Fragrant Afternoon Sunshine

If I had to choose only one, February's would always smell this sweet. Through the years, I have snapshot moments where this plant marks milestones.

My attraction to winter honeysuckle (Lonicera fragrantissima) began at Clemson University. Before college, I'd never run across this plant in the "sticks" where we lived in rural South Carolina. Roaming through the then Clemson Botanical Garden was a treat on chilly afternoon days when coming into contact with something so sweet brought spring into view. While I will never forget the location, it took several visits to finally identify the plant. Aromas can leave lifelong imprints.

My first house in Columbia, SC, a yard overrun and neglected for many years before me, had the largest one I'd ever seen at the back property line. I knew it was there even before I could see it.

The Riverbanks Botanical Garden sported a trimmed, espaliered winter honeysuckle wrapped around the banister leading up to the visitor's center so covered with flowers this time of year that it literally would almost knock you down with the fragrance. It was then, that I realized what this twiggy shrub could do planted in full sun. I'd only seen it growing in semi-shaded conditions and never really treated with any respect.

Today it commands attention in my Charleston garden , but not in the typical brash, uncompromising way that most winter southern color does. The invitation is like a distant memory, subtle calling, alluringly distracting.

The one, small shrub next to the entrance is so non-descript as to lurk quietly, shyly all other months, behind an invisible curtain. The chill in the air gives way to rays that warm the outstretched buds to an iridescent glow.

And while a glimpse visually reminds me that it does actually live here, it is that smell that made it absolutely necessary to give it a home.

Looking For Treasure

She approaches every moment with wonder. The last stick of marsh grass nudged along the path gets treated as if it was the first. Nature's trinkets are all appreciated at face value with no regret. A simple stroll feels like an adventure in her presence.

We both walk for miles along stretches of deserted beach. Between she and I, the sea foam rolls like tumbleweeds. Contempt is slightly noticeable upon contact.

There isn't a fondness for salt water. The edge is followed with care so as to miss the sudden crash that might wet her tongue by accident.

Her nods backwards are gentle reminders. She knows I am following behind. She allows it.

I hold the reigns, but sense she is sometimes a teacher.

This day is hers for the taking. Make the most of it. Derive pleasure at having the sea on the tip of your tongue. Spend more time rolling around in the sand like no ones watching. Its all about right now.

Suddenly she stops, sits for a spell. I follow suit.

Today's lesson for the pupil is complete.

The Future Through Jack Frost's Eyes

Like a swami wrapped in brightly colored garb, I sit before the ball and gaze into the cold, frost covered globe. "Will they survive?", passes lips. Will it rise up from the frozen abyss to once again charm onlookers? This remains to be seen. Who's to know?

Comfort comes in the confession. I too face the fate that stares back at us all.

Like any good con artist, I manufacture hope, squelch doubt and channel energy to the future.

In a trance I scream, "Opportunity awaits. Will you answer the call?" My palms ache to turn the pages, fulfilling yet another dream of floral bliss.

Our drama is at the very least a portal to a fresh start ahead.

Celebrate it. Grasp it. Explore it.

When Change Comes Calling

The epiphany came on a cold, rainy day wandering around Paris last January. The print was unrecognizable, the map, a document of little or no help to someone completely lost. Moving it closer, tilting it farther, angling it left and right didn't make it much better.

I acknowledge that change is inevitable. But when it comes right down to facing it, I sometimes duck in the back alley or scowl defiantly, refusing to move. This scenario certainly had an element of both.

The garden is no different. The events taking place this week are unmistakably blatant. The 27 year old tackled the trials of similar winter blast without hesitation. Walking through the mess today, I'm wondering where that energy is coming from to clean it up? It makes me tired just thinking about it.

I've imagined projects in this garden that will far surpass ripe old age. That's one thing that hasn't changed. What has, is the swiftness by which they are completed.

First the vegetable garden construction would be completed for the spring garden. That would be the spring of the year that swiftly passed. "Oh, I'll plant it come fall." I still haven't moved and removed everything that was growing there from the last great garden idea. I'm so ready to order seeds for the spring garden (the spring coming up in a few short months) but construction still has no begin date.

