As I mentioned in a recent newsletter, I am officially OVER the 2025 growing season. My garden is parched and defeated. And so am I.
Uneasy with my discord I decided to sort through musings that I’ve recorded over the years. I keep everything, even though I don’t necessarily know where I stashed my notes, an essay, or a finished article. Past me wisely sensed that my future self might need a pep me up (or talking down) when it comes to navigating late season challenges. Leaf spot on the tomatoes: check. Sad dahlias covered in powdery mildew: indeed, but somehow it seems worse this year.
My katsura trees in a more forgiving year.
I mourn years like this one when the katsura trees drop crisp leaves forgoing their typical color shifts and the way and I miss the way they fill the front garden with the fragrance of burnt sugar. I’m hoping there’s still time, I look forward to this marker every year.
Clearly, I’m not the only gardener burnt out on attending to the needs of my plot. Yet this year’s bout feels especially personal. Like, if this were another type of relationship, we might be contacting an attorney.
Thankfully, parts of my garden are resilient and independent.
The Season of my Discontent
None of my seasonal discontent is new, nor is it remarkably dire, especially considering political and social events unraveling around the world. It feels a bit naïve and indulgent to fuss over my garden when almost everything in the natural world is tilting off kilter. Drought. Heat waves. Smoke from wildfires. Flooding. My garden, and yours, are on the front line of escalating climate chaos. It’s damn alarming.
Cosmos living their best life in September.
In other, more energetic seasons, I willingly, even lovingly, care for my plot; support balance, care for the soil, promote diversity. Looking around the garden the cosmos are beefing up— I always forget about this late season rally, it always comes as a delightful surprise. Tomatoes are ripening despite what appears to be septoria leaf spot and the green fruit on the everbearing raspberries is beginning to blush in a generous reprise of the midsummer harvest. I would not be enjoying these harvests had I not planted and previously nurtured these plants.
Colchicum autumnale emerging through Carex testacea.
Elsewhere in the garden and with zero input from me, bubblegum pink colchicum are poking their noses through bronze sedges, and delicate soft pink cyclamen blossoms muscle up between gravel and weary perennials in unlikely places. This quixotic placement is due to a fascinating, mutually beneficial relationship between these fall blooming perennials and ants.
Dancing Ants & Pink in the Fall Garden
Fall blooming Cyclamen hederifolium.
Myrmecochory, loosely translated from ancient Greek means “choreography of ants.” In early summer, just as the cyclamen are going dormant, dancing ants (a delightful image) harvest plump seeds and carry the fruit back to their underground nest where the seed coating provides nutritious fats and protein for the colony. It’s a winning symbiotic waltz: the ants get fed while the seed of the cyclamen is essentially planted at some distance from the parent plant, setting the stage for diverse and resilient future generations.
Once again, I’m grateful to past me for including these plants that gentle me through late season ennui.
Pink is a fine prescription for treating autumn malaise. Like coarse sea salt on an artisanal chocolate caramel, pink in the fall garden is a stroke of brilliance on an already good thing. In beds filled with tawny shades of olive, orange, and gold, blushing blossoms energize this weary gardener and help me over these last gasping days of summer.
Experience has taught me that the same garden and natural processes that are defeating me today will, with time, lift me up and spark anticipation as I plan and plant for the future. Spring blooming bulbs have been ordered and I’m looking forward to a delicious color palette of tulips for next year’s bouquets. I’m waiting for the weather to cooperate before I tackle moving a few plants and dividing the PCH irises that I meant to get to last year but never did. Time on my knees in the fall garden is golden in all sorts of ways.
I hear you about being burnt out. But look at all the wonderful surprises in your garden!. The colchicum, which I never remember to order, the crocus. The messy mix of color and texture. And now you don’t even have to think about deadheading, staking, disentangling. Leave it to the birds and bees and rest of the critters. It is disappointing when we don’t get to enjoy the favorite plant we’ve anticipated, like your Katsura. Mine is Osmanthus fragrans. I left all mine behind in Chapel Hill NC and haven’t planted my new garden yet, but somewhere near in my neighborhood, one was going all out last week. Smelled like home.
I believe most gardeners share our malaise… we just need to indulge our “seasonal discontent” and wait for the return of our garden mojo. And YES, I love walking past the flowers that need deadheading — I’m itching to cut back the mildewed dahlias. I can already feel my sap rising.
