Late May 2025, Los Angeles to Portland. Though I’ve taken lots of trains in Europe, this was my first long-distance train trip in the U.S., working out to roughly 29 hours. My companions were game as they come, charming 2-year-old Domino and her papa Mitch. The Pacific Ocean fills the window frame most of the trip north in California until the train veers inland somewhere along the Central Coast.
Weirdly, I took no photos of the ocean views, only landscapes. And they were not verdant green landscapes but filled with all the tawny colors emblematic of the Golden State. Horizontal bands of gold, rust and ochre were punctuated by dark green cloud-like forms of Coast Live Oak and jagged geologic scars. Scenes of wild landscapes, scenes of industry. Thrilling, shifting juxtapositions of land, water, clouds and sky. If you like looking and wondering and thinking of nothing but what rushes by the window, a train ride is the way to go. And there’s a dining car and a sleeping car (the sleeping berth is extra).
so many color studies
a small portion of Oregon City’s massive decommissioned hydroelectric plant Willamette Falls, the oldest power plant west of the Mississippi
Legs of Lobelia tupa now visible on the right with grass removed
This longer east view of sunrise-haloed Chionochloa rubra was not available two days ago. Stipa gigantea spilled onto the rock at the west end making the path impassable, comprising overall about 5′ in circumference with half of that path obstruction. And the stipa sat directly opposite the big arching restio Rhodocoma capensis, so obstruction was built into the planting. A typical design problem for me. (Thankfully I had started to come to terms with the problem by removing the tetrapanax growing next to the restio earlier this spring.)
July 2024 when tetrapanax and Stipa gigantea still ruled the garden and paths were impassable by mid-summer.
Still I was convinced the grass was worth every bit of difficulty to ensure those oatsy panicles danced high over the summer garden while being sheer enough to allow sunlight to penetrate the plantings underneath.
Chionochloa rubra and snowflake-like Geranium robustum
But unexpectedly the Wonder Garden plant sale included Stipa gigantea ‘Little Giant.’ And so unexpectedly I began to contemplate the garden without the giant Golden Oats grass and sizing down to the little version.
Dividing the grass was already at the top of the list of tasks for next spring. Being an evergreen grass, this stipa doesn’t need cutting back but does require extensive grooming. Its strengths are a very early flowering and then the long-lasting, light-catching golden seedheads that follow spring through winter, sailing well above the base of leaves. The big open question with the dwarf version concerns that ratio of height between the flowering stems and the grassy clump. It might be an inelegant congestion of form without the tall and transparent silhouette of the species. I asked around at the sale, and no one had experience growing ‘Little Giant.’
With ‘Little Giant’ in hand, the back-benched spring job of division became an immediate fall job of removal. Love for the Golden Oats grass was outmatched by needing to reclaim an east view in autumn light and easy access along the path. ‘Little Giant’ was not planted in the same area near the rock path but behind Lobelia tupa, in the berm that’s almost a foot higher, and hopefully the elevation will give the smaller grass a high enough profile to shine.
white plumes of Persicaria polymorpha in July 2025
That there was an opening in the berm to plant the stipa only came about by removing Persicaria polymorpha, whose girth was claiming 6 feet. And it’s such a good plant, also early to show in spring and impressive all season. Height is never a problem, only girth. If only there was a little version of this persicaria! A small piece of the persicaria is growing in a narrow bed along the east fence, not a future-proof site but it can always be moved again. I’m hearing some positive buzz on Koenigia divaricata, which has a similar effect as the persicaria.
Schizachyrium scoparium ‘Little Red Fox’
My guess is that the enormous clump of stipa was also acting as a support to Lobelia tupa. The very wispy grass I planted instead, Schizachyrium scoparium ‘Little Red Fox,’ is unlikely to fill that supporting role. Meanwhile, Marty’s back is out today from pitching in to help remove Euphorbia stygiana, whose enormous growth and size was turning it into a cutback shrub to keep the back path along the fence clear (a recurring theme). Except imho euphorbias should never be considered cutback shrubs because…well, the irritating sap issues. There’s another of this euphorbia elsewhere in the garden that seems to be slower in growth.
