of Spruce it was (evergreens just aren’t my thing). But it formed part of the canopy over my shady area of early spring plants and later, ferns and hostas, so it was always welcome and taken for granted. Of course my first instinct was to cut it down and replace it with something more glamorous, but my husband pointed out that it looks pretty cool as it is, and has a certain dignity and sculptural quality even in death. So we’re letting it be, and seeing what happens.

Underneath, the planting has never looked as lush, given all the rain we’ve had, and the Spruce’s branches, now growing lichens instead of needles, provide enough traveling shade to keep the plants from scorching, at least for now.

Nearby, another shady area is maturing. The variegated Pagoda Dogwood, Cornus alternifolia ‘Golden Shadows’ is finally tall enough to escape deer predation, save for a bit of browsing on the lowest limbs. It’s one of the last plants I bought when Loomis Creek closed, so I’d hate to lose it.  

In the same area, a great selection of the native Woodland Phlox, ‘Blue Moon’, has finally achieved critical mass and put on a nice display for the entire month of May.

Over against the house, another area that’s matured is the sunny terraced bed that steps down to our little south lawn. Here, a tapestry planting of Sedums, dwarf Alliums, Pulsatillas, creeping Veronicas and other small scale, reliable sun-lovers covers three levels and provides continued textural interest, and a carpet from which, in early spring, dwarf Iris and species Tulips emerge. The grass is Bouteloua gracilis ‘Blonde Ambition’, a native of the western high plains that struggles with our wet winters, but seems to have found its happy spot here in the baking, well-drained terraces.

Below the terrace beds and adjacent to the south lawn is an area I call my Dark Garden… it’s given over to Fritillarias and Opium Poppies until they finish in June, and then I plant it up with annuals and tropicals to finish out the season, all in shades of orange, black-red and deep purple. For the last several years it’s been a highlight of the property, but this year I was preoccupied with other plantings and didn’t give it the thought and attention it usually gets, so it turned out a mess. The Cannas and Castor Beans didn’t get in soon enough to make a good showing, I failed to grow the Tithonia I like from seed, I allowed too many volunteer Perillas to remain, and I decided to plant Persian Shield as a filler instead of the usual Coleus, and they didn’t get enough sun to really do anything. A couple of days concentrated thought and effort would have set it on the right path to success, but the window was missed. In gardening, timing is everything.

And attention must be paid! I finally was able to buy a plant I’ve been coveting for the last four years, the gorgeous white version of Sweetshrub, Calycanthus floridus ‘Venus’, for a new area I’m developing, but I sited it for maximum visual impact instead of paying enough attention to cultural requirements. Then came our late summer rains, and a damp area became a wet area which became a waterlogged bog that never dried out all through August and September. By the time I noticed the telltale drooping, yellowing foliage, my Venus had drowned.

Whatever the weather, every growing season has plants that falter and others that thrive. This summer must have been perfect for the three above, which have never performed better in my garden…left to right: Buddleja alternifolia ‘Argentea’ (Silver-Leafed Fountain Butterfly Bush), Ligularia japonica (Japanese Ligularia), and ‘African Blue’ Basil.

Sometimes an abject failure can evolve into something like a success, as in the case of the area at the back of our property we’ve dubbed “The Wilderness”. It was originally meant to be a perennial meadow on damp ground, but it was my first foray into naturalistic style planting, and I thought I could just stop mowing part of the lawn and plug in vigorous natives that would hold their own against the weeds. THAT was a delusion… probably ninety percent of the things I so thoughtfully planted never made it past the first summer, swamped by weedy grasses, Goldenrod and head-high Jewelweed. By the second summer (above), some toughies like Monarda fistulosa, Echinacea purpurea, and Persicaria amplexicaulis were making headway…surviving at least.  

This summer the balance finally began to even out… there’s still lots of Jewelweed, but the Echinaceas made a strong showing, and the more desirable Goldenrod varieties (like my favorite ‘Fireworks’) are claiming more space.

And I’ve discovered that one secret to planting into a weedy patch is to use towering perennials that grow early and fast (like Coreopsis tripteris and Vernonia altissima ‘Jonesboro Giant’ above)  They can get up above the Jewelweed before it has a chance to smother.

Sometimes I conveniently forget that some of the best effects in my garden are accidental. I was really pleased with this July trio of Panicum virgatum ‘Northwind’, Patrinia villosa, and Verbena bonariensis. Then I remembered that the Verbena had arrived on its own last summer, just a couple of random seedlings that I very nearly pulled out. Mother Nature thinks outside the box, even when I don’t.

My biggest and most ambitious project of the season has been phase one of a three-part meadow-style planting. I actually laid it out over a year ago, and put in a few things last fall, but the vast majority of the planting was done this spring and early summer, and mostly from landscape plugs. If you’re not familiar with these, they're essentially well-rooted mini plants that come in flats of 32 or 50, and they’re used in landscape installations where large quantities of plants are needed, and planted close together to get quick density. Sort of the opposite of the “Let’s-see-lots-of-mulch-around-every-plant” school of landscaping.  

The area is the lowest corner of our property, often too wet to mow, and sunny most of the day. These are conditions that suit a wide range of moist meadow perennials, so the design challenge was more about limiting my impulses to plant too much variety. But after lots of obsessing and revisions I came up with a plant list of about thirty different perennials, biennials, grasses and sedges to fill the space. That still sounds like a lot of variety, but there’s a succession of interest, and because each species is used in quantity, the effect isn’t spotty at all.

The landscape plugs establish and fill in quickly, and by late summer the area looked well-furnished and full of seasonal interest. The tight planting also discouraged weeds, as did the initial 2-3 inches of composting mulch through which the plugs were planted. In spite of all the effort it’s already given me so much more pleasure than the boggy, weedy lawn that was there before. I’m looking forward to seeing how it will fill in even more, and evolve, in a year’s time. And I’m already working on the plant list for phase two!

