Small Garden

A small garden forces one to choose. If I had a big garden, I could develop a separate gardens for different ideas or purposes. I could have a vegetable garden, a rose garden, a silver garden, a blue garden. I could have a “Fire and Ice” garden, a “Mist” garden, a garden of rhythm. There could be a garden of mounds, a rock garden. As it is, I garden in a back yard of irregular shape, about 15 x 45 feet, and a front yard that is of similar size. Although there are three distinct areas (four if you consider the five-foot side yards) to garden in, none is large enough to really indulge my gardening ideas. So I have to prioritize. I tend to try small vignettes of ideas in random areas of the garden, and the result is that the garden is a hodge-podge of ideas. Each vignette may or may not work, and not only is it a lot of work to change an entire garden if I made my entire garden one scheme, but it would be all too visible.

I love to trial plants, and I don’t collect from a single genus, not to mention species. There are some people who just grow roses, or hellebores, or hostas. Sometimes I wish I could be one of those. But what would I choose? I sometimes dream of taking the entire garden out and planting a collection of lavenders. I could have not just the standards - ‘Provence,’ ‘Grosso,’ ‘Hidcote,’ and ‘Munstead,’ but I could try lavenders like the silver leafed ‘Mitcham Gray’ or the soporific ‘Sleeping Beauty.’ I could delve into the Spanish lavenders, which although borderline here, could be fantastic. I’ve been longing to grow the dark purple L. stoechas ‘Helmsdale.’

But where would I grow other obsessions, like Madame Isaac Pereire rose, or the agastaches, or dianthus? Hmm, a garden with a background of rosemary and a foreground of dianthus. That would be nice...

Then, of course, there is the whole issue of how much work it would be to take out what is there now, in order to implement the new scheme. Could I bear to take out the oaks that were planted four years ago and are finally getting some height? Or the Desert Willow (Chilopsis linearis) that is finally tall enough to provide some shade? Do I have the energy to take out the four sizable Apache Plume (Fallugia paradoxa)? What about the Claret Cup cacti (Echinocereus troglochidiatus) that I grew from seed six years ago? Do they just get tossed? What gets eliminated are living creatures, and not just living creatures, they are memories. I can't change my whole scheme every year.

Right now, I’m trying to stick to predominantly native plants in the back yard. Not only do they grow vigorously without irrigation (and I get only something like 8-10” of precipitation a year), but they provide a connection with the view of the mountains, which are naturally covered in these plants (just not in the density that’s in my yard, not the variation that’s in my yard). Also, I’m trying to connect the exterior to the interior, which is, well, brown.

What this does is make me decide. Is it more important to have a spring garden of fragrant dianthus or is it more important to have a fall garden of Agastache? How much do I want to water? Just how important is it to have native plants? How much variability can I have and still have a garden? What color or colors do I need to have. Since I have a small garden, I don’t have the luxury to indulge all of these ideas, and I have to choose. It’s not easy. It forces discipline. Most of all, it forces me to limit my wants.

Reverse

It’s funny how the design process is the exact opposite from the process of gardening when it comes to plants. When I was planning my garden, sure, I started with flow, and utilization of space, but when it came to the plants, I started with what plants I wanted. Here, the big issue is “how many types of plants can I put in?” and “what plants do I want?”. Then, comes the problem of “how do I make all these plants into a garden with a cohesive design?” The design process works in reverse of that. The first question is “what plant elements do I want to reinforce my design?” or “what do I want the plants to accomplish in this design?” Then the next question is “what plants are there that satisfy those needs?” There is very little or no room for “fun” plants that have no purpose, or those that don’t fit the design. Although that difference in process could make the difference between “fun” and “work”, I actually enjoy both processes.

Spring Cleaning

Despite the blustery winds, I had to do some spring cleaning today. It was the first time in weeks that I had a whole day to myself, what with the remodeling in the house, work, and family visiting from out of town. The remodelers had brought a huge dumpster which looked ridiculously oversized for the two-bathroom remodel that I’m doing, and they gave the okay to put in some garden refuse.

There is something so satisfying about spring cleanup. Certainly there are the old comparisons and commentaries about life: the new life springing up from the remains of the old. I love seeing the fresh growth just starting, and the spring cleanup allows that growth to be seen. Clearing off last year’s growth from the herbaceous perennials and the hard-pruned shrubs feels like a new start.