Joe-pye weed August 2024 before moving this clump to east fence
The other “little” brought home is ‘Little Joe,’ the dwarf Joe-pye weed. I guess the garden and I are getting to that point where some down-sizing workarounds are needed. Fresh in my mind was a nice couple I met shopping at the WG plant sale. I asked if they were looking for plants for sun or shade, and they said they were in a predicament where their 30-year-old garden had no sun to give, and they wanted to take it all out and start over! A cautionary tale for my overplanting ways…
I met a small bright green frog in the garden last night, a first in either of my two gardens. Lizards are common in the Long Beach garden, and both are sensitive creatures whose presence generally bestows a clean bill of health on a garden. I hope the little frog gets his fill of slugs! And invites more frog friends to the garden too.
I took a hard fall on uneven pavement walking Billie earlier, so that’s the end of any more ambitious plans til spring. Fortunately, looking up more info on chionochloa, I discovered a wonderful New Zealand blog that somehow escaped my notice, Tikorangi The Jury Garden, to read while I ice the knee. Especially pertinent for zone 8, 9, 10 gardens.
looking east — finally got the fence repair painted
Sometimes I get the sense from an offhand comment that gardens are considered escapist entertainment. My experience has been the opposite, and maybe this is what comes with small gardens in crowded neighborhoods. Because I’m constantly outside, I know to the minute when a neighbor on the west lights off the burn pile he keeps in the far corner of his lot, where the noxious smoke wafts over us, not him. A neighbor on the east yells “Shut up!!” at Billie in a tone so shudderingly ugly it must have taken a lifetime to perfect. (Admittedly, Billie has never heard a neighborhood dog chorus she didn’t want to embellish with her unique contribution, and we’re constantly admonishing her about this.) When conversations floating over the fence become loud and intense, I focus to discern whether it’s anger or raucous, back-slapping humor. When I step into the garden, front or back, it’s not an escape but an immersion in every aspect of local life.
the neighbors on the east
As far as I can see, ours is the only house that uses a screen door in summer. I’ve never seen anyone sit on their front porch as we do daily in summer, sometimes when it’s still dark outside with the first coffee. But then front gardens are not part of the neighborhood culture here. From what I’ve seen, gardens foster engagement with the neighborhood, not retreat. Sitting on the porch in the early morning is where I met the daily walker Jerry and discovered he is the one who keeps the homing pigeons that occasionally wheel over the garden, such a gorgeous sight. (I learned a couple days ago that hawks got two of his pigeons, a rare but unfortunate occurrence Jerry feels is part of the deal and doesn’t begrudge the predators.) From the porch is where I became familiar with the small woman whose young grandchildren are nearly as tall is she is. They always hold hands and chatter away as they walk. The small woman walks home enormous loads from the grocery store in a backpack that bends her spine.
Standing in the garden to gauge the changing light, humidity, wind, to observe where water pools or cold air settles, to use my limited senses to give plants the best chance at life in a garden, it strikes me we act as proxies and surrogates for the plants, putting ourselves in plants’ shoes, so to speak. And that practice will always mean spending loads of time outdoors acting as a human gauge to measure the basics, air, soil, water, temperature, invertebrate life or lack of it. It means complete engagement with the essentials of life. I don’t know why I’m sensitive on this issue! But it does piss me off when it’s implied that making gardens is a a trivial, escapist hobby.
thuggish Helianthus ‘Lemon Queen’ and Acacia pravissima
In the garden random thoughts wheel in and out like homing pigeons. Politics, family, the tyranny of one-party rule, the tithonia I want to remember to grow next summer. And where is my bulb order anyway?
Salvia uliginosa’s best month is September when the brushes thicken and deepen in color
Verbena officinalis ‘Bampton’ self-seeded just a couple plants, not yet a pest, in bloom all summer
Salvia ‘Amante’ is so very, very late unless you have a greenhouse to give it a jump in spring. From the breeder of ‘Amistad.’ On the east fence. I should dig it up and bring it back to zone 10 where it will bloom for months
on the east Corynabutilon vitifolium made size this summer. Remains to be seen how much of that size it keeps over winer
After a couple moves, Rubus lineatus seems to like its new home on the east side of the house. Not sure what to expect of this one — deciduous, semi-evergreen, thuggish?
Metapanax in shimmering bloom
Verbascum roripifolium intertwined with metapanax
Solanum jasminoides is out of control vigorous, always in bloom, but it does partially block the view now of the neighbors to the south from the back patio…
This might be the last weekend I can score rabbit poop from the boy who brings buckets of it to the local farmers’ market, which only runs through September. Amazing stuff. Never burns like other manures.
