A love story

I may have fallen in love with physocarpus. No, it's not the name of a space alien, but an utterly indestructible shrub native to the eastern US, which happens to be where I live. The Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center describes it as "fast-growing, insect and disease resistant, and drought-tolerant," but the plant is more than that. Physocarpus has been with me in my last three houses and has thrived in extremes of soil and light conditions--pure sun and sand, shade and clay--and proven itself relatively unpalatable to deer (which, when desperate enough, seem to eat anything that's not actually poisonous). Besides, it is flat-out gorgeous at its peak (in all its foliage variations) and looks good all year.



"Coppertina" in bloom and bud





"Dart's Gold" showing red stamens and full chartreuse leaf color



Physocarpus plays well with others: in this case, the dark foliage of "Summer Wine" forming a perfect background for the hot colors of Oriental poppy and an iris whose name I do not know.

 When the blossoms finish, these five-foot, arching plants will be covered with pink seed pods that I have managed never to photograph--a serious mistake on my part.

In August, the stems of "Summer Wine" will turn the rich purple of their namesake.

 "Coppertina" will continue to have perhaps my favorite foliage of any shrub and hold its own against the pink fireworks of "Tutti Frutti" hummingbird mint.

In late October, when the leaves finally fall from these plants that have given joy since early spring and asked for nothing in return, the exfoliating bark will give interest to the front border all winter.

If physocarpus were human, I'd probably marry it.

More amusement

A sunny day last week found Feraldine, our fraidy cat, staring intently out the front door. Given that she remains timid even after five years of living with us, I was curious about what could be so fascinating as to make her completely ignore the presence of humans.

 

 The object of Feraldine's undivided attention proved to be the smallest chipmunk I had ever seen among the hordes that inhabit our yard. 

While there is no way to tell from the photograph, I estimated that this little creature was about half the size of an average member of its species. My guess is that it was one of this year's first brood of chipmunk babies, which may have been born as early as March. Certainly, it didn't seem to know enough to run from a cat or a human on the other side of a glass door. More recently, I have seen what may be this same rodent engaged in a through-the-glass faceoff with various of our cats. (I hope it runs from Shadow, a neighbor cat who finds chipmunk-hunting to be great sport.)

    And as if adolescent chipmunks aren't enough cuteness for one day, Stumpy the squirrel chose to visit. We seem to have plenty of company this spring.

Details to delight

Sometimes one is too busy living life to document it, and the end-of-semester rush is like that, even for those of us working largely from home as I have been these last few weeks. But all the papers have now been read and duly commented-upon, and all student grades are now posted in the online student information system, and I am taking a break before finishing the talk I will be giving at a conference on the 29th. Much has been happening in the yard, as is always true of mid-spring, and my brief wanderings-with-camera have revealed details of the sort that make me happy. (Okay, so I'm easily amused.)

Physocarpus may be my favorite shrub. It has no scent to speak of, but this eastern US native is utterly indestructible and has beautiful bark, foliage, blooms, and seed pods. 

 This little beauty is the cultivar "Dart's Gold," growing alongside our driveway. Until this week, I had never really noticed the tiny red centers of the flowers.

The dark-leaved cultivars"Coppertina" (l) and "Summer Wine" (r) grow in the hell strip along the street in front of our house.

  

For scent, our native sweetshrub, calycanthus floridus has enough to make up for its neighbors' lack. This is the cultivar "Athens," blooming next to the screened porch. (One must allow oneself some decadent pleasures, and the scent of sweetshrub is one of them.)    

But my (perhaps) favorite detail of the year is on a plant that I was talked into acquiring by the owner of a native plant nursery.

I had visited the nursery intending to bring home gray dogwood to start a hedge in our shady area but of course came home with various other plants, some of which I had never heard of. One of these was acer pennsylvanicum, striped maple, an understory tree generally grown for its attractive bark. Our specimen is still only about three feet high, so its bark isn't terribly exciting yet, but I've fallen in love with its crinkled foliage and tiny blossoms.

And I do mean tiny.

Something I did not know until today

Chipmunk toenails on the feeder pole sound like tiny bells tinkling.

How did I not know this before? This bit of knowledge makes me smile.

Superfluous Beauty

One of the things that has most delighted me during the drawn-out process of my recovery is how flat-out gorgeous the world is. Not able to go anywhere or do much of anything for a while, I got to enjoy the details, like the truly eye-catching pink of a female cardinal's beak, which on our leucistic lady matched not only her crest but the male house finch who shared the feeder pole with her.

I can think of no evolutionary necessity for that color, but it was a cheering sight on gray days.

Given the overabundance of deer in our neighborhood, I have given up on tulips and grow primarily daffodils, flowers that I once found boring because they lack the gaudy variety of tulips. How unobservant are the young.

 Wildflowers like this creeping phlox not only have color, but the "eye" that delights humans with its perky cuteness actually shows pollinating insects where the good stuff is.

Before this year, I had not noticed that violets and grape hyacinth are sometimes the same color.

And there is just nothing like old-fashioned bleeding heart for pure, prettier-than-it-needs-to-be pink.

Happy spring, everyone.

Back again

After a hiatus to recover from an unplanned surgery (one that went well and gave good news but still took all the wind out of this nearly-old lady's sails), I am finally revisiting my blog. During the time I wasn't particularly ambulatory (as I still am not, really), spring finally arrived in the Valley--followed by several days of summery temperatures that fried a good many of the daffodils, followed by two mornings with freeze warnings. The weather here rarely gets boring.

I have found much on which to meditate and will no doubt be sharing some of that meditation in these virtual pages, but tonight I just want to express my delight at the liveliness around here.  The pulmonaria acquired from last summer's garden tour plant sale has decided to bloom.

 
Goldfinches are courting,

and Stumpy is still a regular visitor.

The significance of signs

Speaking as someone who has read an inordinate number of fantasy and semi-historical novels over the decades, let me share that in most of them one is to pay attention to signs and portents, especially messages from the natural world. (Come to think of it, Wordsworth and company exhibited the same tendency in 1798.) Moving into the last few years of my career, I have been experiencing a restlessness that was not part of my thirties and forties, so when two Canada geese flew across my path on my way to work Thursday, the experience felt like A Sign. After all, the geese were not in a flock or a gaggle, but a pair, so perhaps the meaning was that my faraway spouse and I should look for work in the same place, away from this valley in which I have spent the last thirty years. The birds were flying east: was that to be our direction? (It may be possible to have read entirely too much Serious Literature as a young person.)

However, walking home from the library that gloriously gorgeous afternoon, just as I was preparing to cross the street, light hit the sycamores growing near the drainage ditch, making them glow in the way of sycamores in sun.

Perhaps rootedness is the message being conveyed, learning to grow in "one dear, perpetual place," as the sixty-something Yeats wished for his daughter (and not his son, I might add.).

Then at home, a glance out the back window brought a near-overdose of cuteness. What should one make of a pair of squirrels, companionably stuffing their little faces?

That's the problem with signs and portents: they contradict each other (if one can even read them in the first place).