Redbud is the earliest tree in our garden to bloom, followed within another week or two by the dogwoods.
When stark woody limbs suddenly burst open to liberate soft, fragrant flowers, we live, once again, the mystery play of spring.
We witness sudden and transformative change initiated by some small fluctuation in the status quo. Days grow a few minutes longer; temperatures rise. The Earth tilts a bit more in this direction or that, and the winds bring a new season as every branch, bulb, seed and root respond.
It is natural magic, and needs no assistance. Every tree responds to its own cue of light and warmth while the gardener sits back with a cup of tea to appreciate the spectacle.
Redbud flowers emerge directly from woody stems. A member of the pea family, redbud, Cercis, trees store nitrogen on their roots, directly fertilizing the soil where they grow. The nitrogen is filtered out of the air by their leaves, along with carbon. Other plants can draw on this nitrogen in the soil for their own growth.
I’m becoming more aware, with each passing season, of the silent cues leading me on my own journey as a gardener. I’m looking for value when I invest in planting some new thing in the garden. How many seasons will it grow? How much return will it yield for my investment in planting?
A potted geranium will give six or eight months of interest, perhaps another season or two if you are both lucky and skilled. A potted Camellia will outlive the gardener, assuming it survives its first seasons of hungry deer and unexpected drought. The Camellia can produce hundreds of flowers in a single season, and more with each passing year. A dogwood or Magnolia tree fills the garden with even more flowers, then feeds the birds months later as their seeds mature.
Gardening, like all transcendent pursuits, may be neatly reduced to mathematics when choices must be made.
From left: new leaves emerge red on this hybrid crape myrtle; small Acer palmatum leaves emerge red and hold their color into summer; red buckeye, Aesculus pavia is naturalized in our area and volunteers in unlikely places, blooming scarlet each spring. In the distance, dogwood blooms in clouds of white.
Yesterday afternoon I planted the Hydrangea paniculata I bought one Saturday afternoon almost two years ago, while taking my mother shopping. A dozen potted shrubs were piled in front of her Wal-Mart store that late summer afternoon, reduced by half to move them. They were clearing out the nursery area in preparation for holiday stock and impulsively, I grabbed a nice one and piled it in my cart.
“What are you going to do with that?” she asked, cautiously, maybe wondering whether I intended to plant it in her yard somewhere. She is housebound now, and can’t get out to garden as she once did.
“I don’t know yet,” I responded, “but I’m sure I’ll find a spot for it at home.” And the place I found was in a sheltered spot behind the house while I figured out where to plant it. And it seemed quite content there, though it didn’t bloom last summer. And it lived through two winters in its nursery pot while I dithered about where to plant it.
And finally, with a twinge of guilt for not letting its roots spread into good earth and its limbs reach into the sunlight, I chose a spot this week on our back slope, near other Hydrangeas, where we lost some lilac shrubs and their absence left an empty space to fill. The Hydrangea will appreciate our acidic soil and the partial shade that has grown in there, where the lilac shrubs did not.
Oakleaf Hydrangea also produces panicles of flowers in May, and the flowers persist into early winter. Many Hydrangeas bloom on new wood, while others set their buds in autumn. It pays to know your shrub.
And as I plant, I can see its spindly little branches growing stout and long, reaching up and out for light and air. Since it blooms on new wood, not old, every summer it will have the opportunity to stretch, and grow, and fill its corner of the garden with large pale panicles of flowers for months at a time. Its roots will hold the bank against erosion and its woody body will welcome birds and support heavy flowers. Each branch has the power to root and grow into a new shrub, even as each flower will support a cloud of humming insects on summer days.
On March 1, 2017 our Magnolia liliflora trees were already in full bloom.
There is tremendous potential in every woody plant. They weave the fabric of the garden as days become weeks and weeks knit themselves into years. Knowing them closely allows one to choose wisely, creating a flowering patchwork of trees and shrubs that shine each in their own season, and ornament the garden, each in its own way, every day of each passing year.
When leaves turn bright, then brown, and begin to swirl on autumn’s chilling winds, leaving stark woody skeletons where our soft green trees swayed so shortly ago; we watch with confidence that spring is but another breath away.
The only constant is change, as they say. And knowing that, we know how to plan and plant to enjoy every moment.
Mountain Laurel grows wild across much of Virginia on large shrubs, sometimes growing into small trees. Its buds are already swelling to bloom by early May.
Woodland Gnome 2020
Fabulous Friday: Flowers From Wood, Forest Garden, March 2017
Visit my new website, Illuminations, for a photo from our garden and a thought provoking quotation each day.
Many thanks to the wonderful ‘Six on Saturday’ meme sponsored by The Propagator