Fresh, smaller flower spikes continue in September, while older spikes still hold unopened flowers for breathlessly waiting hummingbirds to sip
Any description of Lobelia tupa is bound to contain words like “huge,” “robust,” “monumental,” and it’s all true. Which would seemingly indicate it’s not a perennial for a small garden like mine. Except this mega-perennial here at the Oregon Coast is as useful in my little garden as a choice deciduous shrub. It’s quick to leaf out with broad, slug-proof, celadon-colored leaves and begins throwing flower spikes in early July. As of mid-September, there’s still a quarter of the flowers on the 20+ spikes yet to open. Hummingbirds have been parking on nearby Stipa gigantea stems all summer to take a breather between sips, which is cute as heck.
Generously supports others — I doubt late-flowering annual Persicaria orientalis could stand up without Lobelia tupa to lean on
Formerly just another entry on the list of plants I’ve always wanted to grow but couldn’t in my hotter, drier zone 10 garden, here it’s become an invaluable full-season anchor for the ebb and flow of the surrounding garden. Thrives in good soil, sun, and apparently lots of winter rain, but seems to tolerate the drier conditions of summer too. Loves the coast, where I’ve always seen the happiest specimens — not sure how this Chilean would handle extreme inland heat. (For that kind of heat I’d experiment with growing Erythrina x bidwillii for a similar effect, also hardy to zone 7.).
flower spikes are probably 3/4 seedheads now
This four-year-old clump in full bloom is roughly 7X5 feet. I don’t begrudge it that amount of space but would prefer not to hand over any more and may have to tackle dividing the clump in another year or so. Hardy to zone 7. More soon, AGO
Misty garden matches the increasingly misty September mornings
The garden’s third September of its fourth year. The biggest change September brings is this mid level fizzy layer provided mostly by deschampsia, sesleria and Scabiosa ochroleuca that envelopes the plantings in a gauzy champagne scrim. The scabiosa is an energetic reseeder but is easily edited. It finds openings to grow I never could, billows out like low-lying tulle fog, then retreats to a small basal clump in spring.
Lots of yellow confetti continues to be thrown in September by the annual Madia elegans, which closes in sun, and Verbascum roripifolium. The madia leaned into the vacuum left by removal of a large clump of Silver Spike Grass. After briefly considering adding something new in the grass’ place, a small piece of it was resettled — can’t think of anything better! Another clump of this grass may also need dividing in spring, but I couldn’t bear to disturb the status quo by untangling the sanguisorba and others entwined with the grass. I’d like to have some jobs done before leaving end of October but not at the expense of enjoying the fall garden.
whiter shades of pale
Heading east off the patio, a small planting of ‘Hawkshead’ hardy fuchsia, mountain mint, Bergenia ciliata, miscanthus and Calamagrostis brachytricha surprised me by becoming a living embodiment of the cooler weather to come. Lots of rain predicted for September too.
Mountain Mint and nearly transparent Korean Feather Reed Grass
more bracing frostiness from calamint
Cimicifuga ‘Hillside Black Beauty’ unexpectedly threw a bloom, planted from gallons mid-summer
Fatshedera ‘Yvonne’s Petticoats’
I’m excited about the potential of a shrubby fatshedera found at Secret Garden Growers in spring. ‘Yvonne’s Petticoats’ is described as a 4×4′ shrub. It shot up to 3 feet fast, a worrisome vigor since it was planted too close to the south fence with no room to expand. It was moved last week to give it a better chance to show what it can do. (The bigeneric cross of ivy and fatsia are normally lanky, vine-like creatures. I have one winding around a triangle palm in the SoCal garden.)
Fatshedera ‘Yvonne’s Petticoats,’ 3 foot and slim but hoping for its shrubby nature to reveal itself. May need some help by pinching out the top growth
mystery salvia species from Szechuan, the only information given by the source nursery Flowers By The Sea, now closed
such a delicate thing to see in September.
lower left, dried seedheads of Teucrium hircanicum have great presence, with brown spikes of Digitalis parviflora in background.
Persicaria ‘Blackfield’ is a standout among persicarias
And I do need to correct the record that I couldn’t tell much difference among the several persicarias I’m growing this summer. ‘Blackfield’ is a bit later to flower than ‘Summer Dance,’ but the blooms are noticeably darker and tighter, and the entire plant is more finely drawn, the leaves smaller, more tapered.
The Purple Bell Vine continues its romp through cassinia. Zoned 9a-ll, it would be a nice but unlikely surprise if it returns next spring.
