Even though I’m the main instigator, this late-season crescendo of growth astonishes me.
While the garden has morphed into a late-season mosh pit, there has been one summer-long standout that still rises above and coolly surveys the garden’s autumnal slugfest: Verbascum roripifolium, sown spring 2023. A verbascum that flowers in a towering cloud, not a spire, and has been described by plant nurseries variously as an annual, biennial. Three of the five sown spring 2023 bloomed gloriously summer 2023, never to return. Two plants out of five sown in spring 2023 did not bloom the first year, kept basal growth in winter, and have been in bloom all spring/summer/fall 2024, which makes them…what? A little long in the tooth for a biennial. Short-lived perennial? It must be this confusion as to its lifespan and handling that costs this wonderful plant more popularity. And because it’s as kinetic as a Calder mobile, photography is worthless for advertising its charms.
Unlike last year, when I selectively cut back stuff as it got battered by winter storms, I’ll be closing the door on this garden as it exists now, leaving it to wildlife and the elements, until I see it again in spring. Next post will be coming from Long Beach, where a mess awaits me there as surely as one will await me in Oregon in spring — thank goodness small gardens make small messes! I’ve always been drawn to the Japanese fairy tale The Boy Who Drew Cats, with the life-saving instruction “Avoid large spaces, keep to the small,” and that admonition has served me on many levels. (Except in spider season, when wider pathways in the garden would be a welcome luxury.) The monster in the story is a giant rat that rules an abandoned temple where an outcast boy takes shelter one dark stormy night. Having been ostracized for preferring drawing to “serious” pursuits, the boy reflexively covers the temple walls with drawings of cats to soothe himself to sleep. When the fearsome and murderous rodent appears in the night to dispatch the sleeping boy…well, once again the power of art saves a child. Just as the power of gardens has saved me time and time again. Take care, AGO
I’m not referring to surprises in the sense of predicted late-season arrivals, but just the generic, built-in unpredictability of plants we choose for our gardens. A plant’s performance can be dramatically different just down the street, not to mention spanning seemingly appropriate climate zones.
Take Kniphofia caulescens, for instance. This poker has been contributing its beautifully glaucous presence all year. The writhing, blue, cephalopod-like leaves are so good I almost forgot that it might want to contribute a flower as well. I realistically accepted around the time of planting that it might not be hot enough here to flower — wrong! Even pre-heat wave in early September (two days around 86F), we had bud launch!
At home in higher elevations in South Africa, it’s hardy to at least zone 6, so definitely not a risky gambit here in zone 8b (sliding into zone 9), but there remained the question of whether it could flower in this cool growing season. Mine came from Secret Garden Growers, planted in October 2022.
The strong outline is especially appreciated in September when so much of the garden is a buzzy fizz. Everything bobbing and weaving and looking for a shoulder to lean on — except for the resolute poker. All that fascinating buzzing activity brings out the only wildlife I dread and am always on high alert for in autumn — spiders! (Is there one in my hair? Check my back!) Knocking webs out of high traffic areas is once again the morning routine.
Unlike the kniphofia, whose flowering was exciting but not the main point, annuals like amaranthus were sown in April for their blooms. To give them the best shot, I potted the seedlings on in increasingly bigger pots, ending with one plant per 3-gallon pot. About five of these pots were plunged into various full-sun spots in the garden. They started flowering late August.
The uncertainty over whether the amaranthus would bloom before first frost was nerve-wracking, but they somehow managed it. I imagine they’d be a lot taller with more blooms in a warmer summer than mine. But watching them gain height and then drip those ropes of chenille flowers strikes me as worth the effort — better yet, maybe they’ll self-sow.
The canna ‘Cleopatra’ had a couple surprises for September. First, that it managed to push leaves up through the dense planting on all sides counts as a triumph.
And then the tomato red flower took a bizarre turn when another flower opened canary yellow. I wasn’t really expecting the canna to bloom either and had forgotten it had this bicolor tic. Helping with the two-tone canna is the surprise echo of Solidago ‘Fireworks’ just starting to gleam near ruddy Lobelia tupa, yellow and red again, bringing some context to the bicolor craziness. But I was tempted to cut the flower stalk off entirely.
