Garden Muse Day: September Apples

The Apple Orchard

Come let us watch the sun go down
and walk in twilight through the orchard's green.
Does it not seem as if we had for long
collected, saved and harbored within us

old memories? To find releases and seek

new hopes, remembering half-forgotten joys,

mingled with darkness coming from within,

as we randomly voice our thoughts aloud

wandering beneath these harvest-laden trees

reminiscent of Durer woodcuts, branches

which, bent under the fully ripened fruit,

wait patiently, trying to outlast, to

serve another season's hundred days of toil,

straining, uncomplaining, by not breaking

but succeeding, even though the burden

should at times seem almost past endurance.

Not to falter! Not to be found wanting!

Thus must it be, when willingly you strive

throughout a long and uncomplaining life,

committed to one goal: to give yourself!

And silently to grow and to bear fruit.

by Rainer Maria Rilke

Garden Muse Day is brought to you on the first of each month by Carolyn Gail at Sweet Home and Garden Chicago. (I'm a little early, but I wanted to post this before Labor Day.)

I had an entirely different poem planned for today, but when I searched for it on a poem site, I found this one instead. Not as full of the images of ripened apples and the coming fall, this poem instead has a wonderful message, I think.

I have two apple trees--not an orchard--which seem to produce an abundance of apples every other year. This year conditions must have been just right, because the branches seem to groan under the weight of all the fruit. I have been waiting to make sure they were completely ripe, but quite a few have already fallen from the tree and have been mashed into unwilling compost by the lawn mower. This week I will pick some, and if they are indeed ripe enough, I'll try to make use of them all. I'm not sure what variety they are--a Jonathan or something akin to it, I think, because they are better cooking apples than "eating" apples. I plan to make a lot of applesauce, but there will be enough for apple cake, apple bread, and my children's favorite--old-fashioned apple crisp. Ymmmm....the smell of cinnamon is already in the air!

More apples . . . but of course these won't be made into applesauce! The flowering crabapple trees have been full of fruit for several weeks. Years ago, my mother used to pick crabapples from a relative's trees and make crabapple jelly. Those crabapples were much bigger than these, but I still can't help but think how much work was put into each jar of that jelly. These fruits instead will provide a banquet for the birds who have already been enjoying the feast.


"A mind always employed is always happy. This is the true secret, the grand recipe, for felicity."
---Thomas Jefferson

"The strongest bond of human sympathy outside the family relation should be one uniting working people of all nations and tongues and kindreds."

--Abraham Lincoln

Have a happy and safe Labor Day!

Finding Peace with the Natives

The last few mornings I have been on early morning chauffeuring duty for two of my grandchildren. I am not a morning person--I might get up early, but I'm not really functioning for a couple hours. But my daughter-in-law had to go on a business trip, and my son has to leave very early for his commute to work, so it was up to Grandma to be at their house by 6:30 AM to drive the children, one to preschool and one to daycare 15 miles away.

Friday morning after dropping both of them off, I made an impulsive decision to stop for a walk at a park I've passed many times, but have never taken the time to visit.


Meadowbrook Park is a relatively new park and is a popular spot for many in the community. My grandchildren consider it a treat to play on the elaborate play structure, which is usually filled with children on weekends. But another attraction of the park is its many trails for walking and jogging. My son, who began running marathons a few years ago, occasionally trains here. I wanted to walk, but I also wanted to see all the wildflowers along the trails.


I chose the path around the sculpture garden because it was the shortest--just short of a mile, which was about as far as I thought I could go at 7:30 in the morning without any caffeine yet. A longer trail winds around a prairie grass planting, and a short path encircles a wildflower garden, which unfortunately I didn't discover in time. I will definitely make plans to go back again to see both of these areas.

Walking across a small bridge to the beginning of the path, I was greeted by a field of tall grasses and wildflowers.

It was a perfect morning for a walk, comfortable temperatures and low humidity for the first time in many days. Rays of sunlight peeked through the trees and illuminated the tall flowers. The sounds of traffic faded into the distance, and I began to feel the stresses of the week melt away as I began my walk. My solitude was unbroken except for the occasional like-minded walker I met along the path. We exchanged pleasant "good mornings" without breaking stride.