Average first frost date is October 9 — I’ll be sure to have potted Aloe boylei tucked under the overhang at the first hint of frost
Euphorbia ‘Miner’s Merlot’ with seedheads finally cut back in late summer. Both the manzanita and brachyglottis are constantly tip pruned to limit their girth
Gardeners are like judicious goats, constantly nibbling at things — or maybe I should speak only for myself. I’m getting a jump on spring by cutting back a few things, dividing the biggest clump of Silver Spike Grass, pulling euphorbias, verbascum, cerinthe and others from the gravel area for a clean slate until spring brings loads more. Spiders and slugs rule September! More soon, AGO
On a visit to a local dahlia grower’s field in August, I find the range of flower shapes and colors head spinning. Apart from the variety of shapes and sizes, what amazes me is the range of color on offer for our consideration. And everyone faces decisions about color for their gardens, whether to have all of it, none of it but green, or make judicious selections based on color wheel compatibilities. There’s no escaping it. Even if you forego flowers, there’s still decisions to be made on the color of leaves.
‘Hollyhill Spider Woman’
Back home at the computer, it’s also head spinning how easily my random musings can be validated and expanded on now that AI assists my inquiries. For example, on color: Outside the natural world, for furnishings and clothing, vibrant color wasn’t always an option. Which is part of my pet theory explaining an eternal and abiding love for gardens and the natural world, places that provide astonishing sights whether you’re rich or poor. From a quick AI-assisted search string (“daily experience of color before aniline dyes”):
Before the invention of aniline dyes in the mid-19th century, the daily experience of color was markedly different from today, shaped by natural sources, cost, class, and the fading effects of time. Rather than an array of vibrant, readily available shades, color was a precious commodity, its intensity and permanence dictated by its origin.
‘Zoe Ray’
And we all know the period before aniline dyes must include the critical chapter on cochineal. This insect-based source of crimson farmed from opuntia was brought back to Europe from Mexico by Spanish explorers/conquistadors in the 16th century, a precious commodity hoarded by the wealthy, military and religious orders. The working class world would be dressed and furnished in hygge greige until 1856. But the color-saturated splendors of the natural world unfurling every spring, summer and fall were classless experiences and free for all to enjoy and celebrate with Maypoles and harvest festivals even before the hybridizers got to work. (Yes, my search strings seem to betray slightly socialist leanings.)
‘Miss Prissy’
Flowers that are useful in several arenas can be especially problematic as far as making choices for the home garden. Dahlias, for instance, are bred for flower show competition, floristry, as well as including in summer gardens, and it would be a rare dahlia that can serve all three purposes. For my main garden I prefer the long-stemmed singles — nothing too complicated. And it’s always a kick in the morning to find bumblebees asleep on the flowers. For a cut flower garden, the choice is limitless.
‘Giraffe’
Some genera like tulips and dahlias really get you wondering about the outsized influence of hybridizers on our gardens, especially as far as color choice. When the rhododendrons are in bloom in spring, I’m convinced, perhaps wrongly, that their searingly vivid colors are probably the work of men. Both anecdotally and scientifically, there is support for the male preference for, say, strong reds. And seeing as the early plant explorers and nursery professionals were exclusively male, it stands to reason that their color preferences ruled in early hybridization. Of course, other considerations besides color were in play, such as hardiness and the plant material available at the time — yellow shades were not available for early hybridization efforts. (Search string: “choice of color in earliest rhododendron hybrids.”)
‘Vancouver’
House-high sheets of magenta-flowered shrubs when color-dozy eyes are just waking up in spring? No thanks. But what about house-high sheets of magenta bougainvillea in summer? Absolutely! No wonder discussing color in gardens is so difficult — we’re all so arbitrarily opinionated! And we have to be when there are thousands of colors and shapes in some genera to sort through and judge as to which to include or reject.
‘French Doll’
And tastes are of course ever evolving, though some selections do stand the test of time. Last summer I grew pale pastel Dawn Creek hybrid zinnias, a far cry from the saturated colors bred by Ernst and Friedriech Benary in 19th century Germany, which have been the gold standard for strong colors and stems to the present time.