To tell the truth I’d actually delayed starting this project for a whole year, talking myself out of doing it altogether at one point. I had just turned 60, and was thinking how absurd to launch such an ambitious planting plan at that age. But gardeners are never entirely governed by logic (thankfully) so I thought what the hell, carpe diem, courage, forge ahead, excelsior!!!

Designing plantings is often compared to the visual arts…”painting with plants” or “making garden pictures” are phrases one frequently comes across. But a stroke of red on a painting will still be virtually the same a hundred years from now, whereas a patch of scarlet Monarda has changed within days, weeks later will have a completely different effect, and by the next season might have doubled in size or be gone altogether. Gardening is an ephemeral, constantly mutating art form, more akin to dance or music. That’s what makes it so challenging and, when it works, so exciting.

Embracing your failures, large and small, is all part of the process of garden-making. Creating them is the thing, so as my 62nd birthday looms, I’m carrying on with my ill-advised, imprudent and over-ambitious project. Gardens are never really finished, and that’s as it should be, because they never really outlive the gardener for very long. I’m enjoying every bit of it, success and failure, now.   

I like that word, culmination. The crowning point, the zenith, the high-water mark. In the gardening year, for me, Labor Day is the beginning of the period when I enjoy my garden most. As I've grown older, my taste has shifted towards late bloomers and plants that wait until now to really shine, in the beautiful clear light of early fall.

Don't get me wrong, I still love the exuberance of April, May and June, the lush fresh growth that expands almost hourly, flowers everywhere and the promise of another season still unspoiled by disappointments and setbacks. We all need that time, especially after the long, dim winters we often have here in the Hudson Valley. But I'm pushing my plantings more and more towards things that strut their stuff at the end of the growing season, and enjoying the results.

As a young gardener my plantings were heavily weighted towards that late spring/early summer culmination, that peak we have around Memorial Day, when Iris, Peonies, Poppies and other traditional perennials flower. Nurseries are well stocked then, and there's no shortage of eager customers, which is part of the reason why most gardens are so dull after midsummer. At Loomis Creek, and later at Pondside, we were constantly striving to get people to come in later in the season, because there's really a large vocabulary of plants that can make this time of year one of the most gratifying.

Here are a few ideas for plants I'd recommend trying, to give your garden (and your spirits) a late season lift . . .

Grasses, grasses, grasses! Those seedheads are what I wait for all season, even though the foliage is lovely and soothing during the summer. But now's the time that grasses really are front and center. One of my new favorites is this Blue Grama Grass with yellowish seed heads, Bouteloua gracilis 'Blonde Ambition'. The wiry stems look delicate but they're remarkably strong, staying upright even through most of our winter snows. A native of the western plains that needs a hot, dry, sandy position.

Purple Love Grass, Eragrostis spectabilis, is a bit of a plain Jane through the summer, but when it blooms in September, it's a knockout. Native to this area, so once you learn to recognize it you'll start seeing it everywhere, on roadsides and in unmown fields.

Lots of ornamental grasses are shoulder high or taller, so it's great to find some that are below knee-high. A good choice, and one that tolerates some shade, is Deschampsia cespitosa 'Goldtau' (Golden Dew). Native to several parts of the world, including North America, with deep green blades that have a medium-fine texture all season, then in early fall carry ethereal sprays of pale green aging to warm gold. I love it planted among my Hellebores so there's another whole season of interest in that area.

Panicums are still among my favorite grasses, and you can't go far wrong with Panicum virgatum 'Northwind' (above, left). It's a reliable choice if you need a tall, upright presence. For more color, there are quite a few reddish cultivars coming on the market now. The standard for years has been 'Shenandoah', but I'm loving 'Hot Rod' (above, right). It seems to be more vigorous than 'Shenandoah', and colors up richly by summer's end. I think it looks especially fine paired with one of the larger Sedums, a classic fall combination.

Speaking of Sedums, I love this newer variety with citron-yellow flowers on sturdy stems that stay upright all winter. It's called 'Lemon Jade', and although I usually hate the plants selected by the Proven Winners program, this one's truly a fine choice, and a good blender color-wise. A little shorter than 'Autumn Joy', 'Matrona' or the other pink-flowered cultivars that have been around for years.

A plant I've been fascinated by since I was a child is the Rattlesnake Master, Eryngium yuccifolium. It's common in the Louisiana pinelands where I grew up, but grows well here also. Does best in sandy, dry soils that keep it sturdy and upright... in rich ground it tends to sprawl and need staking. Otherwise trouble free, a great textural feature, and dries well for winter bouquets.

Heleniums are American natives that went to finishing school in Europe in the late 19th century and came back to us much improved, but we still don't appreciate them nearly as much as the Germans, Brits and Dutch do. That's beginning to change, with the introduction of some shorter varieties that don't need staking like the older cultivars. Three good choices are 'Mardi Gras' (top), 'Mariachi Salsa' (lower left), and 'Moerheim Beauty' (lower right), an older variety that I still think is one of the best reds. Heleniums provide a solid punch of color in September, and the seed heads age nicely into fall. Easy to grow if they have consistent moisture in the soil, otherwise they tend to dwindle after a couple of years.

Aster season kicks off with Aster umbellatus, the Flat-topped Aster. Fresh, clean white daisies are followed by really showy tufts of seedheads in a beautiful tawny gold. My plants were a gift from local Superwoman Gardener, Betty Grindrod, and just divided this spring, so by next year they should reach their full height potential of 6-7 ft. Annoyingly, this plant has recently been reclassified as Doellingeria umbellata. Just kill all the botanists, now.