Some plants seem destined to have their flowers sacrificed to preserve their leafy good looks. Seems like everyone I know who grows Argentina lineata cuts off the small yellow flowers as insignificant distractions from the plush basal leaves, finely cut silver brocade.
But look at the scaffolding that hoists up those “insignificant” flowers! And insignificant is a subjective value judgment anyway — insects don’t seem to be hung up on size of flowers and throng to the small stuff.
Acacia cultriformis in the front garden was brought up three years ago from Los Angeles. All the knockbacks by winter have resulted in treating this acacia as a cutback shrub. It has already been surpassed in size by a year-old Acacia pravissima. The latter has the reputation for the hardiest acacia in zone 8-9ish. But how much of its growth will it hold on to after the next winter?
Making a garden has a lot to do with being able to predict how a plant will perform, and there are countless variables to consider, but still who doesn’t like to take a flier on mystery plants or plants we’ve only read about, or try a familiar plant in unfamiliar conditions? Since I plant so densely, my biggest problem is always with ultimate size, and I’m already running into crowding issues after just a few years.
The cosmos started in April added so much to the late garden. ‘Rubenza’ and ‘Apricotta’ were standouts. ‘Fandango’ and ‘Xsenia’ were good but more compact in size. (Thank you to Chilterns for sending ‘Fandango’ gratis!) If I follow the same sowing and planting times next year can I expect the same results? Possibly but no guaranties. Growing conditions are vacillating wildly year to year. I think starting seeds in late May rather than coolish April will bring as good as a result.
I’m seeing Senecio ‘Angel Wings’ in lots of gardens, but it seems to always be just the one clump, as though it’s grown as an annual and replanted in spring. My one clump was planted in this container and survived here last winter. That clump is now several clumps, following the contour of the container, rooting as it goes. Just an observation on what seems to make this inscrutable plant happy and expand in size year to year.
Lastly, some notable events. Rain! A whole night and part of a day. Billie blew her ACL last weekend and is recovering from surgery. (We didn’t see the injury happen, but heard the commotion that had to do with a bench Billie uses to keep track of street activity via the large front window. From the barking, apparently a dog strolled by, Billie overreacted, twisted, fell and somehow blew the cruciate ligament.) We forced ourselves to sit through the debate, just as we did the last one, another stomach churner but for vastly different reasons!
Hope the weather is becoming more reasonably autumnal for you!
The Hoffman Center for the Arts in Manzanita, Oregon, celebrated its 20-year anniversary Saturday August 31. Out of their many programs — clay, writing, visual arts — I became acquainted with the HCA through their horticulture program. The Hoffman’s Wonder Garden for me was the design lab I needed to become acquainted with plants that grow well on the Oregon Coast. Indeed, this is the goal the WG’s volunteer director Ketzel Levine explicitly embraces as she showcases plants that endure both a very wet winter and very dry summer, USDA zone 9ish. A public garden with this kind of sophisticated planting is a rarity on the coast — actually, in my experience, it’s a rarity anywhere!
Built on a gravel parking lot, the WG’s soil is excessively free draining; great for the rain-soaked winter, tricky in summer. During summer the WG needs thoughtful watering, especially since new plants are constantly being trialed and supplemental irrigation to the manzanitas is to be strictly avoided. The growing conditions are very different from my Tillamook soil which is rich and deep. (Just as an example of divergent plant choices, I’ve watched Lobelia tupa struggle at the WG but flourish in my own garden. Arctostaphylos ‘Ghostly’ survives in the WG but succumbed after last winter in my own garden. Euphorbia griffithii leaves burned in a heat wave at the WG but not in my garden, etc.)
The berms are continually built back as they lose height and are kept carefully mulched. Instead of the usual fine bark mulch, this year yards of compost were spread in spring as a soil boost — but not to the manzanitas, of course! And I’m always surprised at what a heat trap this little garden becomes in high summer. Whether it’s a Manzanita microclimate or the heat absorbed and held by the gravel substrate and paths, shade cloths for the main seating areas are a necessity for visitors. However, on this mostly summer-cool coast, the plants flourish from the good summer baking the WG provides.
