The morning of October 15 the roofs were frosted, the grass crunchy underfoot. First frost.
Tillamook Oregon 2025 — autumnal serendipity in a neighbor’s garden
Near a small park where I take Hannah and Billie for their “running game,” a neighbor grows assorted dahlias and zinnias, and I always check their progress. A few days ago I gasped when I saw what this pumpkin-colored zinnia and Tiger Eye Sumac were cooking up in October and reached for my camera phone, something I rarely think to do. The neighbor and I had talked about the zinnias in early summer. His first batch from seed failed when planted out, and he had to buy some more plants local, so the zinnias were late getting started. We have all internalized a make-or-break schedule for when to get summer annual seeds sown, etc, but there is mercifully some wiggle room, as shown by this splendid display (and a second batch of cosmos in bloom now, which I sowed late July.)
October 16, 2025, Centaurea macrocephala threw a few. more yellow pompoms
Some final notes before heading south. The dark foliage belongs to Penstemon digitalis ‘Dark. Towers,’ so good throughout the growing seasons, from leaf to seedpod, that I’m trialing another cultivar ‘Blackbeard’ with Schizachyrium ‘Little Red Fox’ (where Stipa gigantea grew before removal and replacement by Stipa gigantea ‘Little Giant.’)
Sinopanax formosanus getting squeezed by the acacia, something to sort out next spring. Unless winter turns into a Thunderdome that sorts it out for me (two plants enter, one plant remains)
evergreens are filling in, changing the herbaceous v. evergreen ratio significantly, to be re-evaluated next spring
I can’t find any fault with Aster horizontalis ‘Lady in Black’ so brought in another plant to have more fluffy pillows of tiny daisies next autumn
Sweet peas on the Oregon coast are an entirely different growing proposition than I’m used to in zone 10. They are summer-long garden contenders, with leaves that don’t mildew and flowers that don’t stop.
Salvia ‘Amante’ started bulking up and lightly flowering in September but really took off in October, catching fire in the much cooler temps and shorter days
I took a flier on Cosmos atrosanguineus ‘Cherry Chocolate,’ a new variety without the velour petals of the familiar one. I couldn’t detect much cocoa scent either. But the flowers are larger and it did produce more of them, and on upright stems for cut flowers. A novelty I’ll probably not protect for winter.
I’m hoping that the annual/tender perennial vine Rhodochiton atrosanguineum is madly dropping its seeds for next summer
Beschorneria septentrionalis had a good summer (and hopefully will have a good winter)
So good at the beginning of the season and the end, little evergreen shrubby Veronica catarractae responds vibrantly to deadheading mid-summer
cold nights, deep color on Polygonum orientale
dahlias holding on despite a couple frosty. nights
towering Eryngium pandanifolium, an eryngo that loves wet feet
I’ll be dreaming all winter on what the garden has up its sleeve for next spring.
The morning routine in October is now two-fisted, coffee in one hand, fly swatter in the other to dispatch the spider webs that proliferate overnight. I appreciate their predatory contributions and only knock down webs directly across paths, which seems fair. And their webslinging brings undeniably sublime effects.
Dodging spider webs in October brought home the realization that the small paths had shrunk even more as a result of OEP (overly exuberant planting).
Bupleurum fruticosum in July, removed this weekend along with Senecio munroi just behind. Both shrubs were needing constant pruning to keep the small path off the patio accessible. Spider webs hung like caution tape across the path every morning, access that had shrunk to less than a foot across.
senecio and bupleurum spring 2022. The bupleurum was dug up from the Long Beach garden, where it hated life, to the Oregon coast
Two beloved shrubs were sacrificed to widen the main path, casualties of OEP. Admittedly, there wasn’t even space for one 3×3′ shrub, let alone two, and the bupleurum seemed to be aiming more for 5×5′.
Senecio munroi planted spring 2022
I’ve rooted cuttings of Senecio monroi and have it growing in the front garden, so no real loss there. And though I’ll only have memories of the bupleurum, at least I got a long-anticipated opportunity to grow this fine evergreen and make it somewhat happy. Pruning it to fit was in no way doing it justice.
Now I can enter the garden without turning sideways
I often questioned why I bothered to water this plectranthus all summer. Lower temps in October added some much-needed salsa to ‘Guacamole’!
A rinse of autumn has washed over the garden. No frost yet and none predicted until possibly the end of the month. We had a few days of rain early last week. A very different October from our first in 2021, when it rained every day.
Hebe recurva
sedum and rust
Arctostaphylos ‘Sunset’
Aster horizontalis ‘Lady in Black,’ a dark and fine twiggy presence all summer, still has some sparkle to add in fall
phygelius reblooming
as an experiment more cosmos was sown in late July. Will it or won’t it bloom before frost? This October it will!
more evidence of OEP — the case of the disappearing paths
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.