Thank you for being you Lorene. I love your wordsmithing and the truth of the fall garden. Messy and beautiful. And I’m tired too. You are not alone. My dahlias which experienced a slug festival (which they are still winning in my PNW garden) at the beginning of spring and were munched to the nubs…have surprisingly given huge flowers this fall (Cafe Latte). But my nasturtiums have been invaded with late aphids….I keep saying to myself…it’s not about perfection…it’s about direction and LIFE! And taking the good with the sad.
Stay Brave Lorene. You are a gift.
Dear Becky, your kind words soothe this weary gardener/writer. You are true in all you say: gardening is a direction not a destination. Now I’m going to puree my homegrown tomato sauce, gather seed, and (maybe) think about moving some plants.
I really love the late season garden. There comes a point (usually August) where I just relax and enjoy the garden for what it is. Feels like a giant weight has been lifted from the panic of Spring and summer planting. Late summer brings harvesting and processing and trying to beat the critters to what you’ve spent the season growing. It’s a race for sure. However,gotta admit along hot dry summer and I’m longing for the cooler weather of Fall which unfortunately brings frost and the end of the garden. It’s an annual cycle that plays out year after year so we just need to enjoy the garden for what it is at this time of year as we will soon be moving into the next phase.
The refreshment and leisure of fall always comes when I don’t think I can pick up the hose one. more. time.
Lorene, as always you are spot on with your observations. I too experience this general malaise in my garden this time of year, although I think I identify it as “general floposis”. The “Pee Gee’s” are all horizontal, the Joe Pye is leaning over and smothering the hydrangeas which are in turn obliterating the hostas and so it goes. My “Claim Jumper” Katsura which I planted three years ago has never thrived (although it has put on considerable caliper) and is currently completely defoliated. It is headed for the compost pile this fall; a gardener can only take so much disappointment. Sadly, I left my collection of Cyclamen back at the nursery garden where a cute little clump would magically appear every late summer in a gravel path. I will have to plant a few new ones in my new garden gravel paths this fall. Years ago, I harvested a bunch from the late Brian Mulligan’s home that was slated to be bull dozed. I love both species but sometimes get them confused in my mind. Believe it or not, in the trade they are often sold as Cylamen neapolitan because the growers get them mixed up as well, or at least that is my theory. While I have known for years the relationship of ants to cyclamen, I have never heard the word “Myrmecochory” before, so thank you very much for enlightening me. I think it is also fun to observe the coiled nature of the flower stems as they mature. I always assumed that the coiling was part of the strategy for dehiscing the seeds but maybe it is just a way to get the seeds down to ground level for the ants to harvest. Yes, there are bright spots in my garden as well, including Aster Frikardii Monch, Schizostylus, and (finally) Solidago Fire Works along with large pink drifts of Persicaria Dimity and (again finally) Ceratostigma. And we can’t forget the fall blooming Sedum Autumn Joy. As summer shifts to fall and our glorious and well-thought-out compositions fall apart I admit it is hard to focus on the little bright spots, but as always, your words offer encouragement. From one PNW gardener to another, thank you.
Ah yes, the debauchery of fall. I’m sorry your Katsura is not thriving. My planting of 3 routinely wilted during the summer for their first 8-10 years. I didn’t pull them out because that sounds like a lot of work. And my hunt continues for an orange/peach not cherry red Schizostylus continues.
Lorene Edwards Forkner’s “Navigating the Late-Season Garden” resonates deeply with gardeners facing the challenges of a wearying growing season. Her candid reflection on the fatigue of tending to a garden in distress mirrors the experiences of many. Despite the setbacks—diseased tomatoes, powdery mildew on dahlias, and the absence of the anticipated katsura tree fragrance—she finds solace in the resilience of certain plants. The unexpected vigor of cosmos and the emergence of colchicum and cyclamen offer a comforting reminder of nature’s perseverance. Forkner’s acknowledgment of the broader environmental crises, such as droughts and wildfires, adds depth to her narrative, highlighting the interconnectedness of personal and global ecological challenges. Her reflections not only validate the feelings of burnout but also inspire a renewed appreciation for the enduring beauty and lessons found in the garden.
Hi Ashley, Thank you for your thoughtful review!
Navigating the late-season garden can be a rewarding experience as it allows gardeners to enjoy the fruits of their labor while preparing for the change in seasons. At this stage, it’s important to focus on harvesting remaining crops, such as pumpkins and root vegetables, and to consider planting cover crops to enrich the soil. Additionally, pruning perennial plants and cleaning up garden beds can help set the stage for a healthy garden in the spring. Emphasizing sustainability by composting fallen leaves and plant debris can also boost soil health. Overall, late-season gardening encourages reflection and preparation, ensuring that the garden continues to thrive year after year.