Over the few years I’ve been volunteering here, something else besides a personal horticultural education has crept into my relationship with the WG. And that is, the awareness of the immeasurable value even a small public garden brings to a community. To someone who previously equated gardens with sanctuary and privacy, witnessing a community bond with this little pass-through garden has been revelatory.
Unlike myself, many visitors are not always motivated to come to closely inspect plants and labels, but instead gather to meet up with friends for coffee or a picnic, knit under the shade awning, end a beach walk or shopping trip here, stop in after a library visit next-door, bring their dog to the always-full water bowl. Without fencing, and sited on a busy corner, it is a backdrop to daily rituals, an essential “third place” — somewhere to go outside of home and work. I overheard a woman exclaim about the WG on Saturday, “This is the best thing about living in Manzanita!”
So why doesn’t every town have a great third-space option like the Wonder Garden? A singularly fortuitous event set it all in motion. In 2004 an artist couple, the Hoffmans, gifted their home and land to found the HCA. So there’s that bit of foundational luck, followed by decades of strong community support. (If you think donating a small house and parcel of land to your town is not a worthwhile gesture, think again!)
Under the HCA umbrella, I think the Wonder Garden program at the Hoffman was started around 2014. Garden savvy journalist Ketzel Levine moved into town a few years later, volunteering decades of experience and contacts.
An enthusiastic base of volunteers is another incalculable asset to the HCA. As far as I can tell, the HCA has been run from inception by volunteers. It was just two years ago that the HCA acquired its first paid director.
And at the Wonder Garden, not every volunteer needs to bring a lifetime of plant knowledge, because there are so many other skills required to keep the garden flourishing. Plant sales run by volunteers provide funds for more plants and commissioned art work, like the new screen of salvage metal made by Indio Metal Arts.
I have to emphasize that I am writing about the HCA as a non-resident newcomer, and I have to own any mistakes of omission as far as history and unfamiliarity with the many volunteers who have made this little slice of heaven possible. In my short experience there, the Wonder Garden proves that public gardens don’t necessarily need large tracts of land and paid staff, just a community that recognizes and rallies around their little oasis at the east end of town.
There is an upcoming plant sale to be held on September 28, 10 a.m. to 12:30 p.m., including work for sale from Indio Metal Arts. Head’s up, sales are brisk, so try to be there as close to 10 a.m. as you can manage.
I love my new single dahlia so much I had to post another photo. Blazingly hot but fresh color is a nice look for an August that feels autumnal already. A cool August has brought the small herd of elk down from the mountains to the coast earlier than usual this year to their favorite winter grazing, a farm field off 101 about 5 miles north of me. I have a feeling the herd will magically disappear again by Thursday, headed for cooler mountain haunts, with temps predicted for 85F — not terrific heat but uncomfortable enough if you’re wearing a fur coat. The garden glistened from overnight rain this morning, but my potted dahlia will need vigilant watering in the coming heat later in the week to keep floating those saffron daisies through September. I love the sensation of the garden serving course after visual course through fall.
Just behind the phormium is where a lot of the late show is happening — selinum, joe-pye weed newly blooming against the established, long-blooming backdrop of Sanguisorba ‘Red Thunder,’ dahlias, patrinia, Persicaria polymorpha. I’m thinking about thinning the burgeoning phormium next year, depending on what this winter has in store. Maybe it will do some of the work for me. (Not in photo — Eryngium pandanifolium has three bloom stalks this year, taller than joe-pye weed so 7ish feet. And on the subject of eryngos, E. yuccifolium has just one bloom stalk, possibly diminishing from too much shade from the maturing tetrapanax. I’ll move just about any plant other than this touchy, tap-rooted eryngium. Better to start again from seed.)