It's a shrub, no it's a perennial, no it's a shrub! Lespedeza thunbergii, common name: Japanese Bush Clover, is a graceful plant that's tough and pretty. The stems die to the ground in our winters but regrow vigorously to shrub height, arching sprays that cover themselves with deep pink or white pea-flowers in early fall. The best pink is 'Gibraltar' (above, left) and there are several nice white ones, like 'White Fountain' (above, right).

Lespedeza is perfect for planting on a bank, where the lax stems can tumble down and cover themselves with flowers in September, as seen here at Linda Horn's garden in nearby Spencertown, NY.  If a more compact plant is wanted, it can also be cut back by half around Memorial Day and it will still flower well, just in a bushier form.

There are good reasons why you see a Panicle Hydrangea, Hydrangea paniculata, flowering now at almost every house in these parts. They're tough, hardy, and spectacular in flower, aging from white to pink and perfect for big, lavish floral arrangements. There are literally dozens of cultivars on the market, from the classic heirloom 'Peegee' to more recent introductions like 'Limelight' (greenish-flowers) and 'Phantom' (panicles the size of basketballs). I prefer the ones with more open clusters, like 'Pink Diamond' (above). All they need is plenty of sun, reasonable soil, and a modest shaping in early spring. Also often grown as a standard, incorrectly called a "Tree Hydrangea".

I know it's on the invasives lists in several states, but I still grow the Sweet Autumn Clematis, Clematis paniculata. It foams up the side of our porch, sprawling out over a Lilac, and envelops the deck above with fragrant masses of bloom every September.  I prune it back pretty severely in spring, just as the buds are breaking on the old vine, to keep it reasonably under control. As the old stems age and get woody, new ones will sprout from the base and can be trained to replace the older ones. Occasionally I find a seedling coming up, but I've never seen much potential for it to become invasive, at least not in our garden.

While we're on the subject of vines, early fall is the peak of perfection for most annual vines, like Morning Glories, Spanish Flag, Cup & Saucer, or the Hyacinth Bean, Dolichos lablab, shown above. I prefer this variety, 'Ruby Moon' which has purplish stems, leaves and pods that are as decorative as the flowers. I used to start it every year from seed, under lights in my basement, but it's been volunteering for the last three or four seasons and it seems to come true to color. As easy as any other bean, and one or two plants is all you need to cover a fence or an archway. 

What would early fall be without at least a few Dahlias, queens of the late season cutting garden, and (mostly) worth all the trouble to start them warm, stake them while they grow, and dig & store after frost. Their gorgeousness is often breathtaking, and the varieties are endless. 

Another tender group that's worth the trouble to replant every year are the shrubby Salvias, like Salvia guaranitica, Salvia leucantha, Salvia uliginosa, and their many cultivars like 'Black & Blue', 'Indigo Spires', 'Cambridge Blue', 'Waverly', 'Argentine Skies', or 'Amistad', each more enchanting than the next. The only reason they're not more popular is that they look like weeds when it's time to buy and plant them... but just wait until the days shorten a bit and they start to bloom like mad and keep going until taken out by the frost. Give them full sun, evenly moist soil and plenty of room to expand into shrub-sized plants that will cover themselves in flowers that Hummingbirds and Sphinx Moths flock to. Did I mention they're deer-proof too?

I love anything thistle-like (maybe it's my prickly personality) and I buy a couple of Cardoon plants every year to plug into sunny spots that need a gutsy foliar focal point. The proper name is Cynara cardunculus, and it's a cousin to the edible Artichoke. I had one live over the winter this year and although it didn't make the large, vase-shaped plant I was hoping for, it did throw some nice buds and flowers, which were like small artichokes and dried nicely. Most years the leaves reach 3-5 ft. in height and look incredibly sculptural by the end of the season.

Another plant I love for it's dramatic foliage is Ricinus, the Castor Bean. I grow a few every year from seeds that are easily sprouted with a little bottom heat. By September they're topping out at 8 ft, more in a hot wet year, and producing their clusters of colorful, spiny seed pods. The seeds themselves are highly toxic (the source of the poison ricin), so not a plant for gardens where small children are likely to ingest them.

There are a few varieties of Castor Bean, but my very favorite is a deeply colored one called 'New Zealand Purple', available from Select Seeds, Chiltern's, or Annie's Annuals. It's a little smaller than some of the green Castor Beans, only 6 ft. tall instead of 10, and I love scattering it through plantings of richly tinted annuals and perennials.

Here's 'New Zealand Purple' in a stunning combination with Salvia uliginosa, the Bog Sage, put together by Dorthe Hviid at the Berkshire Botanical Garden in Stockbridge, Mass.


I hope I've given you some ideas for plantings to liven up the waning days of summer, but whether you take my suggestions or not, enjoy your garden in September. With less pressing chores, beautiful weather, and a bounty of flora and fauna to observe, it's a wonderful time to be outdoors.

Loads of rain here recently, following on a month-long drought. Such is the weather for a gardener... never perfect, never quite what we would want it to be. At least I'm not watering by hand and sprinkler now, a tiresome and well-draining activity I try to confine to items planted within the last year; anything that's been in the ground longer is on its own. The ample moisture has refreshed and renewed many plants that looked on the verge of demise, including the toasted lawn, plumping up flagging stems and leaves, triggering everything to put on fresh turgid growth in a botanical sigh of relief. 

All this exuberance is especially noticeable on the largest and most heavily textured plants, those we need for bold effects, the unapologetically oversized plants all experienced gardeners instinctively turn to for accents and focal points, and to avoid monotony in a planting scheme. Tropical annuals, of course, are perfect for providing the scale and impact needed, and I couldn't garden without Cannas, Cardoons, and my beloved (and deadly poisonous) Castor Beans. But they are a lot of trouble to raise from seed every year, or carry over as bulbs, or buy again every season.