The beginning of the paved walkway is sheltered on one side by trees and shrubs and on the other by masses of native plants. I stopped to admire many of the plants along the way. Although I could identify some, I wasn't able to identify others, even after checking out a few websites on prairie plants. These rudbeckia weren't difficult to identify, of course. A Midwest native plant, they are found in the wild as well as in cultivated gardens.

I wasn't sure about this plant, but its blooms looked like those of a bee balm. Sure enough, I did find this one in my source--Monarda fistulosa, or wild bergamot. These were at least four feet tall.

A prairie garden sounds appealing, doesn't it? No need to worry about weeds, color combinations, or artful arrangements of plants--just let nature do its work. Here the Monarda and Rudbeckia mingle together happily.

And what would a prairie be without my favorite, the purple coneflower! It popped up in many places along the path, seemingly happy to mingle with the other natives.

I don't know the botanical name of this plant, but I wouldn't use it if I knew--I much prefer its common name of Queen Anne's Lace. A native that is very common in any uncultivated area, it doesn't deserve being called a "weed."

As a child, I would often gather bouquets of this airy white flower.

Most people would definitely call this a weed, but I've always been rather partial to it. Try as I might, I could not find the botanical name of this plant. We always called this "chicory," but I think it is in the aster family. The true blue of its flowers was hard to capture in the bright early morning sun.

Blue is my favorite color, and it's not often you'll find a true blue and white combination like this one: Queen Anne's Lace and chicory.

This striking flower is one I've seen along roadsides for the first time this year. I'm pretty sure it is a variety of Helianthus, or sunflower, several varieties of which are native to this area. It rises above all the other prairie plants, reaching a height of 8 or 9 feet.

This plant has been correctly identified as a compass plant, Silphium Laciniatum. Thanks, Joyce!

A few bent plants enabled me to get a photo of their flowers. According to a website on Illinois wildflowers, the common name "compass flower" came from the belief by pioneers that the leaves pointed north-south. Apparently they're very common, but I've never noticed them until this year!

This plant is a mystery to me. Perhaps someone can identify it?

This plant, however, is no mystery! Growing up on a farm, I never learned how to drive a tractor, but one of my few farm-related chores every summer was to walk beans. For those of you lucky enough to not understand the term "walking beans," it means to literally walk up and down every row of beans, cutting down every weed in sight. This milkweed would have been chopped down immediately; to allow it to flower and go to seed would have meant a thicket of them the next year, choking out the crop of soybeans. Strange, but I never noticed its lovely lavender blossoms before. Milkweeds are a popular attraction for butterflies, but I didn't notice many butterflies on this walk, perhaps because it was too early in the morning. I did notice many bees, though, and at least one rabbit or other furry creature scurried into the undergrowth before I could catch more than a glimpse of it.

The far side of the park is bordered by a retirement "village." A large expanse of lawn and carefully tended shrubs face this area left for the wildlife. The grounds of the complex itself has many gardens; in fact, it was one of the gardens featured on the Garden Walk Beckie and I took in June, although we didn't have time to visit it then. I am told that residents who are able and wish to, help to maintain the gardens. I think when I am really, really old this might be the perfect place for me.

One final mystery plant. I noticed only a few specimens of this plant, and most were not near the edge of the walkway where I could photograph them. Unfortunately, the sun was so bright by this time that I couldn't see my viewfinder and didn't realize I'd cut off the top of the plant. The flowers are a bright magenta, and the foliage reminded me of some type of phlox, but I really don't know what it is.

I admit to total ignorance when it comes to modern art, especially sculpture, so I paid little attention to the works of art in the garden. I did like the curved, airy design of this piece, however. By this time I was on the last leg of the trail, a sidewalk bordering a busy four-lane street. The peaceful reverie I had fallen into during my walk was interrupted by the sounds of cars rushing past on their morning commute to work. I was thankful I wasn't part of that frenzy; perhaps some of them noticed me and wished they, too, had time to leisurely stroll among the wildflowers.

By the time I reached the small bridge leading back into the parking lot, I realized what a different mood I was in. I had just finished thirty minutes of exercise, but I had forgotten I was "working out." Instead, I had become so captivated by the sights, sounds, and smells around me that any worries or problems had completely left my mind. I felt refreshed and totally at peace.

I paused to look at the small stream below and thought of Wordsworth's reflections on the power of nature to change a person for the better.