This display of characterful leaves that’s extended all summer may be a one-off, so I’m hesitant to talk about them because I don’t fully understand what’s going on. They are carpeting the narrow border on the north side of the house. Lunaria is a biennial, so when these plants bloom next spring this show of leaves will be over. Somehow the timing of when I sowed and planted them resulted in big lush leaves all summer. It’s probably just a fluke that will be impossible to replicate. (The same lunaria in the back garden shows spindly leaf growth.) Lots of seed-grown aquilegia planted here are now buried under the lush growth of the lunaria (A. viridiflora, atrata, oxysepala) — oof! Like all lunaria, ‘Chedglow’ reseeds like crazy, so there will be plenty of opportunities to experiment again. Hopefully the baby columbine buried under those leaves have a survival plan they’re working on…
August can be a rough month. In either of my gardens, I’ve never had to deal with summer rainfall, flooding, plants getting pummeled by rainstorms like some of the East Coast and South are suffering under. And coastal Los Angeles gets relatively mild heat compared to some of the numbers cities are posting this summer. But August was still a dreaded month in my Los Angeles garden, one of the world’s five Mediterranean climates zones. By August the soil no longer wants to play garden and seems determined to reassert its hydrophobic, summer-dry chaparral nature. By August, moody and beneficent early morning marine layers are pfffft, and all the pots and containers now feel tethered to the gardener with a ball and chain. No doubt I have too many Los Angeles Augusts to blame for the skin cancer recently removed. Ants in the house are a feature of August in LA, and now newcomer mosquitos are the latest summer harassment.
Here on the Oregon coast there’s none of that sense of a doomed, relentless march into the cotton-mouthed maw of August. Barring wildfires, as in 2021, August at the Oregon Coast, 45th parallel, is no sweat. It reminds me a lot of San Francisco summers, also cool, misty and rainless. But if you do hate overcast skies til early afternoon, a cool ocean that demands wetsuits for swimming, and feel the same way about 8-9 months of winter rain as an Oregon expat I recently met who fled to Arizona, the summer bargain might not be enough of a payoff for you.
But gardens? Summer at the Oregon coast is easy on the garden. I’m finding that August skips along pretty much like July, temperature-wise, except August signals the summer annuals that now is their moment.
August activated the cosmos and zinnias I sowed in April for a small cut flower garden. Every sign of plant life in April is hyper-celebrated, so of course I saved all the seedlings. The cut flower 4X8′ area could only handle so many, but the cosmos slip into the main garden unobtrusively, billowing upward from a narrow, V-shaped footprint.
If August in my LA garden was a time to lie low and not make any sudden moves, on the Oregon coast fine tuning and planting continues into July and August, with the first frost in fall the hard backstop. I’ve been playing around with the dozens of cosmos, some planted into the garden, some plunged in pots. I love having new plants to mess with, new growth to watch for, deadheading to prolong bloom. The castor bean is still making size, and the amaranthus are just budding. The zinnias I’ve kept to the cutting garden.
I’m hoping to check in on family and friends in LA this winter, help the garden recover from my extended absence, and maybe catch some of my aloes in bloom. Hope you’re finding something to enjoy this August!
A quick thanks, a few photos, and a short introduction to the Garden Fling, in the off chance a reader of AGO has never heard of this special garden tour.
Since 2008, the garden tour now known as the Garden Fling has changed names and broadened enrollment, but its basic premise remains the same. A tour of a region’s gardens, plant nurseries, and botanical gardens is developed, curated and hosted by those that know them best, the local gardeners. As far as I know, this grassroots familiarity with a region makes these garden tours unique.
Last weekend (July 19-22) our two buses visited 23 Tacoma/Seattle gardens in four days, and included the PNW twist of a ferry ride to visit gardens on Vashon Island. Thanks to the hard-working local hosts, the logistics and travel details were handled cheerfully and flawlessly.
This entirely volunteer-led effort is an outgrowth of a deep love of gardens and plants and the desire to share them with other enthusiasts, via blogs and other social media (and, through the tour, IRL). Sponsors step in to help grease the tour wheels — thanks to all of you as well!