What I'm appreciating most right now are the perennials that provide that tropical look with less effort on my part, those that reliably return every year to make the late summer garden, beyond the flowery fuss of May and June, a satisfying essay in texture and form. Here then, a baker's dozen of these big, bold beauties, some of which you probably already grow, and some new ones you may want to try.

One of my top ten favorite perennials, Ligularia japonica thrives in damp shade and builds up into magnificent clumps of rich green, deeply divided foliage that gives a distinctly tropical effect. In midsummer the flowering stems shoot up head high or more, and though I'm not so fond of the shaggy golden yellow blooms, I love the seed heads that follow: tufts of golden brown that hold well into the winter before shattering.

I'm not sure why this plant is so hard to find in nurseries because it comes easily from seed... in fact I pull out dozens every spring that sprout in places I don't need it... so if any of you want a start, email me and we'll get a list going for next year!

Darmera peltata, commonly called Indian Rhubarb, is technically an American native, just not to our area. It hails from wooded streamsides in Oregon and northern California, but grows very well here in the Hudson Valley as long as it's given a spot in shade that never dries out. The thick, rhizomatous roots, lying just on the surface of the soil, make it an ideal plant for stabilizing the bank of a stream or the edge of a shaded pond.

The flowers are more curious than beautiful, naked stalks topped with a ball of pale pink blooms that poke up very early in the season, before the leaves expand. It's those leaves that are the main attraction, and why we grow the plant: scalloped discs more than a foot in diameter, held shoulder-high in a wet year like this one. They take on rich shades of bronze, gold and red in the autumn, then disappear with the first snow, leaving only the conspicuous rhizomes to mark their place until the following spring. Darmera increases gradually and steadily, never overly aggressive like Petasites japonicus, a plant often recommended for similar conditions.

Aralia cordata is a great large-scale perennial native to Japan, where its young shoots are eaten like asparagus. 'Sun King' is a golden-leaved version that was reportedly discovered there in a department store nursery by plant explorer Barry Yinger, and brought back to the U.S. where it's recently become a hot perennial. I've been growing it for about five years now, and continue to be impressed... it flattens to the ground every winter but returns faithfully in spring, quickly making a dense mound of foliage 6 ft. tall and wide.

The sprays of delicate greenish white flowers in late summer are attractive, followed by black berries that the birds relish. But it's the foliage color that makes this plant truly distinctive: it seems to have some sort of inner phosphorescence that makes it glow in the late evening light like no other golden plant. Or maybe that's just the martinis.

Miscanthus have been the most popular ornamental grasses for twenty years or more, but they're undergoing something of a reevaluation because many of the varieties can reseed invasively, particularly in Zone 6 and southward. Most nurseries are now required to put scary labels on all their Miscanthus, even the varieties that aren't a threat. One that's perfectly safe to plant here in our area, because it blooms too late to set seed, is Miscanthus x giganteus, a hybrid of unknown origin. It's also the largest of the genus by far, towering ten or twelve feet in ideal conditions.

The effect is close to that of a Bamboo, without the running propensities... a clump of Miscanthus x giganteus will gradually increase every year but never enough to cause terror and panic. After first frost, it turns beautiful shades of tawny gold until the leaves shatter in late winter. Give it space, full sun and adequate moisture and enjoy the drama that ensues!

Like an Astilbe on steroids, Persicaria polymorpha is a shrub-sized perennial that really looks great at the back of a border, or in a meadow style planting. It's related to the much hated and horribly invasive plant known locally as Japanese Bamboo (not a Bamboo at all, but equally uncontrollable). But Persicaria polymorpha doesn't run rampant, just makes a nice polite clump that increases slowly every year. Its common name is supposed to be Mountain Fleece but I've never heard anyone call it that. It's valuable for its scale, boldly textured leaves, and long-lasting plumes of flowers that age from greenish white to a pleasing tan.

Prefers full sun and average to moist soil, and as I mentioned it's strong enough to hold its own in a meadow, growing 5-6 ft. tall and able to compete with grasses, Asters, Goldenrods and other such plants. Takes its time to emerge in the spring but the hollow, persistent stalks are very distinctive so you'll be able to find it during late winter cleanup. Persicaria is a genus of plants that has been switched around a lot in recent years by botanists (damn them) but although the name Persicaria polymorpha is officially listed as "unresolved", most likely you'll find it being sold and referenced under that name... at least for the time being!

Rodgersias are substantial perennials that make a bold foliage statement. There are several species and cultivars that will grow here, including Rodgersia aesculifolia, Rodgersia pinnata and Rodgersia podophylla. The one I grow was bought as R. pinnata 'Superba', but I'm not entirely sure it was labeled correctly. Never mind, they are all beautiful, dramatic and worth the patience it takes for the painfully slow crowns to establish and build up.

In England and northern Europe they can be grown in full sun, but here they need some shade from scorching afternoon heat, and reliable moisture in the ground. Distant cousins to Astilbes, which is evident when they throw their plumes of white or pink flowers, which are attractive but nothing in comparison to the visual impact of the leaves.

Astilboides tabularis used to be called a Rodgersia until it was hived off into its own genus by the ever-annoying botanists. Culturally, it has the same requirements as Rodgersia and takes just as long to establish and really get going, but it's well worth the wait.

The platter-sized discs of fuzzy mid-green, held aloft on strong stems, contrast dramatically with other more delicate shade lovers like ferns, Thalictrums or Actaeas. Astilboides is a great feature at Margaret Roach's garden in nearby Copake Falls, NY, always eliciting lots of questions and comments on her Open Days.

With most of us trying to grow fewer Miscanthus, we're all looking around for other large, substantial grasses. Panicum virgatum, also known as Switch Grass, is a native American species with several selections that fit the bill. One of the largest and most dramatic is 'Cloud Nine'. It forms a graceful fountain of slightly bluish foliage that erupts in late summer into an enormous cumulus cloud of delicate bloom.

