Fall fruitfulness in the rose garden. ©Lorene Edwards Forkner
My autumn garden asks very little of me with the possible exception of planting bulbs, inevitably in the rain because bulb companies seem to consider my zone 8a garden a tropical paradise and thereby hold off on shipping until the last possible moment. [[This just in: as I was drafting this post a box of bulbs arrived in today’s mail. It’s pouring.]]
Yes, I’m sure everyone would appreciate my trimming those plants that are hanging over pathways baptizing passersby with raindrops and seed burrs that stick to your socks. I may or may not get around to that task.
We are still frost free here in the relatively balmy but increasingly soggy Pacific Northwest. It’s an old growing truism that a gardener’s gaze is the best fertilizer for any growing space, which is so much easier to oblige when the skies aren’t bucketing.
I thought I’d share a few of my rewards for wandering the soggy garden:
Showy milkweed (Asclepius speciosa) in fall.
Fat milkweed pods which I bring indoors to watch the dimpled capsules split to reveal tidy rows of nut-brown seeds attached to flossy filaments — the sheen on that floss just slays me. Every few days I check on their progress in the garden and discover the seeds have launched with the intention of doing it all over again next year. That floss, or technically pappus, helps carry generations of seed to a hospitable patch of soil, however in the case of my indoor pods, it’s usually a sign to get out the vacuum.
The winter-blooming Algerian iris (Iris unguicularis) ©Lorene Edwards Forkner
The first slug-gnawed blooms of the Algerian iris have arrived, buried deep in the plant’s clump of bulletproof evergreen foliage. I really should cast some Sluggo around. Last week I cut a magnificent stem of a bearded iris blooming out of season and brought it indoors. Every morning is a meditation on the slowly unfurling blossoms, wine and gold in the garden, fading to rusty mauve and butterscotch indoors.
Fall blooming bearded iris.
Nearby, modest hips dangle on the delicate stems of my young Rosa glauca, in contrast to the buxom fruits and burly, brutally prickled stems of the established rugosa roses.
The first precocious sweet violets have arrived; even a tiny posy of these few stems fills my office with their powdery sweet, nearly cloying but heavenly perfume. Various clumps of the hardy geranium ‘Rozanne’ are producing yet another flush of cobalt blue blooms – my word that plant goes on and on and on.
The first ceremonial posy of sweet violets.
Also noted, the volunteer Cerinthe seedlings are up. Several will no doubt succumb to winter but past years have shown that the hardiest will survive to add their shrimp-like, aquatic blue blooms to the spring garden.
A carpet of nigella seedlings forms a green haze between the knobby tubers of the iris and I can always count on the fresh green blades of muscari foliage to show up around now, including those that grow in a crack in the pavement at the foot of the front steps.
Hallelujah, hose season has passed and tending tiny sprouts under lights is still months away. Inside and out my workbenches are quiet and swept as clean as they’ll ever be awaiting the influx of my scented geraniums to shelter over the winter. Tools are stashed in the shed.
Tis the season of insect (and gardener) diapause – a time to rest. I don’ have the benefit of (or constitution for) a blanket of snow to muffle insistent garden tasks but I can count on the clustered blossoms on Viburnum x bodnantense ‘Pink Dawn’ dispensing their spicy fragrance from now until late March. And for that I’m very thankful.
I love how your autumn garden narrative captures the essence of tending to nature’s gifts, like those fat milkweed pods. It’s a beautiful reminder of the Drift Hunters simple joys in gardening. Have you ever considered incorporating unique plants from this article!
Lorene, you deserve your beautiful fall rewards.
I enjoy every minute, of course especially those moments when it stops raining and the sun comes out — like today!
I loved this. Thank you.
Thank you Jill. The autumn garden is generously independent after the tasks and maintenance of spring and summer.
Enjoyed reading this and I love the water color paintings. Did you do those? I’m gonna give it a try.
Thank you Luttrell. Yes, I’ve been painting color studies for about 8 years now. It’s another way that I can connect with my garden and helps me pay close attention. I highly recommend the practice!
This is a delightful read, full of relatable gardener woes and unexpected rewards. The imagery of baptizing passersby with raindrops and seed burrs is particularly vivid. I feel your pain with those bulb shipments – it’s like they’re playing a game of Basket Random with our planting windows!