All this brings to mind an article I read several years ago, written by one of Great Britain's most famous gardeners, Penelope Hobhouse. The whole article was a reflection on her garden's transition. (wink, wink) This is code for getting old and not having the needed energy or lust to move that plant from point A to point B just one more time. Granted, the move would be just one of twenty-five since the plant's arrival to begin with, but who's counting!

She describes making changes in the garden that reflect energy levels, redesigning for ease of care, less perennials, more evergreen shrubs. The rooms don't change, just what goes in them.

I've been giving this some thought. I think she was on to something. But please be clear, I'm certainly not ready for greener pastures, but the old cart may need a little weight removed.

Change is whispering in my ear again. Sooner or later, I'll have to pay attention.

Yesterday I went and picked up those glasses. It's one epiphany I should have acted on sooner. Everything's a lot clearer today. It's amazing how big the plants look in those catalogues!

Waiting for the Rise

I was in denial. Those weather forecasters must be playing a heinous trick on our fair southern city. "Why a week of below freezing nights!" (Said in a southern drawl) Say it isn't so my friends, say it isn't so.

We hold our breath, hoping the freeze passes us by. But alas, no such luck last night where the temperatures dropped like Aunt Martha's pound cake, bam, 20 degrees, bam, bam. This morning's frosty glitz, when warmed by the rising sun, left behind a garden burned and brown, as if someone let the air out of a magnificent balloon.

I know the suffering should take place in silence, but its hard saying goodbye.

Below zero temperatures plague much of the country today and before this post has a chance to cool off, I will be "called out" about my whining from friends who only wish they could smell rotting foliage instead of shoveling snow.

It isn't supposed to get this cold, ya'll. Its the south, hot, humid and balmy. Well it certainly doesn't feel like it now.

With mournful eyes, I gaze onto limp, lifeless elephant ears, who yesterday, stood upright, reaching toward rooftops. To my delight, just last week, butterfly ginger continued to celebrate the season with fragrant blossoms in tow. Now they are reduced to pathetic skeletons waiting for the grim reaper to come take them away.

Clutching worn garden gloves raised high above my frozen ears in disgust, I access the damage done by one night. Why me? Why now? Why can't I be gardening in Miami. I hate cold.

It isn't over yet. Several nights left to go.

Our Phoenix will rise slowly from the smelly mass of mush accumulating below my every step.

Until then, I might need to find those thick woolen socks. Who ever heard of wool socks in the south........yuck!

Holding the New Year

There is nothing more promising than a bulb. It doesn't matter that the name and description is plain as day on the brown paper bag. Like a spell making me do something I have no control over, they must immediately be opened.

The very feel of them. Poured out into the palm, flecks of the outer sheath float downward . I need to roll them between my thumb and index finger. Once out, there is a musty aroma most likely resembling what I might find in a handful of soil where they were grown and harvested. It is intoxicating, alive, an experience I've relived opening hundreds and hundreds of bags just like this one.

With trowel in hand, soil is pulled forward. Drop and drag completes the ritual.

This motion triggers daydreams, expectations, vulnerability, doubt and hope.

Will the next few weeks open the window to tiny white roots?

What warm spring day will a ray of light illuminate tiny green?

Will it look like what I imagine it to be?

So many questions.

Bulbs are the promise a new year brings.

So tear open the bags. Throw them up in the air. Wherever they drop, plant them.

May the new year bring you many bouquets.

Southern Rose Takes Refuge

It is the ultimate in procrastination. Ten years ago I passed this rose growing happily out of a decaying stump. A voice inside my head tells me to pause and take a picture.

I finally listened on a sunny day this December.

On closer inspection, exposed roots, where the decayed tree has long since fallen away, lie twisted. Follow them upward and the reward comes in the form of what I think is an old timer, a China rose, Cramoisi Superieur.

It never gets any special attention, other than the passing traffic. Even then, I'd say those that really pay it any mind are tuned to a different channel.

The sweet scent is a welcome reward for my efforts. The aroma reminds me of raspberries held at close range, warmed in the palm of my hand.

The crimson glow stands out in a landscape this time of year, deeper, the feel of velvet to the touch.

It poses for a picture and moving with the breeze from a passing vehicle seems to say "I thought you'd never ask."