The Pacific Northwest continues to loom in the public imagination as an eternally overcast land of misty forests, which is true for some of the year, but it also contends with very dry summers and, now, record heat waves. And increasingly winter brings uncharacteristic, zone-regressing cold events, like last winter’s January ice storm. If the tour gardens sustained winter losses, it was apparent only to the owners — it all looked glorious to me.
To me many of the gardens, intentionally or not, evoke a wander through the coastal forest. Narrow paths instead of broad walks, changes in levels, switchbacks, carefully layered understories, hidden pools — garden-making in response to, and inspired by, living in the world’s largest temperate rain forest. There were plenty of sun-loving plants and spaces allowed for them, but the forest was an undeniably magnificent presence in the gardens we visited.
Because I traveled by car, I was able to indulge in some ferocious plant shopping at Windcliff, and the bus handily absorbed my flat of plants thanks to our friendly bus driver. Many of us have attended several Garden Fling tours, but there’s always new faces aboard the bus. And meeting online friends for the first time is so much fun — printed words can’t compare to freewheeling conversation with observant, sardonic, witty, opinionated plant people. It was such a good time, many thanks to all who made it happen!
It’s like a switch was flipped and a jolt of electricity hit the garden. July is potent stuff. Things are really starting to move and shimmy and shine now that the grasses are blooming.
After three years, these long summer days still amaze me. These photos were taken at 9 p.m. last night! On the 4th fireworks were useless until well after 10 p.m. — but that didn’t stop the neighbors. Loud booms are effective day or night. My neighbor reported one small brushfire at the coast that was quickly put out. What price fun, huh? Temps did top 90F Friday, into the low 80sF yesterday, and that’s the end of our portion of this extended heat wave. Nothing compared to the continuing ordeal faced by those living further inland. I’m very grateful for everything this administration has done to engage with carbon emissions, an effort that will always get my vote no matter who is on the ticket. If only minority rule aka the electoral college had not prevented us from getting a jump on heat-trapping gases in 2000…
[Sidebar: On the subject of necessary regulations, I will add one observation to the ongoing discussion of the divergent voting habits of rural vs. urban voters. It’s a personal theory, one of many! Rural industries (“blue collar”) — here it’s farming, fishing, logging — compared to most “white collar” jobs are necessarily carefully regulated in ways that are immediately and personally impactful. For example, when the local small fisherman temporarily can’t clam, crab, or harvest oysters due to high microbial activity, it is an undoubted hardship to bear. Health of consumers is of paramount concern, so oversight agencies don’t mess around. Public health issues can’t be left to the honor system. (And resource management left to vested interests can result in no resources to manage at all. The last sea otter, a keystone species, was killed in Oregon in 1907 out of an estimated population of a million pre-fur trade.) But for small rural towns, and this is an international problem, in addition to an aging population, loss of tax base revenue, “big box” monopolies (on-line and brick-and-mortar), I do think the regulation issue is prime for exploiting and inflaming by outside economic interests that operate at a much larger scale than the small town sole proprietor — hence, the recent unfortunate Supremes decision gutting authority of regulatory agencies, the beginning of the long-sought dismantling of the so-called “administrative state.” Yes, there will always be examples of regulatory overreach to rally indignation, but my vote will always go for prioritizing clean water, air, and safe food. As far as struggling rural towns, my fever dream is the rise of remote work allows these beautiful places to repopulate and emptying urban office buildings become converted to housing,…]
Seguing to slug control (ha!)…this morning I decided to throw down some snail bait pellets. Beer traps were effective primarily if I carried the mollusks to the traps and dropped them in the Guinness bath. (And Marty strenuously objected to use of Guinness as pest control.) The dahlias were “Chelsea-chopped” in early summer, and the slugs and snails also did their part in restricting growth, so buds are now forming on leafless stems. For next year, even though dahlias overwinter in the ground here, I may lift the dahlias and grow them in pots to protect young growth.
But it is surprising how many plants escape the mollusks’ notice. Dahlias and joe-pye weed have been the primary targets. Annuals like zinnias and cosmos too, but not calendula. I’ve been hesitant to use snail bait, even though the pellets are proclaimed to be “pet and wildlife safe” — I guess it’s a matter of trusting the labeling. Let me know if you’ ve heard otherwise.
