It is pouring rain today, so there's nothing much to do in the garden. I transplanted a bunch of annuals including phlox, lobelia and pansies into the garden beds on Saturday and now they're drowning. But one thing I've noticed about plants is that they really don't seem to mind the rain at all. In fact, a good soaking usually gets things growing by leaps and bounds. So while we humans don't much enjoy this kind of weather, the garden will love it.
All the same, a few warm sunny days would be nice, too.
Finally, a sunny day. I went out and checked the garden this morning, as I often do, and noticed lots of action in my seed beds. I thought I was going to have to replant a lot of things, but no. The nasturtiums (a wine colored variety) are finally up, as are the mignonette and a few godetia. And in the 'wildflower' section where I scattered a packet of one of those seed assortments for shade, there's certainly a lot of action, although it's hard to say what any of it is yet. In any event, it's good to see things growing after so much cool weather.
In other news, the wallflowers are finally starting to bloom. They've had buds on them for a month, but as the plant is extremely cold hardy, it seems to be good at biding its time. One plant has pure yellow flowers and the other is an orangey-yellow mix. They're supposed to be fragrant, but faintly so. Otherwise, the rain did a number on the annual phlox that I put out on Saturday, but the lobelia and pansies are looking good and the jacob's ladder is going to be out any day now. Now it remains to be seen how much the rest of the puny perennials will fare. I'm still worried that my part sun bed isn't really getting enough sun...
Calamity! A freak late May snowstorm has wreaked havoc on the perennials. Yes, it's true. We went to bed Friday night in 50 degree temps and woke up Saturday to discover that a torrential rainstorm overnight had turned to heavy, wet spring snow by early morning. We awoke to the eerie sound of silence interspersed by occasional drips. Glancing out the window, it looked at first as if rain was still coming down but we soon realized that the heavy silent rain was actually snow, and it had accumulated an inch or more already. I went out to inspect the damage.
It was quiet but drippy and the back garden was strangely altered as the verdant green grass under the trees contrasted with the pure white snow of the open areas. The trees were laden and the lilac bent down to the ground along with all the other shrubs, and alas, my giant valerian plant whose inch-thick main flower stalk was not just bent but broken. The feverfew was similarly abused, as were the phlox and lobelia. There was not much to say. I gathered up the valerian bud and put it in a vase on the porch where perhaps it will still open. But the plant itself has been smited and while it will recover, it will never again be the massive presence it once was. So it is with gardening.
That afternoon, we took a walk around town to survey the damage elsewhere. Although devastating to new growth and overgrown shrubs alike, the spring flowers did look beautiful in the melting snow. And by late afternoon, it had cleared and warmed considerably. For the rest of the week, we have only warmer temps and increased sunshine, all of which should go along way toward balming the garden's various wounds.
The garden seems to have mostly recovered from the recent snow, and in fact, you'd hardly know that anything happened. Everything seems to have bounced back pretty well, with the exception of the irreparably broken. But now there's a new calamity, if you can call it that. I had planted a number of bulbs -- purple/rose dahlias, red and white glads, and a whole batch of anemones -- up on Solar Hill in what I thought was my garden plot. My upstairs neighbor, who is much enamored of her organic gardener boyfriend, has been letting him garden her plot up on the hill, which is adjacent to mine. But they decided they needed more room for his grand experiment, and so, as she explained to me sheepishly last night, they had annexed my spot without asking me. Did they dig up all my beautiful bulbs, I asked? Yes, she said.
I was crushed. Couldn't even talk to her. Don't want to talk to her now. But I realize that this, of course, is the way of the world. If you want to keep something, you better be there looking after it, or you can be quite sure that someone else will covet what you have and make off with it. It's how people are. Or so I think in my bitterness. But I've made peace with the incident, and in future, I will confine my gardening efforts to such patches of earth over which I have direct control and supervision. That way, when I plant exotic and expensive bulbs, I know that I have at least a chance of seeing them into maturity.