I'll leave you today with a few lines from one of my all-time favorite poems, which Wordsworth wrote after a walking tour around the River Wye.

These beauteous forms...

....have not been to me

As is a landscape to a blind man's eye;

But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din

Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,

In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,

Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;

And passing even into my purer mind,

With tranquil restoration...

...While with an eye made quiet by the power

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,

We see into the life of things.

---from "Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey"

April Bloom Day: Dancing Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils:
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee:
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
----William Wordsworth

I've always loved this poem, and although I don't have a "host" of daffodils, they do fill my heart with pleasure, as Wordsworth says. I always liked Wordsworth's poems, but I've grown to love them even more the last few years. Wordsworth saw the divine in nature and felt that man was a better person by enjoying and contemplating nature. As a gardener, what more perfect inspiration could you ask for?

My spring bulbs are all late-flowering ones--still no tulips--but besides the daffodils, I do have some hyacinths blooming. As you can see (and will see later in the season), I am partial to purple.

Happy Garden Bloom Day to everyone!

By the next Bloom day, we will all probably be showing a riot of color.

( Footnote: Thank you to someone, I think it is Mary, who had a note in her profile about her camera always being in macromode. Out of curiosity, I actually read my camera manual before taking these pictures.)

Spring Promises

Spring comes slowly this year
The earth awakens from its long slumber,
Yawns, and shudders.
Heaving up startled hostas
Their brown buds still sleeping,
Awakening green shoots of
Daffodils
Tulips
Hyacinths nestled in their spiky cocoons
And small leaves of mystery
Waiting to unfold.
All promises of wonders
Soon to come.






I don't usually write poetry, and I'm obviously not very good at it, but there is something about spring that makes one wax poetic, isn't there? We have had three glorious days of sunshine and warm temperatures in the 60's, allowing me time to work outside and get some flowerbeds ready for the "real" gardening to come in a few weeks. I've been eagerly checking the spring bulbs, like the daffodil about to burst into bloom above, and discovered that under all those mounds of leaves there were some other surprises. I have been jealous of all of you posting your lovely spring blooms and greening perennials, so I hope you don't mind me showing off my promises of spring.





The hyacinths are slowly emerging and have changed from green to blue in the past week.

The tulips are growing every day, but they are all mid to late spring tulips, so it may be a few weeks yet before they bloom.








Then there are the mysteries--what did I plant here?? The stems look like tulips, but I don't think they are supposed to be in a clump.











Some of the perennials are beginning to emerge as well, such as the sedum pictured here and my salvia. No signs yet of the coneflowers, though.












The nepeta is also coming up nicely, this one a "Walker's Low." All the gardening magazines and catalogues tout it as a catmint that cats will leave alone. Apparently, Tarzan didn't read that page; maybe I'll have to show it to him and the other cats.
















Now I understand what is meant by winter heaving. I expanded my tiny shade garden last fall--spading it up inch by inch over several days' time--and planted a few new blue hostas that I can't wait to see. I discovered, though, that most of them had been unwillingly thrust above ground. I patted them all back into the soil yesterday; I do hope they make it.






A friend of mine gave me a clump of what she called "Siberian Iris" a few years ago; perhaps


someone can tell me what their actual name is. They have never bloomed for me, though they are "greening up" nicely this year. Maybe this will be the year for blooms!








Another possible mystery--I do hope this is my aster coming up, because that is what is supposed to be here! When I first began gardening a few years ago, I read an article by a gardening expert who said she never pulled up anything that might be a weed until she was sure what it was. Sounded like a good idea to me, so I have followed that philosophy although sometimes I have foot-tall weeds before I know what they are.












This photo is the perfect reason for keeping a gardening journal and taking photos of your garden. Obviously, I did neither last year, so instead of the tulips I thought I had planted I have an empty space.

Although it is much too early here to plant most flowers, I couldn't resist planting the primroses I bought last weekend. Aren't they cheerful?

And, of course, a pot of pansies near the door.

April can be a tease in the Midwest. We may still get a snow shower, and we'll certainly still have nights of frost. But at least now I can see the promise of springtime flowers soon to come.

(My apologies for all the blank space--Blogger seems to have a mind of its own, no matter how hard I try to eliminate extra spacing.)