There is still time and happiness.

As we all know, good flower gardens take time. Hours. Days. Weeks. Seasons. Years. Lives.

Add it up: Winter evenings bent over seed catalogs and garden magazines. Spring working the soil and planting. Summer weeding and watering, wandering and wondering. Autumn contemplating the results. What worked and what didn’t? Winter returns. More seed catalogs and garden  magazines. Rinse and repeat.

Good flower gardening requires all that. And more. Ask any bride, or new gardener: Something old and something new, something borrowed and something blue. Maybe delphiniums, asters, columbine, bell flowers, lobelia and globe thistles.

But starting over – we moved to our new house and garden about a year ago – is a different matter. As one of the accompanying picture shows, our original, new-house January landscape was depressingly bare. And it only got that way after three guys spent most of two days hauling off weeds, vines, garbage, busted pieces of  cement, and yes, of course, two claw-foot bathtubs. All that from an urban Jeffersonville environment carefully gardened for maybe 20 years, then totally ignored for three more. A thriving mess. I recently came across that January picture while scrolling back through time and place, and it just stuck with me, having given up about 50 years of gardening and gardens at our previous home – a necessary move – to begin over again.

With that!

Some of the old place came with us

I had replaced two rows of repetitive peonies last autumn and brought in a bunch of day lilies. Also moved in a few hydrangeas. A fine artist named Beige Price had painted a wonderful landscape mural – with house – as a new home for our Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. There was an established ginkgo tree – and thank God for that. And a couple skinny, poorly-placed magnolias. a few walking stones. But not much else a guy could hang a garden hat on.

Have I mentioned that original, grim backyard picture? I didn’t remember it being that bare.

My solution. I just went all landscape palette. Listened  to my inner gardener, that nosy, noisy creature that doesn’t like January. I went color shopping, starting over again. It all began growing flower seeds indoors, the March Cure for January, ah, blues. Marigolds in all sorts of zany colors, zinnias in all sort of colors and sizes, purple-leafed dahlias with bright cardinal-red flowers coming.

But here’s the deal with dahlias

Once planted outside, it’s taken them a couple months to flower from seed. But then you can dig up their tubers and just plant them next spring, a much quicker flower process the second time around. And the third. Indeed, my newly-planted-seed dahlias are just now beginning to bloom in August, but what a needed show long after the day lilies have called it a season.

I’ve also been growing a lot of geraniums of many colors, all from nurseries and box stores. I’ve happily got them blooming in showy red, white, pink and coral along the sidewalk. The trick is place those flowers in six to eight hours of sunshine with feet moist and mulched. They just keep on giving until the first hard frost, carrying the color load as our perennials step up, then out.’

Progress progression

It all comes with the new garden.

As I shopped for plants this spring, all I cared about was size and color. I stuffed the taller growing plants well over into a sunny corner, including hibiscus – talk about color – and colocasia and alocasia, often commonly called “Elephant Ears.”  They offering astounding, multi-hued leaves and shapes, enjoy moist soil in partial shade, and are about as far away from January as a plant can be. My lower growing plants went in front, the purple heucheras, lacy coleus and spring-flavored hellebores in the shade.

I thought I had inherited a thick crop of daisies from the previous gardener and that turned out to be true, their white flowers with gold centers pushing on and up in the mid-summer heat, and none the worse for wear.

By June and July, the new flowers had taken over, creating as fine a garden as we had ever grown, shouting at us through the back window, onto the back steps, get out here and check us out. We would find ourselves sitting in chairs on the back porch, beneath the gazebo, looking out across the decorated yard.

We had forgotten how much we had done – our flowers had done – until the recent day I was scrolling through old pictures and saw our back yard in January, lifeless and leafless, empty pots and bare limbs.