I’d love to have a garden of herbaceous perennials where everything dies back to ground level in the winter. With simply a background of evergreen hedge, the garden would be desolate for the long winter months, but how glorious the sight of new growth in the spring. Then, with all the plants starting from the same level, looking all the same, they would develop over the months to a glorious tapestry of varied color, texture and structure. In the fall, they would return again to the same starting point.

I suppose that the English border gardens do this. I’m reading about the gardens of Gertrude Jekyll right now, and it is amazing how she combines plants in those borders. To create that balance of color, form and texture is pure genius.

Here in Albuquerque, there are plenty of plants that would fill the requirements in such an herbaceous border, although they would be different than those of the English, as I’m sure you can imagine. Agastache, Penstemon, Tulips, Eremurus, daylilies, the list is long.

A step up (in the sense of height, not of value) from the ground-level winter die-back of herbaceous perennials would be a garden of woody perennials and subshrubs. These would also have the winter return to the same level, but instead of ground level, this would be a basal framework. Again, a variety of plants could be utilized in this type of planting: Caryopteris, Perovskia, Lavender, Artemesia ‘Powis Castle’, grasses. This type of garden would have more winter interest, but a less dramatic spring entrance. It would have a similar sense of winter monotony followed by the development of individual characteristics in the summer.

I suppose that these gardens are again a metaphor for life. We all begin in the same place. We all end up the same. What we do during those frenetic days of life differs vastly, and although some catch the limelight more than others, there isn’t one that is valued particularly more than the other. Each supports the other, and shows the qualities of the other by its grouping.

Fade to Green

The red winter tones of Euphorbia 'Red Wing' change to a dark olive when spring arrives.

It has been an ongoing challenge for me to find plants with dark colored foliage. What I’m looking for are plants with color to their foliage (such as red or purple) throughout the growing season, and, if I could wish for more, retain some color throughout the winter as well. That’s a high bill to fill. What I find, more than not, is that the plant with the promised red foliage, comes out colorful, but then fades to a muddy green, or even plain green. Sometimes the plants retain a bit of the color.

The plants that I see around town that retain color are the purple-leafed plum and the Japanese barberry. These are plants that are used over and over again, and quite frankly, I’m tired of seeing them. But they are used for a reason: they are two of very few plants that retain a dark color through the heat of summer. For it is the heat and the bright sunshine here in Albuquerque that burns the color right out of plants. Penstemon ‘Husker Red’ turns green in my garden, after emerging in the spring a nice purple-red. The grass Panicum ‘Shenandoah’ promised brilliant red color by fall, but mine stayed green, fading to brown. Even the Royal Purple smokebush leaves fade to a dull green with only a few leaves retaining a bit of purple edges, until I moved it to partial shade. I see good color in the plants of some gardens, and I wonder how they manage that. Sedum ‘Vera Jameson’ has those great purple toned leaves in the nursery, but in my yard either burns in the sun or fades to green. Maybe I’m not watering enough. I expect that to be the answer in the smokebush and the sedum, since my friend Ted in Veguita says that his “Vera” does great, and the yards where I’ve seen colorful smokebush have appeared well irrigated. Euphorbia x martinii 'Cherokee' known for purple color was being sold by a local nursery this past summer, and when I first saw it, it was a luscious dark purple. A month later at the nursery, the purple had diminished to irregular streaks. The ruby colored Eucomis ‘Sparkling Burgundy’ is barely red tinged in this climate.

In my garden, I'm still looking for great plants thatt that will retain its vibrant color through the summer in the sunny border. Salvia officinalis 'Purpurascens' holds some purple color in the newest leaves. I’ve seen Heuchera ‘Palace Purple’ retain color in shaded areas where the plants don’t burn and are kept well irrigated. I’ve heard that Penstemon ‘Husker Red’ doesn’t hold its color because it is grown from inferior seedlings rather than cutting grown from the original richly colored plant. I’ll keep my eye out for better plants. Japanese blood grass (Imperata cylindrica) performs well at UNM, with red tipped leaves that usually turn solidly glowing red by fall (though last year they didn’t). I’ve seen a neighbor’s amaranth hold on to some leafy color in summer, but most of the color was from the seed heads (though that’s something). I've yet to plant cannas, but they just seem wrong in my garden. I may someday resort to a purple leafed Japanese barberry, which is not supposed to be invasive in this climate.

