Mornin', Glory!

My first 'Heavenly Blue' morning glory for the summer just bloomed this morning! There's something magical about looking out the window and seeing something in bloom that you didn't know was there! Yes, I did plant it, but I've had really bad luck with morning glories, so I didn't expect it. I somehow missed seeing the vine snaking through a lilac shrub until the sky blue bloom unfurled. You can't imagine how delighted I am!

I know what you're thinking: "How does one have bad luck with morning glories?! Isn't it a seed that will grow in any soil, anywhere?" You're right. I probably shouldn't even be admitting it. But, while I hope it's not indicative of my overall gardening potential, I haven't been able to grow a morning glory to save my life! Every summer I soak the seeds and nick them with a knife and plant them in great climbing locations in full sun and crappy soil (I always plant them with moonflowers for the day-night, yin-yang effect), but about the time they should start climbing, they die. The only other summer I saw any blooms, it was so late in the season that they were frostbitten within two weeks--like these probably will be. And yes, I've tried several times to start them early indoors in peat pots (I know they don't like to be transplanted)--and I've gotten nothing, nada, zilch.

I'm usually not so persistent. I'd have given up by now on other plants, but morning glories hold a special place in my heart. My Grandma and Grandpa Key lived on a farm in Hartman, Arkansas, where I spent one or two weeks each summer growing up. They lived in a classic, old two-story farmhouse with wrap-around porches that sat way back off the gravel road at the end of a long dirt drive. They had barns and chicken coops and other out buildings just like you see in pictures of old farms, and it was a great place for us "city" kids to get a taste of country living. They had acres of crops--I'm not even sure what they grew--but near the house they had a huge vegetable garden that served as their main source of fruits and vegetables summer and winter, spring and fall. We spent much of our vacation helping with gathering and cooking or preserving their garden bounty, and I truly believe my interest in gardening started at my grandparents' farm.

But Grandma's practical nature must have precluded her from having the beauty of flowers. I don't remember that she had any at all--except for 'Heavenly Blue.' Morning glories by the dozens roped around the porch rails, up the downspouts and along the clotheslines. They blanketed the fence separating the farm from the fields, and they climbed around the old Ford truck that Grandpa only used when he needed to haul something. I loved them. I was fascinated with the little shell-shaped pod that would swirl open as the sun came up. My sister and I would use them in play, imagining tiny little faces in pale blue bonnets, or dissecting them like scientists. In early evening, I'd watch to see if I could catch them closing with their little pursed pout.

I don't remember anyone else paying much attention to them, and I recall Grandma once telling me she didn't plant them--they just came back every year on their own. My mom had told me the flowers only opened during the day, then closed at night, but I don't know if I knew they had a name. What I remember most happened one morning when I went with Grandma to gather eggs. A perfect blue bloom, worn on the craggy structure of the hen house like a corsage, greeted us. Grandma leaned in and spoke to it, "Mornin', Glory!" It thrilled me to my bones! How clever of Grandma! After that, I'd tell the glories "Mornin'!" every day. I'm sure that got old for Grandma, but she never shushed me.

It was several years before I realized the flower's name was morning glory, not just glory. Seeing them takes me straight back to Grandma and Grandpa's farm, and I'm going to plant them every single summer, whether they grow for me or not.

Felled Giants

Prairie Village, a quaint yet trendy little suburban village, is bordered by quainter and trendier Fairway, also officially known as "The City of Trees." That's what the signs say. And it's probably true, but the trees don't stop at the city line. This whole area on the Kansas side of the state line that shoulders up to Kansas City, Missouri, and is officially known as Shawnee Mission, Kansas, has more trees per lawn than probably is legal in new neighborhoods!

Until last summer, we had eight on our short acre. A huge pin oak and gorgeous sugar maple live in front, and the back had a sweet gum, silver maple, Russian olive, Norway maple, an opportunistic mimosa and an enormous hackberry. The house directly next door to the west is historic in that it was the first home, a farmhouse, built in our county (Johnson) in the 1880s. The owners have a picture that was taken of the front of the house circa 1910, and our hackberry is in the background! We're talking elderly. Many years before we were its keepers, its huge Y-shaped trunk had been chained to prevent splitting. The chain, each thick link the length of my thumb, had been swallowed by the 50-foot tree as it continued growing so that most of it was hidden within a large scar. I was never overly fond of the big guy, which contributed nothing in the way of fall color and was constantly dropping sticks. I often threatened to chop it down. But one afternoon last July, my husband Rick and son, Ryan, were at a baseball game, while my daughter Megan and I were home. Our other son, Trevor, was at a friend's house. It had started out as a hot, sunny day, but had started clouding over before they left for the game. As it became apparent a big storm was brewing, Megan and I were watching TV near our large picture window that offers a panoramic view of our backyard. Suddenly, we heard a burst of strong wind and watched as the hackberry just lay over on its side. It was a very graceful, quiet fall. The only noise was the sound of electrical surges as it took down all of the power lines in its path. My reaction to the surreal scene was palpable--I almost threw up. It was as if someone died.