‘Sharky’
Now easily satisfied by AI, my musings are in danger of becoming out of control, to wit:
And just how did Amsterdam become the world’s producer of tulips, a bulb native to Central Asia? Search string “Ottoman tulips arrive in Amsterdam” provides a quick answer with enough specifics to ring reasonably true:
“Ottoman tulips were brought to the Netherlands, and eventually Amsterdam, in the mid-16th century after a diplomat, Oghier Ghiselin de Busbecq, took seeds from the Ottoman Empire to Carolus Clusius in Vienna, who then brought the bulbs to Leiden, Netherlands, in 1593. The flowers quickly gained popularity, leading to Tulip Mania in the 17th century, a speculative market frenzy where a single bulb could be worth a fortune.
‘BJ’s Rival’
But I’ll leave it there and spare you further musings, with just a few more photos of the dozens taken.
a row of ‘BJ’s Rival’ — by visiting the growing fields you can find the standouts in abundant flowering, long stems, and uniformity of growth
Okay, just one more: First plant catalogue in history?
“The first plant catalog is generally considered to be the Florilegium Amplissimum et Selectissimum, published in 1612 by Dutch grower Emmanuel Sweerts. This catalog was distributed at the Frankfurt Fair and contained 560 hand-tinted illustrations of flowering bulbs and plants he had for sale, marking the first time a publication was used to sell plants in this way.”
Pennisetum villosum middle foreeground mid July 2025
Feathertop Grass, known as the least robust of the fountain grasses, is everything I want in a medium-sized fluffy grass. Admired daily, I watched how the circumference of the clump expanded and stretched into the gravel and grew more and more exceptional in every way I wanted.
I never heard of the “Wooly Bear” caterpillars that appear in late summer here until finding them in the Oregon garden, or their mythic weather-predicting abilities. But the Feathertop Grass could just as easily be known as the Wooly Bear Grass for their fuzzy and endearing similarities.
But there was that mission creep. The grass was doing everything I wanted, even if it was more vigorous than expected. Not wanting to interrupt its summer flowering, I decided it could easily be divided next spring.
Spreads by rhizomes, and I’ve also found one seedling too
But this morning I reasoned there was no harm in removing some of the runners, just to be on the safe side, and there would still be plenty of plumes left. And that’s when I was confronted with how pernicious and deep the roots were, and how dangerous its presence was to this little garden, As a light rain fell, the Feathertop Grass and I battled for control. I wanted none of it left to take root again. (Frustration over glaringly obvious dangers to a healthy civic life is undoubtedly spilling over into the garden.)
In a different soil, different climate, larger garden, I might reconsider planting Feathertop Grass.
I moved the pot of flowering oregano and Blue Oat Grass into the void. Goddess Flora, grant me enough self-control to not replant the area until I’m sure the Feathertop Grass is truly eradicated.
Aloe boylei
In happier news, my potted Aloe boylei, the largest-leaved of the grass aloes, is throwing a bloom. It was kept in its pot under the porch awning last winter.
This small garden can’t accommodate more than one strapping eucomis, but at least it obligingly throws a sensational flower.
plush, silvery Argentina lineata sending out flowering stems
Eryngium pandanifolium
Eryngium pandanifolium needed a frustrating amount of cleanup in spring, and the sprawling clump was reduced to two rosettes. Both are blooming, and I have to admit that once the onerous work is done in spring it requires no attention. Camassias are planted behind the eryngo, which may or may not work. We’ll see next spring.
It’s mid-August, when the south fence disappears under a tsunami of summer growth when viewed from the back porch. (We had the best kind of tsunami-warning experience recently after the record-making 8.8 earthquake near the Kamchatka Peninsula. We packed a few things like food for Billie, left the bags by the door, slept all night, and woke to calm seas and no tidal surge. I’m told that for the 2011 Japan earthquake, there were tsunami sirens and evacuation orders and subsequent damage reported.)
Background shagginess is Acacia pravissima
The fence-topping giants include Selinum wallichianum, which keeps beautiful leaves spring through fall. Angelica stricta ‘Ebony’ has grown shoulder to shoulder with the selinum but has mostly gone to seed by mid-August.
There was an unexpected day of rain last Friday, a really good soak. Plant people were thrilled, the general public irritated. Nothing was smashed down other than the Silver Spike Grass flattening temporarily, restoring when the wind picked up again to dry its plumes, which have left their silver phase behind.
When there was still some bare ground in late spring, I slipped in three Madia elegans, a native annual which had done so well a couple summers back but didn’t reseed. Then the summer tsunami began to build and they were submerged under growth and forgotten. Deploying some clever gymnastics, the madia managed to reach for the light and surprise me with blooms, a much appreciated effort!