The whole thing ages to a pale gold by September and persists until we have a really flattening wet snow. Other good alternatives to Miscanthus are Sporobolus wrightii 'Windbreaker', Molinia caerulea 'Transparent', Andropogon gerardii 'Red October', Panicum virgatum 'Northwind' and Spodiopogon sibericus.

I know Hostas don't need any promotion... you've probably got more than enough of them already if you've been gardening for a while. But there's just something so satisfying about the large, blue-leaved cultivars that I couldn't leave them out of this list. If you can get around the deer, Hostas are incredibly reliable and one of the very few bold-foliaged plants that will survive in dry shade. I prefer most Hostas used in masses, but I love these large blues set apart as specimens, underplanted with something low and lacy, like Sweet Woodruff, so they can show off their size and texture and lovely vase-shaped form. The classic old-time variety is Hosta sieboldiana var. elegans, still a great plant after more than a century in the nursery trade, but there are lots of newer big blue cultivars to try as well, like 'Blue Angel', 'Humpback Whale', 'Blue Umbrellas' and 'Empress Wu'. Just promise me you won't become a collector.

Although it's not a true perennial, the Korean Angelica, Angelica gigas, is a very reliable biennial, meaning it needs two years to complete its life span from seedling to bloom. You may need to buy the plant two years in a row to get it going on the proper cycle, but it's worth the trouble. Handsome compound leaves, almost like an Acanthus, held on sturdy 5-6 ft. stalks, topped by striking domes of deepest red-purple. The flower color is particularly rich, and the whole plant is suffused with shadings of wine-red that make it a standout among other more ordinary greens.

Blooms in late summer, and like many umbellifers, it's a great pollinator plant. The seed heads persist into fall in an attractive way before dropping to begin the next year's seeding cycle. Best on evenly moist ground with some shade from the hottest afternoon sun, but adaptable to an average border setting as long as the soil is fertile.

Goldie's Fern (named for Scottish botanist John Goldie, not Goldie Hawn) is the largest of the native Wood Ferns, genus Dryopteris. Although one doesn't usually think of ferns as bold plants, the sheer scale of this beauty puts it in a class by itself, a well-established crown easily reaching 4 ft. tall with an equal spread on boggy soil. In our climate only the Royal Fern, Osmunda regalis, can compete, but its fronds look completely different. Dryopteris goldiana has the classic twice-compound fronds of many other ferns, just at an impressive size. Plus it has the leathery texture of all Wood Ferns that enables them to remain attractive throughout the growing season, instead of browning out in dry spells like some with more delicate fronds.

Comfreys are notoriously invasive, but this variegated type, Symphytum uplandicum 'Axminster Gold', is very well-behaved. I've had it for more than ten years and the clump increases only modestly every year, just enough to share with friends. My Vermont garden designer friend, Donald Corken, pointed out that it's unusual to find a plant with this coloring that grows in full sun, an astute observation.

Like all Comfreys, the deep, strong roots will enable the plant to regenerate quickly, so after flowering I cut the whole business right to the ground and in a week or so there's a fresh flush of new foliage. Average to moist soil is recommended by most references, but I have mine in a raised bed with light, sandy soil and it's done very well.

Something you may not have thought of using as an ornamental is common Rhubarb, Rheum rhabarbarum. If you look at it with an unbiased eye, it has everything you'd want in a bold perennial: handsome large-scale foliage, tall sprays of milk-white or pinkish flowers, adaptability and bone-hardiness. The stems can still be harvested for early use in the kitchen and the plants will regenerate plenty of new leaves to carry through the summer.

Once established, the substantial rootstock will live for many, many years, as evidenced by their continued presence around old farmsteads. Richly manured soil will yield the largest leaves, but they will grow well in ordinary garden soil as long as it's not too hot and dry. If you want to get fancier, there's a non-edible Eurasian version, Rheum tanguticum, with jagged leaves suffused with red, and deep pink flowers. Very handsome!



You may have noticed that many of the plants I've suggested require some shade, and at least consistent moisture if not downright boggy soil. That's simply a matter of evolution... large leaves can collect more sunlight in dim conditions, and reliable moisture in the soil is a requisite for maintaining full, lush growth. If your garden conditions tend towards hot, dry and sunny, you probably won't be able to grow all of these, but it's worth trying to find a spot where you might succeed with some of them... the north side of a building, in the drip of the eaves, would be a likely place.

There are other choices not covered here, of course... Inulas are wonderful, and a great feature at James Golden's garden in western New Jersey, Federal Twist (see photo below). But I've never grown them, so I hesitate to write about them. Another obvious choice for dramatic effect is the Japanese Butterbur, Petasites japonicus, but it's so fearsomely aggressive that I couldn't recommend it to anyone who has a garden smaller than Central Park.

Those on the list above are reliable here in USDA Zone 5, adaptable and extremely valuable for adding something refreshingly audacious to your garden. Look at your plantings with a critical eye, and you're sure to find somewhere that needs more punch, more boldness, more vitality, more of a horticultural extrovert!

Plant names are often confusing, but none more so than when a Latin botanical name is used as the common name of an entirely different plant. Such is the case with "Geranium". The classic windowsill and summer container plants that we all call Geraniums are properly known as Pelargoniums, but I don't hold out much hope that we'll be using that more accurate name for them within my lifetime.

They will always just be Geraniums, and very good plants they are, too... reliable workhorses that flower all summer with minimal care, in cheerful shades of red, pink and white. If you're a plant snob and find the classic types a bit too pedestrian, there are fancy-leaved varieties out now, and obscure species to keep you occupied.

But this post isn't about those annual Geraniums, it's about the true Geraniums,
distant cousins that are often called Hardy Geraniums to avoid confusion. You'll also hear them called Cranesbills occasionally, which comes from their seed pod's resemblance to the beak of a crane.

