Dormancy.

It’s one of the things we take for granted, in the gardening world, unless we’re in the tropics. Maybe even in the tropics there is dormancy that reveals itself to a knowing eye.

But when you think about it, dormancy is miraculous. Something dies, and we expect it to rise again. Have you ever considered  what it is involved in taking that for granted? Maybe that’s why gardeners are more trusting in nature than the general population.

In an annual, dormancy has an aspect of transfiguraiton: the plant starts from a small  hard grain,

amazingly sprouts a soft green substance many times its original size,

and then, against all reason, continues to get bigger and create yet another variation: a flower.

And if that flower gets pollinated – and it has all sorts of tricks to make sure that happens – its soft, flimsy zygotes undergo a change, a change that brings them back to that hard little grain that started it all.

Although it is kind of a chicken and egg question, whether the seed is the start of things, or whether, in some dimension of time, a plant just had a mad whim to flower and fruit, instead of going on the same old way, like algae, dividing cells and dividing cells.

Bruce Lipton, the renegade cell biologist from Stanford, says that when cell conglomerations get large, they can choose to make communities, where some cells have special functions. Our own bodies are cooperative communities of trillions of cells.

Plants are also cooperative communities. Having had the privilege of seeing mitosis under a microscope – my mind got expanded to an airy thinness in that tiny field.  Mitosis is when cells divide, and also where they arrange themselves to take on certain work. The cells in plants, like our own cells, agreed to split up the tasks. (“OK: I’ll make a leaf bud. And I’ll mostly do photosynthesis, but I’ll do a couple of other things on the side. I like variety.”)

One thing cells do, Bruce Lipton says (and this is why he’s a renegade, though no one has been able to scientifically refute him) – one thing cells do is they respond to the environment. In fact, our own cells respond to environment, not to our DNA as the textbooks have it. DNA is just a kind of architect’s plan; we can change the plans by changing our environment: by chemistry, sound, feeling, temperature, and probably many other signals that we’re not even aware of.

Plant-cell communities also responded to their environment. At some point, they must have decided to be flexible, to roll with it, to go with the seasons. They could have decided, on the basis of winter, “Well, better keep hard and small and protected, the world’s obviously a hostile place for growth.”

And, in a sense, they did. For a time, they did decide that. But they also decided to respond to the expanding warmth of spring, when it came along.  And to the long days of summer. They kept their options flexible. Annuals allowed hard impermeability to last only for the season where it serves a purpose. They turned what might have been a killing hardship into an extravagant magical display: now you see it, now you don’t.

And perennials, those plants that get ever dearer to gardener’s hearts as we go along in life. perennials decided to shed their fluffed-out leaves and honey-scented blossoms (or even their tiny leaves and scentless unnoticeable flowers). They cast off all softness and extravagance – so they can get bigger next year, and create even more lush fertility, more and more every year.

Honestly? I didn’t use to like orange. It was my least favorite of colors.

But I’ve reformed. And, like all converts, I’m anxious to spread the good word. If you’re still wondering which tulips to get,  allow me to offer a harvest time selection. Orange tulips can really grow on you, as you may be able to tell by my header photo (‘Apricot Beauty’ and ‘Annie Schilder’ are major players in that picture).

I was originally enticed into growing orange tulips because many of them have something extra: scent. And, gradually, I came to enjoy the orangeness for its own sake. I mean, how could you not like the full-moon tulip-bottom of Annie Schilder, above?  And how could you not like watching the daily movement of their earlier brick-orange turning into that luminescent glow?

It’s true that I started out with the soft stuff – pale peaches and apricots. ‘Apricot Beauty’ is so popular it would be a cliché – if it didn’t live up to its name so well. Like Annie Schilder, it starts out a deeper shade

and then its color lightens (I can’t say fades) to something so beautiful, so pale, so ethereal, that I used to think calling it orange was a crime.

The diminuitive ‘Apricot Jewel’, a batalinii tulip, was another of my first ventures in orange. I’ve written about these tulips elsewhere, mostly because they’re so beautiful I can’t shut up about them. I’d call them more of a peach than an apricot – they’re much yellower than Apricot Beauty – but I’d rather enjoy them than quibble over the color.

I ventured into the deeper colors of orange – and the deeper scents. To my nose, Apricot Beauty has a faint scent in its earlier stages (scent is a come-on for pollinators, so once the deed is done, it tends to fade). Apricot Jewel has none. I was greedy; I wanted huge shouting fragrance and tulips in once package. A little research showed me that the logical choice was Generaal de Wet.

Generaal de Wet did not disappoint; one day, I woke, and the first thing that impinged itself on my consciousness was not “I want a cup of coffee” but “where is that smell coming from?” It was a penetrating, musky smell that came right in the house and sat down for a visit, and it was coming from the group of Generaal de Wet I’d put right by my front door.

After that, I went on to Annie Schilder (which is more fragrant to my nose than Apricot Beauty; but  milder than Generaal de Wet), and I also tried ‘Prinses Irene’, another medium-fragrant tulip (I still haven’t grown any tulip that matches the strength of the Generaal).

 I wish I hadn’t grown Prinses Irene so early in my garden-photography career, because these photos give you only some idea of how the amazing colors develop. For a good picture of Prinses Irene, fully developed with its purple streaks, go here.

But these photos do give some idea of its Harlequin-like color development and blazing backlit orange.

Once I’d been bitten by the orange-tulip bug, I kept experimenting. There was T. whitallii, a species tulip only a few inches high.