The last few days have been perfectly beautiful, in sharp contrast to the previous weeks. All of nature seems to have perked up with the sun, from the birds and the bugs to the chipmunks and the squirrels. My time in the garden allows me to really enjoy the miracle of the season, the air humming with insects and alive wih the calls of the birds. Being near a woodland, we have battalions of blue jays, cadres of cardinals, as well as a mixed flock of mourning doves, goldfinches, robins, sparrows, and starlings. None of them seem to mind me being around. Our chipmunk is back, and has been boldly patrolling the yard with his cheeks stuffed with whatever it is he eats. I hope he's alert. Usually, the mere sight of me weeding is enough to bring the neighbor cat, who I call Snootchie, strolling down from the hillside from her bird-watching outpost to see what I'm doing out there and to have her little head scratched. Eden could not have been more peaceful or harmonious, or so it seems.
You may have noticed that I haven't mentioned the garden itself. That is because it is in its awkward phase. Not that nice things aren't happening. The wallflower, for instance, that I planted from seed last summer, is now huge and covered with fragrant yellow and bronze blossoms. The lady's mantle is enormous, the lysimachia tall and handsome, and the sage (another seed-grown specimen) almost ready to bloom for the first time. 
Since the perennials aren't quite there yet, and the annuals are still a little spare, I'm really glad the wildflowers are there to lend a hand. We still have loads of blooming periwinkle and white and purple violets dotting the hillside, while the celandine adds a touch of color to the 'morning sun' bed. Best of all, the dames rocket is getting big rather suddenly, and should be blooming soon. Even the odd dandelion looks cheeky and festive, sticking up in odd spots wherever it's decided to grow. As you might have guessed, I like wildflowers, and always let them have their way. Our lawn is mostly weeds, but so much more interesting to look at than real lawns, with its tiny groves of purple flowering ground ivy, bugle, speedwell, and other frequently despised plants. I let it all grow, except for the competitive weeds in my flower beds, which I remove as soon as they get big enough to be troublesome.
I got a couple new plants at the farmer's market on Saturday. I can't tell which I like better, the native columbine with it's orangy-red spurred flowers or the more exotic pulmonaria which I've coveted for it's sheer weirdness in other people's gardens. I'm building a shade bed, slowly because I'm a little out of my element here. I'm afraid it's going to be a rather mixed bag, with everything from miniature pansies for the sunnier side to tuberous begonias and coleus for the really shady back corners. I wish I'd started some forget-me-nots this year, but you can't have everything. In any event, this plot is starting to take shape. By June, I should have everything in the ground, and then, as with any garden, we'll have to see.
Memorial Day was such a pretty, quiet day that gardening seemed to be an irresistable draw and so that's what I did. I managed to get the columbine and pulmonaria in the ground, where they look very pretty together. After that, I planted all the rest of my annuals. If we get another frost now, I don't know what I can do about it. I'm guessing that we won't, so in went the torenia and coleus in the shade bed, and the basil in the sun bed. Then it was seed time, since only a few of the ones I planted in early May came up. So I planted more sweet peas, godetia, a couple dragon's head, some more borage, a patch of asters and malcolmia, and a whole lot of chamomile. It remains to be seen whether anything can come up in that heavy soil, but again, we shall see. Seeds don't last forever, and I'd rather try them and fail, than have them just get old and stale waiting around for perfect conditions. Some of the seeds I've planted are 3 and 4 years old, so I planted a lot since I can't guarantee viability.
As has become usual for me, the night after I planted all those seeds and seedlings, we had another wild weather event. In short, we were awakened at 3:15 AM by an incredible downpour along with thunder and lightning such as I haven't experienced in years. It felt a bit like being in a war zone, with the crashing and rumbling of thunder around us, and lightning flashing on all sides. The rain kept up at the torrential level for maybe an hour before tapering off. I finally fell asleep again to the sound of the first morning birds, who were probably wondering what hit them. To my amazement, the fragile new plant starts were not nearly squashed, although who knows what happened to the seeds. I hope they didn't all wash away. I've heard it said that this is an El Nino year. So far, I can believe it.