A piece of Selinum wallichianum was added to the front of this border too — by next year it will be taller and possibly too much for surrounding plants to handle — I’ll keep an eye on its spread.
Another heroic effort was made by the tiny Persicaria orientalis seedlings squeezed into bare ground in early spring. They too found their footing and shimmied up amongst the pressing growth and are about to bloom — the heart-shaped leaves in the center. Snails leave them alone once the leaves toughen as they mature.
I haven’t split this dahlia yet, planted the first year of the garden
More fence-toppers are sanguisorba and this one very prolific, long-stemmed dahlia ‘AC Rosebud.’ I cut back the bronze fennel by half in early summer. I’m slightly apprehensive regarding this fennel, which is a terrible weed in zone 10, but I had a suspicion its strong stems would support the other giants, and so it has. The acid yellow blooms add a vase-like composition to the scene, but there will be a vigilant lookout for rampant seediness next spring.
Some of the snails make epic garden journeys over 6-feet high, but why?
Second dahlia in back garden is ‘Windcliff Peach’ in a large container
Although I saved seed and planted out young plants this spring, I’m pretty sure Verbascum roripifolium is also self-sowing
I don’t know of a current source for Anisodontea ‘Strybing Beauty’ now that Annie’s Annuals currently doesn’t offer mail order. I moved my remaining plant to the front garden last year, because it always seems to outgrow the back garden. It was beat up bad by winter winds, and only a small rooted piece could be salvaged in spring, which I dug up and babied before planting in the back garden. It blooms year-round in zone 10, so I’ll be taking some cuttings south in a few months.
Papaver somniferum ‘Orange Chiffon’
I have to give up all my Los Angeles preconceptions about growing annuals like breadseed poppies, which are finished in LA by spring but behave much differently in this cooler summer climate. Here on the Oregon Coast, I let a flowering patch go to seed on the east side of the house, and in late June/July new seedlings germinated that are flowering now. And old plants gone to seed also throw up new flowering shoots. I’ve noticed honeywort, Cerinthe major, doing this too, with seedlings germinating mid-summer building into good solid plants for August.
Stachys ‘Hummelo’s first summer, planted last year
Bupleurum fruticosum is squeezing into the path out from the back porch to the garden. For now it gets pruned hard but may have to be. moved
Love waking up to the summer profusion
It might be too much to ask of beschorneria to bloom at the coast
I can easily reach all of my back garden with two hose lengths fastened together, so that’s something to be said for a small garden. (But if I had the money, I’d buy up any adjacent property that comes up for sale, knock down the fence, and probably the house too, and plant it up.) New transplants, stock tanks and pots are watered daily in about 15 minutes or so. In this modified Mediterranean climate on the North Oregon Coast, summer is rainless — except this summer we had rain June 20ish and, two days ago, a full day of it. The heavy soil holds on to a day of rain for a good while.
Anemone ‘Dainty Swan’ started throwing flowers in June but recent rain kicked it into high gear
Truth be told, other than deadheading and watering, there’s not a lot to do in August, and I miss the busy-ness and nurturing of early summer. I notice that I lay in bed a little longer on an August morning than spring/early summer, when I’d be up before first light. Chiltern’s seeds did arrive and some have been sown, and now the shed has flats of seed trays again. I hate it when nothing is growing in the shed! Volunteering at a local veg garden means there’s some winter stuff like kale, leeks, pak choi growing in the shed too. But the chief occupation of August is passively looking, staring, taking it all in.
When grasses catch the August light, it suspends a moment in utter absorption
Easy August tweaks include deadheading flopping Parahebe perfoliata down to budding side shoots, whereupon it regains its stature and blooms again like August is the new early summer. Phygelius reacts the same way if pruned down to side flowering shoots.
Choosing what to deadhead is a very subjective task. Digitalis parviflora’s seedheads make tight, tidy verticals, so I’d rather not cut them back.
The seedheads of dierama are captivating, but there will be trouble ahead with seedlings insinuating themselves where they’re not wanted. In this case, beauty has a price that I’m willing to pay next spring.
Having started them from seed, protected them from slugs, pinched them back, kept them watered since the end of May, it’s not a chore to keep seedheads from forming on cosmos — it’s a mission.
Cosmos are “short-day” plants, so they really seem to jump into action in late July/August when days begin to shorten. As an experiment I’ve sown cosmos seeds in late July to see if they’ll bloom before frost.