Luckily, it fell into the open yard. Had it fallen toward the house, it would have done a lot of damage. When we got estimates for its removal, tree guys said we were unlucky--if it had hit the house, insurance would have paid for the repairs AND removal of the tree. Interesting perspective. As it was, we were out the megabucks it costs to remove a 100+ -year-old tree! As you may have guessed, it was having problems that we couldn't see. It seemed to be attached to the ground by only one large root--the rest had rotted, as had much of the tree's inner base. Our tree guy said it was essentially sitting on top of the ground connected by that one root! Thank God it fell when it did and we avoided a truly tragic scenario. But that's not all...

The Norway maple was the most perfectly shaped maple I've ever seen. It wasn't a maple that turned the glorious reds and oranges of fall; its leaves turned a ho-hum yellow. Even so, it was the focal point of our backyard because it sat right in the middle and had such a perfect umbrella shape. Also at least 50 feet tall, it was healthy until two summers ago. That year, it leafed out, then shortly after, lost all its leaves. We called in a tree guy, who diagnosed a girdled trunk. A root completely wrapped the base of the tree, strangling its food/water supply. (Sadly, he also realized our sugar maple in front has it, but it's not struggling yet. He thought it may have 8 to 10 years left. It's very common for maples to girdle.) He said the Norway maple may not be dead yet; we should wait until the next spring to see. Well, last spring it had only about five deformed, shriveled leaves, so when Mr. Hackberry kicked the bucket, we arranged a double funeral. So we lost two huge trees at once. Talk about the microclimate of a lawn changing! In past springs, the shade was so heavy on the roof that we could wait until afternoon to turn on our air conditioner--not this year! And my only real planting bed went from part shade to full sun, so I've been dealing all summer with the ramifications there!

Once we're out of hock for the tree removal, :) we plan to plant at least one to replace the two we lost. Rick really likes black gums. I tend toward maples. Suggestions are welcome. We're in Zone 5. Any really great trees out there?

Of Noise and Nibbles...

The din of the cicadas is unbelievably loud these days. It's something you notice when it first starts in July, but then it becomes white noise--only noticed when it suddenly stops and starts back up as it does periodically. But when I open the door to let the dogs out, I'm shocked by the volume, and I have to push Phoebe, our golden retriever/lab mix, out the door. She hates loud noises, and this is not only deafening, it's weird. It can only be described as a huge chorus of tinny humming. Thank God the bugs only make noise and leave their empty molted carcasses hanging around; they're pretty harmless otherwise. Ryan likes to collect their remains in a gallon-size baggie each year to see how many he can find around our yard. Yuck!

I'm looking out my window at some of my container plantings and something--I think a chipmunk--is eating my gorgeous sweet potato vine, among other things. I love containers, but I'm going to think hard before deciding whether to plant them next spring. They take constant watering, and the critters apparently think they're a salad bowl. I had the sweet potato planted with a glow-in-the-dark red tuberous begonia and spotted dead nettle--glorious! Then last month I found the begonia broken off at the base and now the sweet potato is turning into a mass of vine and petioles--no leaves. Another container of velvety, dark purple Supertunias with lavendar verbena and Osteospermum 'Orange Symphony' was also ravaged by something digging. A good amount of dirt was tossed--along with the osteospermum. I tried to replant it, but it was a goner. Damn the varmints!

On the other hand, my nanho blue butterfly bush is a real success story. I got it on sale in mid-July and really thought there was no way it would survive the heat being planted so late in the season. Within two weeks of planting, it was covered with flower spikes, which have continued non-stop. Even now, with many of my plants looking exhausted, it looks fresh and lush! A definite keeper.