EXHIBIT A:  PELARGONIUMS

EXHIBIT B:  GERANIUMS

Another big difference is that Hardy Geraniums are, well, hardy. They are true perennials that will return every year in most climates, being native to many parts of the temperate world, even our area here.

Hardy Geraniums are supporting players, not superstars, in the garden. Even though many are showy in flower, their bloom time is usually no longer than most perennials and their habit is modest, tending towards mounding or trailing forms that make them great for facing down or weaving among other, larger plants. Some of them also have a nice habit of seeding themselves in a well-mannered way, and popping up unexpectedly here and there.

Late spring into early summer, just as we have our first really hot days, is the blooming time for most Hardy Geraniums here in the Hudson Valley. There are a couple, like the hybrids 'Rozanne' (above) and the similar 'Azure Rush', that keep flowering for weeks and weeks, but most of them will bloom for two or three weeks and then settle down to provide reliable foliage texture, often weed-proof, that usually colors up nicely in the fall. They are good-natured plants that have their moment to shine, then go along and get along, without any coddling, for the rest of the season. Like a lot of people.

Most good local nurseries will have several varieties of Hardy Geranium for you to cut your teeth on, but for less common types you'll need to order through the mail. I'm trying out a half dozen new-to-me kinds that I got last spring from Digging Dog Nursery in California, an excellent source for all kinds of uncommon plants. (www.diggingdog.com)  So far the old hybrid Geranium x magnificum  (photo at the top of this post) has proven to be a real keeper, flowering spectacularly for two weeks in May.

'Nimbus' is another one I'm trialing and loving so far. It has delicately dissected foliage and a sprawling habit that makes it great for weaving among other perennials.

Geranium sanguineum, the Bloody Cranesbill, is one easily found in nurseries and a good introduction to the genus. It forms tidy mounds of fine-textured foliage and flowers well for almost a month, very useful at the front of a planting or along a path.

The white form is even more serviceable, complementing any color scheme. Geranium sanguineum is also more tolerant of dryish soils than many in the genus, being native to scrubby ground across a wide area from Ireland to Turkey.

Another type commonly found in garden centers is 'Biokovo', a natural hybrid between two species that was found in the mountains of Yugoslavia. It's an excellent garden plant, with glossy foliage in low, compact mounds that will eventually spread into large clumps that can be easily split. The pink flowers are charming but it's also one of the very best for fall foliage color, turning bright red and pink as cold weather arrives.

If you know what you're looking for, you can spot our native Wild Geranium, Geranium maculatum, in lots of roadside ditches and meadows, flowering among weeds and grasses in early May. It adapts very well to garden beds, as long as the soil is average to moist and it has at least a half-day of sunshine.

I grow this pretty white-flowered form of Geranium maculatum that's been given the name 'Hazel Gallagher'. You won't find it in your local garden center but it's available from Quackin' Grass, a small and delightfully quirky mail-order nursery in Connecticut (www.quackingrassnursery.com).

One of my absolutely Top Ten perennials is the Big-root Geranium, Geranium macrorrhizum. The foliage is slightly sticky and aromatic, in a medicinal kind of way that I find pleasant, but its best quality is that it's practically indestructible and forms a weed-proof carpet in just a couple of seasons. It's a problem solver I use in lots of tricky situations, like (photo above) under lanky shrubs like Old Roses.

Geranium macrorrhizum comes in several named color forms such as (above, left to right) 'Bevan's Variety', 'Ingwersen's Variety', and 'Spessart'. The first two are the most vigorous and make the best ground cover, but 'Spessart' is good too, just not quite as dense. Flowering is over several weeks in late May, and if you're a really tidy gardener you can trim them back afterwards, but I never bother.

As an added bonus, this is one of the species that has some significant fall color, turning nice shades of red, burgundy and violet after the first frost.

The Siberian Cranesbill, Geranium wlassovianum, would probably be more popular if it didn't have such an unpronounceable name. From a central crown it spreads into a dense mass that smothers weeds and flowers in June. Tolerant of very moist soil, and being from Siberia, it's bone hardy.

Geranium phaeum has some cool common names:  "Dusky Cranesbill", "Black Widow", and "Mourning Bride"... and it's easy to grow here although it hails from Central Europe over into Russia. There are plain green-leafed varieties but I think the one to grow is 'Samobor' (above), its foliage beautifully marked with deep purple blotches. Needs a decent amount of moisture and tends to grow tall, so give it a cut-back after flowering and it will regrow another batch of leaves, or leave it to seed around, in which case you'll need to rogue out some of the progeny with less-well-marked leaves.

Some Hardy Geraniums have a habit of seeding around modestly and popping up among other plants in a charming way, as seen here in Peter Bevacqua and Stephen King's Claverack, NY garden. Peter says this Geranium has been in the garden so long that he can't quite remember which it is, but probably a seedling of 'Johnson's Blue', an old cultivar of the Meadow Geranium, Geranium pratense. And by the way, if you've never been to one of Peter and Stephen's Garden Conservancy Open Days, it's not to be missed! (www.gardenconservancy.org)

Another nice Geranium pratense is 'Victor Reiter', a seed strain of Meadow Geranium that emerges with deep purple foliage in early spring that later turns dusky dark green (above, with some foliage of 'Samobor' in the lower right corner)  Victor Reiter was a prominent San Francisco plant collector, nurseryman, and a founder of the California Horticulture Society, and there are several good plants named for him.

One of the things that makes Hardy Geraniums so valuable is their adaptability. There are so many species and cultivars that there seems to be a Geranium for just about any garden situation. And once they settle into your garden they're very easy keepers... the groundcovering variety shown above I've had for so many years that its name has been lost, but it's still doing a fine job of keeping down weeds and holding its own against the Ostrich Fern.