Right now I’ve given up on the idea of rich red or purple foliage in the garden. I guess I’ll stick with silver foliage and red flowers, but I’m keeping my eyes open.

Plant Translation 101

One of my favorite games to play is the game of Plant Translation. It’s a game that’s most effective to play when traveling, and visiting gardens in climates other than my own, but I realize that I’m playing it when I’m reading magazines (garden related, travel, or other), or garden books. It’s simple to play, and you’ve probably already figured out how.

It goes like this: when you see a nice plant combination, especially something you hadn’t thought of, think about translating that combination to your climate. Then think of as many plants as you can that can be utilized to achieve a similar result, substituting one plant for another, or all of the plants for others. Then, when you think you have exhausted all the reasonable possibilities, or when the plant options start to degrade the design, repeat the process using another climate. Of course, I generally translate the scenes I see into plants that would work in Albuquerque. I try to come up with at least three options, but sometimes the options get up to twenty or more. It all depends upon how close the original combination is to the plants that grow well here.

Here’s an example. I’m reading (again) the book Beth Chatto’s Gravel Garden. There’s a beautiful scene where a bold silvery spire of Verbascum bombyciferum, the purple-pink globes of an allium, and the silver and white of a white flowered Helianthemum stand out against a dark green background. Now I realize that these plants can all be grown in Albuquerque (although the green background wouldn’t be Ceanothus as it appears in the photo). It probably wouldn’t need all that much water. They even sell similar Verbascum and Helianthemum at nearby nurseries. But let’s translate this scene to other plants, perhaps looking more like New Mexico, perhaps not.

Realize, first of all, that the impact of the scene comes from several layers. There is the impact of the bright silver and white against the dark background. Then there is the fine texture of the Helianthemum against the large bold leaves of the Verbascum. The Allium is a bit of fireworks, unnecessary in my mind, but a bit of fun. It would only last a week or two anyway, and the rest of the scene would have to hold its own. But the globes contrast nicely with the forms of the other plants, and the color is similarly cool.

Let’s start with the Verbascum, since it the least likely to be seen in Albuquerque gardens. What else has similar boldness and color? You might first think of the genus Yucca, which has bold form, but be careful of the color, which is typically olive rather than silver. The white filaments of Yucca elata might make that plant a good translation, though not as silvery. The agaves might make a better translation, being careful, again, to use the most silvery forms since forms of a single species can vary. Agave havardiana comes to mind, with the possibility of becoming much larger than the Verbascum. Agave parryi is smaller, with several forms available. Agave parrasana’s artichoke form might be even more exciting than the Verbascum. All of the Agave would translate soft touchable fuzziness of the Verbascum into the southwest vernacular of tough and spikey. Is this an effect that you want? How about something softer instead? The large silver leaves of Cardoon would work, and still give the sense of an upright rosette. Like Verbascum, Salvia argentea has bold leaves, essentially disappearing in the winter, and a bold flower stem, but branched instead of linear. The fuzzy leaves provide a similar tactile texture. Departing slightly from the original concept, Panicum ‘Heavy Metal’ would translate the Verbascum from silvery and fuzzy to blue and feathery, but would maintain the sculptural upright stance. Departing even more, consider a silvery large-leafed shrub. Are there any? Phlomis might work. How about Juniperus scopulorum ‘Skyrocket’? Obviously much larger, and finer textured, but with the upright form and silver color.

Next, lets work on the Helianthemum. It would be fine just to use a white form of Helianthemum in the design. Or this could be translated into a more local appearance by using Melampodium leucanthum (Blackfoot daisy) instead. It has a similar low form, and white flowers with yellow centers, although the leaves are more olive than silver. White zinnia (Zinnia acerosa) could also work, or even Candytuft (Iberis sempervirens) although this Mediterranean plant may look out of place in some plant combinations relying on native plants. Something with a similar stature, silver leaves and fine texture to contrast with the boldness of the upright plant could be Artemesia versicolor, which is more drought tolerant than the silvery Artemesia frigida (Fringed sage) which also doesn’t tolerate heat as well, or hold its form as well in late summer. You could also use Tanacetum densum (Partridge feather) for another fine textured low growing silver plant.