I broke my shovel yesterday, the trusty decades’ old one I brought up north. There’s a metaphor there somewhere. It’s seen a lot of action, especially this spring/early summer. The back garden has left behind that deliciously expectant phase, like being pregnant really, and entered the sobering reality of caring for a rambunctious toddler. Margaret Roach’s excellent article on the High Line was a reassuring and timely read for me. (“Change is the only constant.”). My 3-year-old garden now requires many of the same maneuvers, interventions, and relocations to settle land disputes and preserve air and sun rights as the 15-year-old High Line — on a vastly different scale, of course (and without having to contend with only 16 inches of soil!)
The dreamy phase of contemplating a future garden has had a hard stop this third summer, where harsh judgments must be meted out — which plant is the more valuable and which needs to move elsewhere. Even after three years some plants are still getting settled, while others have doubled or tripled their footprint (Sucissella inflexa, a pale knautia-like bobblehead, I’m looking at you!). It’s engrossing and fascinating to watch the maturation process, but admittedly unnerving to be flung out of the design department and moved to a management position. I have nothing but respect for the 10 full-time gardeners managing the hard work of maintaining the High Line’s complex plantings.
What’s really centered me again and reinvoked that dreamy, expectant state of mind is starting lots of annuals and biennials from seed. Many of the annuals like cosmos, castor bean and amaranthus are getting popped into newly vacant soil as permanent plants are thinned. I’m more than willing to perform the daily triage an overplanted garden requires, but I’m a born nurturer and love the caretaking of young plants. I need to take care of plant babies!
And my preference for big bodacious plants only exacerbates the challenges of managing a quickly maturing garden. For now, I wouldn’t want to part with any of them. The big shapes that dominate the border closest to the back fence include, left to right, a 5×5 Euphorbia stygiana, Persicaria polymorpha (both not pictured), Sanguisorba ‘Red Thunder,’ and Selinum wallichianum, center in above photo. Its ferny leaves are great cut — discovered after trying to relieve some pressure and congestion off nearby plants. Huge umbels in late summer. The Silver Spike grass, Achnatherum calamagrostis, has started to bloom, and the garden finally feels like summer because of it. Deschampsia started to bloom this week too. Most of the miscanthus have been moved to the front garden, as has Festuca ‘Glowsticks.’
For those who’ve been having trouble commenting, deep apologies. Again, management is not my favorite task, and that applies to the blog as well, which barely limps along. Thank you for your patience! Enjoy the long holiday weekend — temps in the 90sF expected here for Friday…
Even without much heat, it feels as though we’ve reached that turning point when spring finally retreats and summer growth gains the upper hand, if only by virtue of sheer day length. It’s light out til 9:30 p.m. now!
In a couple instances the garden has reversed course and thinned somewhat, a case of wind pruning. We’ve had some recent sessions of ferocious wind, the latest yesterday afternoon. Incredibly, most plants can take the beating, but there’s been lots of pruning and some removal. On a previous occasion a week or so ago, the anisodontea planted behind the stock tank was completely knocked to the ground (patio). Initially planted in the stock tank, a root migrated out, so the original plant was removed from the stock tank, with the opportunistic root left to flourish, and did it ever! It’s been a remarkable plant capable of blooming all year, even withstanding ice storms! Even though it blocked my view of the garden from the patio, I left it alone. When the wind did the job for me, it was a relief. Besides having a full view of the garden from the patio restored, the beschorneria and other stock tank plants are much better for it.
The cosmos and zinnias I sowed in April are finally making good size. Not much top growth yet but root growth is strong. I sowed a ridiculous amount and nurtured every single seed that germinated — good thing too, because the slugs and snails demand their tribute, and the attrition has been significant.
The cosmos will be grown in pots because there isn’t any bare sunny ground available in the garden, and dozens of plants have been donated to a community garden. I’ve never had to watch frost dates when sowing seeds before, so this has been a very engrossing endeavor, just trying to raise some simple summer annuals. Hopefully, there will be more photos to come…