Most advanced gardeners know and grow at least some Hardy Geraniums, but they're too seldom tried by beginners, which is a shame... they may not be flashy superstars but they're hardworking, dependable problem-solvers... and we all need more of those in our lives!

Spring's finally here in the Northeast, but in the deep south it arrives much earlier, and finishes too quickly, the really hot weather coming on full force by May. This little photo essay was done last year, when I visited my family in Louisiana just at the moment when everything seems to burst into flower at once, and because I wanted to document the garden my mom has created there over the last thirty-five years. It was originally sent out to a group of close gardening friends, a couple of whom have requested that I resend it, and Mothers' Day seems an appropriate time so share it with all my readers.

The houses on her street were originally summer cottages with silly names, some of which have been retained. The next house over is "Harmony Hill".

The property is four acres of pinewoods sand hill with underlying red clay, about one acre maintained as lawn and garden.

'Formosa' Azaleas line the steep drive up to the house... they were probably planted when the house was built in the 1920's.

The house sits at the top of the hill and is now almost smothered in Nandina, Leucothoe and Ligustrum.

The gnarled branches above the seat are Ligustrums originally put in as foundation plants many years ago, now tree size.

It's hard to capture in photos the magnificence of the tree canopy there... huge mature specimens of Longleaf Pine, Hickory, Red Oak, Cherry.

Dogwoods grow like weeds in the understory, volunteering everywhere and loving the sharp drainage of the sand hill.

Camellias thrive there too... we've planted a dozen or more varieties over the years.

Some start blooming before Christmas, but most reach their peak in February and March, risking late frosts.

The Azaleas are really the big guns of spring there, as in most southern gardens.

They are mostly older Indica varieties: the pale pink is 'George Lindley Taber' and the fuschia one is 'Formosa'.

'George Lindley Taber' has a sweet, light perfume that always takes me back to childhood Easter egg hunts.

The white one is 'Fielder's White', but neither my mom nor I can remember planting the hose-in-hose pink in the foreground, or what it's called.

'Gulfpride' is one of our favorites, an old lavender cultivar that's pretty much unavailable now in the nursery trade.

'Formosa' is gaudy, common and absolutely reliable, so you see it everywhere down there.

There are lots of southern Trilliums that look similar, but I'm pretty sure this is Trillium foetidissimum.

Christmas Berry, Ardisia crenata, is a pretty evergreen sub-shrub that's invasive in Florida but only seeds around modestly here.

Ophiopogon, "Monkey Grass" and clumps of Aspidistra make a good groundcover planting in areas of deeper shade.

'Kyoto Dwarf' Ophiopogon, Ajuga and Southern Maidenhair Fern mingle near the back door.

Yellow Rosa banksiae and pink flowered Loropetalum chinense clambering up a big pine.

We rooted the white Lady Banks Rose in the background from a cutting years ago, and the Cherokee Rose in front just appeared.

Crape Myrtles are very common in the deep south, and many people pollard them every year to get the best flower display, but if left to grow naturally they develop incredibly beautiful trunks.

Next to the house the plantings are more structured, with brick paths laid to define the beds. My dad and I designed and built this arch as a birthday gift for Mom twenty-five years ago.

At one time we had a collection of Tea Roses grown from cuttings we begged from elderly ladies in the older part of town. This one still survives, but I don't remember its name.

A Rosemary plant has grown to shrub size in one corner.

A Fig tree and another Loropetalum compete for sunshine.

Another late Camellia... this one is an old French variety, 'Ville de Nantes'.

Wisteria and Bamboo planted when the house was built have overrun much of the property and must be constantly beaten back. Remarkably, my 85-year-old mother and her occasional yard man, who's almost the same age, manage to keep them under control.

Salvia lyrata overtaking one of the paths. Echinaceas and Stokesias are native to these pinelands and thrive here as well, blooming in May and June.

The resident garden gnome and one of her cats. I'm very much in awe of the beauty she's nurtured here over many years of vision, passion and effort. At her age and in her current condition I'm not sure how much longer it will exist, but I think this quote from Thomas Rainer and Claudia West's book is appropriate...

                               "A garden's purpose is not to endure, but to enchant."

Thanks, friends, for indulging me in this little tribute.

Finally, Gentle Readers, a weekend that felt like spring! But I confess I haven't been complaining much because we were away for a couple of weeks, and the lingering cold weather gave me some extra time to do cleanup and other early season chores, like pruning. Which brings me to the topic of this post: pollarding. For those of you not familiar with the term, it's a traditional tree pruning technique that involves the regular removal of new growth back to a stump or candelabra-like structure for practical or aesthetic purposes.

As Americans we tend towards an aversion to any form of tree pruning, except for fruit trees. Our dominant aesthetic is naturalism, and we decry techniques like pollarding as butchery and desecration of the normal growth of the tree. The Europeans haven't such a limited view of the matter.

Our trip, to Germany and Central Europe, provided plentiful examples of the technique that were especially evident so early in the season, before the trees began to leaf out. I was struggling to identify most of them from the bark alone, but many types of broadleaf trees are treated thus, particularly Lindens, Planes, Hazels, Hornbeams, Horse Chestnuts, Oaks and Willows.

Obsessed as I was with taking pictures of pruned and pollarded trees, I want to emphasize that the vast majority of trees we saw in parks and gardens were allowed to grow in their natural form. But where they deem it appropriate, European gardeners are never shy to take up the pruning shears. Shaping, shearing, pollarding, pleaching and of course topiary are all highly developed horticultural skills there that are used to effectively contrast and compliment the natural growth of other plants and to provide living architectural form.

Pollarding is an ancient technique that's mentioned in Roman writing and has been widely practiced in Europe since at least the Middle Ages. It had, originally, very practical purposes: to provide fodder for livestock, easily harvestable fuel for fires, and long, supple stems for basketry and wickerwork. The term comes from the word "poll", an old term for the top of the head, therefore "topping" the tree at the head.