That's where I am in my gardenology--still experimenting and learning. And I'm realizing how individualized it all is, too. For example, books and articles say this climate is perfect for 'Butterfly Blue' pincushion flower and I know quite a few people who rave about it in their gardens. But I've given it two summers in two different locations and it's bailed on me both times. Life's too short to keep messing with what isn't working, so forget 'Butterfly Blue.' I'll replace it with something else that catches my eye and hope it takes.

The Early Bird...Not

Here I am, writing after midnight again! I just can't seem to squeeze enough hours out of a day! I've always been a night person, which I drastically want to change. I think being a morning person is part of being a gardener. Up with the sun, birds chirping, dew on the leaves, coffee brewing while pulling weeds...I love the imagery until it's actually 6 a.m.! No matter how hard I try, I can't get to sleep earlier than midnight, and rarely get up before 7. With school back in session, I'm getting up by 7 a.m. to get Ryan, my youngest, off for the day, but I can't get myself moving early enough for that private, quiet time!

Weeding is on my to-do list, but I've been putting it off because of the heat. And you know that while everything else may be sluggish right now, the weeds are growing like, well, weeds! So why was I shocked when I looked out the window today and saw weeds nearly swallowing a hosta? I've got some serious work to do, so I may have to force myself to do the 6 a.m. wake-up. That way, I'll get the work done before the heat sets in. Dread...

It rained again today, so the weeds should be easy to pull. I think I'll try to sleep, hence to weed!

The Verdant Gardener

Well, I'm starting this not knowing what in the world I'm doing! I just know I've got a lot to say, and this seems to be the best way to do it. I'm a fairly new gardener on the Kansas/Missouri border, although I'm NOT a fairly new person. I've been around almost 50 years, and I'm just now getting around to doing things that I want to do. Maybe I am a fairly new person after all! I have three kids--two in college and one in 5th grade, and my husband of 26 years is a landscape architect. We're both first-borns, so we are responsible, meticulous and perfectionistic in our decision-making process, meaning we research and mull things to death! That's why, even though we've lived in this house 11 years and I've drooled and oogled over gardening books/catalogs the entire time, I've only just begun the process. I'm a Master Gardener in my head and heart, but I feel amateurish and unsure when I walk through the garden center doors. Perhaps part of that is my husband's profession. He believes there must be a PLAN before you PLANT. And, like the cobbler's children who have no shoes, his landscape is the last one to get a plan! So I'm moving forward alone, with trepidation and without direction, determined to turn our yard into the envy of...someone.

I probably also should note that my profession is writing and editing--I think I'm freelancing now, but more on that in another blog. I have edited a newsletter for a large gardening organization in Kansas City for 16 years. A lot of what I've learned about gardening has come from that connection, which brings up a good point--you learn a lot about things when you get involved and interact with others who know about those things (you're wondering why I wasn't a philosophy major in college)! Seriously, though, I want to learn from others, so I'm trying to get myself out there in the world a bit more. You should too.

It's finally raining and my single planting bed is thanking God because it knows I've given up on watering! This summer's been incredibly dry and hot, and our lawn looks like one big shredded wheat biscuit. I was watering more than once a day, but finally decided my hormones--which are challenged at this point in my life--don't like the heat. I decided to forgo 103 degree waterings, so the plants pretty much have been sucking wind.

Even before global warming--that's a Kansas/Missouri summer for you. July and August have a lot of humid, 100+ degree days, and we're always short on rain. Think prairie. Parched prairie. Our winters can have several days below zero and snow- and ice storms (though they're tending to get milder--global warming?) in December to March. We still get freeze warnings in April and early May. Nearly every spring, early bloomers, like magnolias, are zapped by frost. But if you don't have things planted by Mother's Day (mid-May), you've almost waited too long. So we have a very small window of time to get our act together (between damaging hail storms and tornado threats), hit the garden center and get it all planted! Even then, you're not out of the woods yet! Oh, no! In fact, you'd swear you're deep in the woods as you wrestle your new seedlings from the mouths of our biggest plant perils--bunnies, squirrels and deer. Many gardens here in May look like fortresses of wood-and-chicken-wire cages or plastic-mesh tents covering the tender plants beneath--definitely not a garden's finest moments.

But gardens here are resplendent in June, and that one month is the prize, the plum, for which all Kansas City gardeners toil. If you don't throw in the trowel in August, which is the most disgusting month ever invented, you may have a second chance at the "ahhhh" factor in September to early October. Then the freezes begin. It's a vicious cycle that sometimes makes me wonder why anyone here even bothers, but that month of June is the zenith, and, like the pain of childbirth, we tend to forget the rest.