Let’s say you wanted to switch the effect, with a finely textured tall plant, and a coarser textured small plant. They you could consider Artemesia filifera (Sand sage) and Stachys lanata (Lamb’s ears). This also would be an attractive combination, where the smaller plant has fuzzy leaves that demand to be touched, playing off the feathery.

The Allium is the least important feature in my mind, because it would be so short-lived. The globe shaped flower heads are not something that is common in the plant world. At least not in this climate (what comes to mind are hydrangeas and tropical Dombeya wallichii - pink ball tree). Options include the versatile Penstemons such as a pink form of Penstemon barbatus, or the hot pink Penstemon pseudospectabilis. Against the stouter forms of Agave, there might be enough contrast. The pink disks of Echinacea or a pink yarrow might substitute as well.

Okay, now that you’ve got the idea, let’s try translating the other-worldly moss tufts of New Zealand, or the underwater gardens of Takashi Amano. Maybe for Advanced Translation. C’mon, it will be fun.

shine

Penstemon pseudospectabilis

It is no secret that I long for color in the winter. Although the foothills in Albuquerque, cloaked in the buff of winter grasses and punctuated by the scattered dark gumdrops of juniper and pinon have a romantic southwestern feel, in my garden I want color. My garden, after all, isn’t about duplicating nature. It is a collection of plants that capture my attention. It is entertainment. It is about creating a play of color and form. For some, the garden is about making paradise, a little bit of perfection, but I know better than that. I can never make perfection. The garden is always in progress, there is never a final product. There is always something to be done, something to change, something to learn, something to trial, so that a final product is never obtained. This is one of the lessons of the garden, an allegory to life. You have to enjoy the process, for if you don’t you will always be longing, and never satisfied.

So I have been walking around my front yard this past few frigid months, noticing the gaps in design. It’s not that the gaps are so horrible.

The blackfoot daisy (Melampodium leucanthum), which beautifully fills the spot in front of the “swimming dragons” stone formation with low growth and cute white flowers, does so only in the summer, and now that it is winter, the area is a weedy scraggly looking mess.

Similarly with the Chocolate flower (Berlandiera lyrata). Although its cheerful yellow flowers scent the morning air with the smell of chocolate, the plant always looks scraggly and even more so in the winter. Perhaps in a larger area, scattered among grasses and with a background of juniper and pinyon, it would be delightful, but in my tiny yard, it is a mound of untidiness.

The Opuntia ‘Santa Rita’ which can turn a gorgeous purple in the winter, is in some versions only marginally hardy, meaning that in my garden, the pads turn the translucent color of freezer burn that will turn the brown of death in the warmer months. One less purple variety, seems to be fine in my garden. I suspect that it isn't really 'Santa Rita' as the pads are oval rather than round, and they are much less vividly colored.

The trial of Snakeweed (Gutierezzia sarothrae) was partially successful in that it was precisely the correct size to cover the utilitarian post for the outdoor outlet, but was precisely the wrong color for the garden, its one spot of green in a planting of grey, and the bright yellow flowers in a garden of blue and purple, stood out like a sore thumb.

The Salvia chamaedryoidesis a brushy mound of leafless twigs.

The whole front garden has hints of color this winter that with a little tweaking could become delightful. The Penstemon heterophyllus ‘Margarita BOP’ now has a distinct tone of dusky dark purple. The Penstemon grandiflorus retains its shell-like leaves, but now the blue grey has an edge of purple. The Penstemon barbatus exists only in a tuft of basal foliage, but that has turned a maroon red. Some Penstemon linarioides have retained their blue or olive summer foliage color, while others have turned red. The Salvia pachyphylla has maintained its spathe-like leaves, in an olive-toned grey. This, along with the Yucca thompsoniana and the bare branches of Rhus trilobata form the most significant forms in the landscape, although as the rosemary grows larger, it will also contribute.

What most catches my eye now, was in the summer, insignificantly green. Now a glossy wine-red, the Eriogonum umbellatum is the star of the garden. Or it would be if it were larger. These plants have, in the last few years, grown to about 10 inches across, but less than an inch tall. The spring yellow flowers that give it the name Sulfur buckwheat are pleasant enough, and last a week or two, but the winter leaf color lasts for months and occurs at a time when little else has this color. I have only two plants now, planted as a trial under the three-leaf sumac and next to the grey Salvia pachyphylla, the color stands out.