The coppery seadheads of Euphorbia ‘Miner’s Merlot’ give it a rusty, mini-hydrangea look. I’m still reluctant to cut it back even though new growth is coming from the base. Just opposite the euphorbia, on its right a pajaroensis hybrid manzanita hits the same color notes, an unexpected collaboration that always satisfies my eye. I’m always looking for a through line in this overplanted little garden.
Foreground Manzanita pajaroensis backed by Euphorbia ‘Miner’s Merlot’
The A in August means agapanthus, just a couple clumps of Windcliff seedlings
The persicarias are to mid-late summer what the geums are to spring/early summer, and they use the adjacent ground well together and appreciate similar growing conditions.
Of the persicarias ‘Summer Dance’ is earliest and most robust. The color differences among the three I grow seem very subtle, hardly noticeable. ‘Blackfield’ is deeper in color, ‘Purple Spears’ is more the usual crimson.
looks gloomier now without the Aralia ‘Sun King’
Aralia ‘Sun King’ was great as the garden found its legs but began to threaten important woody plants like Stachyurus salicifolius. Removing the aralia was a monster job, so it was definitely time to curtail its spread. A couple of summer plants also had to be moved before bloom or risk being engulfed forever, including Heliopsis ‘Burning Hearts’ and a Helenium ‘Summer Cinnabar.’
Scabiosa ochroleuca and Helenium ‘Sahin’s Early Flowerer’ hitting their August stride
Crocosmia ‘Limpopo’
Allium ‘Millenium’ makes August look fresh. Seedheads of Linaria ‘Peachy’ were cut back, bringing a small rebloom
Digitalis ferruginea leans on cassinia and pearly seedpods of Crambe maritima
the mountain mints rise up from their earlier quiet anonymity to become important, if monochromic, contributors to August. Calamints lining the path are also just starting to bloom. It’s a pollinator corridor now!
mountain mint Pycnanthemum muticum
Sinopanax formosanus
I’m thrilled that the young Sinopanax formosanus survived the transplant in April. Sandwiched in the middle of a Bupleurum fruticosum and Senecio monroi, something had to give. I liked it’s protected spot slightly under the overhang, and the move near the back fence may lessen its odds over winter, but it was clearly going to be too tall. I really should move it to the protected east side of the house, which is just now getting planted up.
When establishing woody plants in this zone, I always assume that there will be failures — and sometimes, surprisingly, there are no failures, everything flourishes, and once again I’ve obviously planted too closely. Now the adjacent Acacia pravissima is flourishing, and the sinopanax is once again squeezed! But one hard winter and another ice storm could change everything.
Corynabutilon vitifolium — flowers are blue-lilac and tiny, about the size of a globe mallow, but the leaves are fabulous in color and feltiness. Its ultimate attributes may be limited to being a 6-foot nonflowering cutback shrub with great leaves, but it’s tentatively still on trial depending on how it comes through next winter
The narrow east side of the house, where the previous owner grew strawberries and vegetables, is for me an overflow utilitarian area. Some vegetables, some orphan plants, some plants on trial. The borders on either side of a central grassy path are narrow and backed by either the house or the east fence — some of my least favorite conditions to plant. I think in deep borders! But I did notice some of the orphan plants are thriving, so I’m beginning to take this area a little more seriously.
on the east side of the house, corynabutilon, Hedychium ‘Tara,’ Kniphofia hirsuta
The kniphofia which grew too large for the back garden was sold as K. hirsuta, supposedly one of the smaller kniphofias. It’s the most aloe-esque kniphofia I’ve encountered. It bloomed in spring, but it’s that gorgeous arching urn shape that is the main attraction. I’m curious how it will tolerate a harder winter than last year’s and whether it can be reliably incorporated into more prominent planting.
I love the flowering oreganos and somehow ended up with none this August. A couple were found local (‘Rosenkuppel’) planted in a pot with the grass Helicotrichon sempervirens. I repeatedly planted this grass in zone 10 and it repeatedly failed. Maybe a cool zone 8/9 is the trick.
tiny flowers of Fuchsia ‘Hawkshead’ provide scale for big leaves of Bergenia ciliata
isn’t this charming as hell? Rhodochiton threading through cassinia
One of the big daisies of August, Helianthus ‘Lemon Queen,’ opened its first flowers today. Now that the acacia is taking over this corner, all or part of the helianthus will be moved to the narrow borders on the east side, which is filling up rapidly.