Interestingly, studies have shown that this unnatural treatment maintains trees in a nearly perpetual juvenile state, so they live much longer than their unpruned counterparts. There are numerous examples of pollarding in Europe that have been maintained continuously for hundreds of years.

Nowadays pollarding is done primarily for aesthetic purposes, and to maintain trees at a size that's more manageable and consistent in relation to architectural features, along streets or in courtyards and other urban settings.

Pollarding and other traditional management techniques, like coppicing, are also enjoying a revival in agriculture among permaculturists. A stand of pollarded trees allows much more light to reach the ground, so creating pasturage for animals below and harvestable material above.

Maybe it's an acquired taste, but I really like the sculptural quality of the knobbly heads, shaped by many years of pruning, and soon to be covered in fresh leafy growth.

If you want to try your hand at pollarding, you must start with a young tree so an open and balanced branch structure can be developed over time. The pruning can be done any time after the leaves drop in fall but before the trees break dormancy in the spring, so it's a pleasant chore on a warmish late winter day when you're just dying to do something outdoors.

Once you develop a pollard you have to maintain it by pruning back to the developing knob every year. Keep in mind that pollarding is an intentional technique, not at all the same as topping, which is what our road crews do to already mature trees around utility wires. That really is mutilation.

I've been pollarding a line of Coral Bark Willows on my property for several years now, gradually developing a pleasing branch structure with bushy heads of summer growth at just the right height to screen my unsightly neighbor. Our garden is not at all grand, so the willows are at the back of a shrub border and planted in a staggered line, and the effect is more farmstead than formal. It solves a screening problem for me, and I enjoy the brightly colored shoots all winter, until I do the pruning in very early spring.

Although it's definitely not for everyone, if you have an appropriate setting don't hesitate to use pollarding as a striking horticultural feature or a practical problem-solver. With a long and respectable history, it's a technique that more Americans should look at with an open mind!

My neighbors must have thought me completely insane this weekend, seeing me out in a parka and heavy gloves, cutting down grasses and perennial stalks at my place which is still half under the snow (one consolation: dragging a heavy tarp laden with soggy plant debris is much easier over snow than over lawn!) I just couldn't resist a sunny day; even though the temps were barely above freezing and the wind was raw, it was good to be moving again and at least making a beginning at spring cleanup.

In spite of the mad labor involved, I love spring cleanup most of all for the surprises it holds of emerging and forgotten favorites... the day's efforts revealed budding Hellebores and unfolding species Tulip foliage, plus the still-pointed shoots of Fritillarias, Trilliums, Alliums, Crocus, Phlox and Peonies. And remarkably, the apparently cold-proof leaves of Forget-Me-Nots that have remained fresh and green under the snow cover.

Most perennials haven't yet revealed themselves, but one that has, and a true herald of spring, is the Cowslip Primrose, Primula veris. The leaves push up through still frosty ground, green as a bean and slightly velvety, crinkled and pleated and ready to unfurl in the first really warm week of the year.

As a beginning gardener I was a bit intimidated by Primulas, and many of them are indeed collector's plants for the knowledgeable enthusiast, but there are three species that I can recommend as easy, reliable and lovely. Cowslips were the first I tried and succeeded with, and are still my favorites. All they require is average soil that never completely bakes in the summer, and protection from the hottest afternoon sun. Full sun in early spring is ideal, though, so siting them under deciduous trees is a good plan as long as the soil is reasonably moist.

The default color is a fresh shade of lemon yellow, but they also sport into bronzy orange and even rich red. I'm sure there must be a white version somewhere (probably England) but I've never seen it for sale here. I like to separate the colors and make big patches that carpet the ground beneath my River Birches (the yellow) or complement the blue flowers of Woodland Phlox (the bronze).

I find the red one a bit more difficult to place, but it's certainly vibrant and eye-catching. Being pasture weeds in their native Europe, they're easy as pie and can be divided any time from just after bloom until around Labor Day.

Another little beauty, just as easy to grow, is Primula sieboldii, a native of Siberia, Korea and Japan that comes in shades of white, pink and magenta, many often exhibiting dual coloration with the backs of the petals different from the fronts. The flowers look a bit like snowflakes with varying degrees of fringing and dissection, making for a very charming lacy effect that belies their ease of cultivation.

The plants are stoloniferous and will make large patches in time (as seen above at Berkshire Botanical Garden)... all they ask is consistently moist soil and shade in the summer months. The foliage may even disappear below ground after June, but will return the next spring, when you've forgotten all about it. They make great companions for other diminutive spring treasures like Epimediums, Trilliums, Asarums, Anemonellas and Dodecatheons.

The third easy Primrose is another Asian native that will make itself right at home here if you have a very moist (even boggy) site, ideally along a small stream or at the edge of a shady pool. This is the Japanese or Candleabra Primrose, Primula japonica. The basal rosettes of bright, lettuce-green leaves are topped by tiered clusters of dainty flowers in every shade from white though all tints of pink to dark rose, and some even come in an unusual deep coral tone. In rich soil the flowering stems can reach eighteen inches in height, with several tiers of bloom that open in succession, making for a spectacular display when planted in quantity.

Where happy they will seed themselves freely, so it's hard to maintain separate colors without thinning them as they bloom, but if you have a particularly nice shade you can always divide it after flowering, keep the divisions watered for a couple of weeks, and you'll increase your stock three- or more-fold every year.

Rich, consistently moist soil is key to growing these beauties, but if you have those conditions they will thrive with very little care.

There are, of course, dozens of other Primroses that you can try, many of them quite choice and rare, if you become enamored of the genus Primula. But for general purpose gardening, I heartily recommend these three beautiful, easy and rewarding Primroses. Give them a try, and reap the rewards of early spring bloom for many years to come!