Next to catch my eye is the purple/red tips on the Penstemon clutei. Valuable enough in the summer, the flowers come and go throughout the warm weather, in a bright rosy pink which gives the plant the common name of Sunset penstemon. Its long season of bloom gives it an advantage over the other penstemon that bloom in a mad rush for two to three weeks in the spring. Then in the winter, the blue-grey leaves develop an attention-getting flush of reddish purple in the stems, toothed edges of the leaves, and the growing points of stems. It’s hard to capture in photographs, but overall, the effect is enchanting. The locally native Penstemon palmeri does a similar change in the winter, but not as pronounced, and not in all plants.
Penstemon clutei remains a convenient size of about 18 inches, whereas Penstemon palmeri blooms at about six feet, and can be difficult to place because of its dramatic increase in size during bloom. Penstemon clutei in my garden, is less robust, however, in that older plants or stressed plants die in patches. While this adds an authentic note reflecting the harsh conditions of the climate here, sometimes it doesn’t work well in a manicured garden.

So I set out to improve my winter garden. I decided to replace the Blackfoot daisy with Sulfur buckwheat, which has similar small stature (so as not to hide the rock arrangement), but has the advantage of winter color. I would plant the Sunset penstemon to replace the frozen Opuntia ‘Santa Rita’ which although smaller, has a similar blue/purple color. I removed the snakeweed and took a trip to Aqua Fria nursery in Santa Fe.

Winter is a great time to go to plant shopping. There aren’t the spring crowds, and best of all, you can see what the plants look like in their winter forms. This is much more valuable than “seeing what the plant can do” (as people say when asking how a plant blooms). We arrived at Agua Fria just as a snowstorm was beginning. My parents, visiting from California, questioned my sanity as I jumped out of the car, zipping my down parka as I trotted to the back, where the plants are usually kept. There, the plant tables were empty. What a waste of time, I thought.

But they had moved the plants to shelters, tunnels of plastic essentially a seasonal greenhouse or “coldhouse”. I spied an Opuntia basilaris (Beavertail opuntia) so solidly royal purple that I unconsciously breathed a “wow.” In another coldhouse, I found what I was looking for. While my parent hid in the warm vehicle, I discovered that there are various forms of Eriogonum umbellatum. The regular form was looking a bit loose, as I would expect from small containerized plants in the middle of winter. They varied in color, from a dusty dull red, to the shiny glowing red that I wanted. I struggled in vain to pick the best, but soon realized that they were all good.

Next to them, were some tufted forms E. umbellatum var. humistratum and another unlabelled tufted form. These were cute as a button, a compact mound of foliage, looking like an alpine plant. I had purchased a tufted form in the summer, but when winter arrived, the fuzzy foliage turned the purplish-grey of smoldering ash. It's still attractive, if not as striking. These in the greenhouse were a glowing shiny red, as if lacquered in orangey-red. I had to have one.


Eriogonum umbellatum v. humistratum


The plant I purchased in the summer. Pretty red when wet, but when dry, the fuzz covers the red. It's still attractive, just different.

Then I went looking for the Penstemon. There were South African succulents blooming in yellows, oranges, salmons, red. I soon found the Penstemon clutei with the blue-green leaves and purplish tips. Not too far away however, were a group of other penstemon, whose leaves and stems were a bright purplish red, The color was so intense and striking, the whole plant being solidly saturated in color, that I briefly wondered if they were alive. I looked at the label. Penstemon pseudospectabilis. You may remember that I sang the praises of this plant last year, as the plants in my garden looked like a larger, darker P. clutei. The plants here at Agua Fria were wholly different. In leaf form and structure, they looked the same, but the color! I know that color is very susceptible to vagaries of climate, and perhaps they only had color like this as seedlings in 2-1/4 inch pots in coldhouses in Santa Fe. Once in the ground in Albuquerque they might not maintain the color, but I had to trial these. I realized halfway back to Albuquerque, that I had forgotten the Opuntia.

Since Albuquerque is warmer than Santa Fe, the plants went into the ground the next day. Then the snowstorm hit. Hopefully they will be fine. Upon making the changes to the garden, I realized that although the spring and summer appearance will be delightful, it may be that in the winter this garden will really shine. How strange, I thought, that I am looking forward to next winter to see it.