 And ‘Daydream’, a tulip that starts out straw-yellow, gets a flush of orange,

and morphs into a wild pattern of almost-scarlet and yellow.

‘Orange Favorite’ is an heirloom parrot tulip whose complicated buds burst with variations of orange.

As they open, the purple and green and cream streaks start to show, and the flagrant fragrance (to my nose, the next runner-up to Generaal de Wet) unfolds, too.

Dark tulips are great complements for orange tulips, bringing out their colors beautifully in the vase and the garden. Van Engelen has a special combining Prinses Irene with ‘Purple Prince’, a combination I keep meaning to grow, but haven’t yet. (By the way, if you’re interested in knowing which are the best catalogues, in my opinion, you can take a look at the first of my five-part series on bulb catalogues. Oh yes, I take my bulb shopping very seriously indeed. And if you want the best in resplendent beauty, so should you.)

I tend to grow the black-purple tulips, ‘Queen of the Night’ and her look-alike consort, ‘Paul Scherer’. (For more on them, you can check ‘The Black Tulips”.)

But along with the deep richness of  dark tulips, I’ve also opened my heart to their brighter, glowing orange cousins.

Some might wonder why I’m putting up a post on PLANNING gardens in late summer. Personally, I think late summer is an ideal time for planning a garden: the facts of what your garden did (or didn’t do) are  fresh. Roadside stands are still selling the fruits and vegetables you want to grow next year. The taste of what you want is in your mouth.

Kitchen gardens are not my area of expertise, so only the picture is mine.  Marco from Live to Garden  believes in small, manageable kitchen gardens that are easy to keep up and delectable to eat from. And he’s your writer from now on.

A kitchen garden allows you to enjoy the freshest, most delicious vegetables. You can grow the varieties of vegetables that are special to your area, or the ones you can’t find in the store but really like, or maybe even something you’ve heard about and always wanted to try. It’s a satisfying way to join the trend of eating what grows in your immediate area.
The kitchen garden has been around for quite some time. These gardens became popular during the World Wars, where most of the food grown in these gardens was sent overseas to soldiers in battle. You can see that from the beginning, the kitchen garden were meant to do good for us gardeners. In more modern times the luster of this type of gardening has faded as we can now buy all of our food from grocery stores. But now, high prices and lack of environmentally friendly farming practices has made growing your own food popular again.

Let’s look at how to plan for your kitchen garden.

If you have done some research on these types of garden plans, you may feel overwhelmed by how large these gardens can appear. You may even feel that in order to achieve the best success, you may need a large kitchen garden. Do not fret. The best thing for you to do is to start with a small, manageable kitchen garden.

If you are starting from scratch it is important to ensure you have clean soil and you have weeded. Any weeds left in the garden may harm the vegetables as they grow. Next, select only the vegetables you want to grow. Choosing the vegetables that you know you will use is an excellent way to start planning your garden, as you will be more inclined to care for it. It is also important to include herbs as landscaping plants in your garden, as these plants protect the vegetables from pests, and when they flower they add a touch of beauty. Of course, herbs also work very well as seasonings for many of the foods you will be eating with the vegetables you grow in your kitchen garden.

When it comes to positioning your kitchen garden, place it close to the house. If it is too far away from your home you may find yourself less motivated to tend to the garden. You may also find that because the garden is too far away, you will have a more difficult time monitoring the progress of the vegetables.

Remember that in order for your garden to achieve the most success, your vegetables will require at least 8 hours of sunlight per day.

The size of your kitchen garden depends on several factors: who is eating, how much they’re eating, and what vegetables you want to grow (squash can take up a lot of room).  If you are just starting a kitchen garden, it’s important you keep the garden to a size that is below 25′X25′.  That way, the work is kept to a minimum and the fun is at a maximum.

If you are concerned about pests, place a garden fence around the garden.

In order to properly care for your kitchen garden, be sure that you check the plants twice weekly at the very least. When seedlings are young, or the weather is extra hot, you may need to check more often.

Your kitchen garden will bring you much happiness and excellent nourishment. Take care of your garden and it will definitely take care of you.

I love the rhythm of tall grasses, bending in the meadow.

Gardeners could take a lot of tips from the way nature has arranged this meadow.  There’s not a clunky note in there, unless you count the power lines.

I’m a bit ashamed to say that I can’t identify this flower, which I spent so much time photographing. So I’m going to quickly move to emphasizing what a beautiful job this natural planting does, of providing interest close up

at a short distance

and in the broad sweep.

Pink and pink-purple colors are repeated in this late-summer landscape. Perennial sweet pea*, Lathyrus latifolius,  glows against the green and gold of the grasses. It grows in my area, too. But here in the higher altitudes, it takes on a delicate character absent where I live. It probably dies back in the snow, and doesn’t have the chance to become the tangle of lianas that wild sweet peas become in the foothills. (I once saw a puppy play tug-of-war with the lathyrus in our area: the lathyrus won.**)

The same situation applies to this Sierra thistle, Cirsium californicum, which provides a nice feeding place for bees but doesn’t seem to be taking over the meadow, the way thistles in my own area would.

These fetching little vetches, lower than my ankle,  are making a tiny landscape of their own, interwtined with the grasses. At least I think they’re vetches; I haven’t been able to properly identify them.  (It might be meadow hosackia, Lotus torreyi,  but the typical coloring of meadow hosackia is lighter.) In this plant, the typical pea-family flowers start yellow, then deepen into  tinges of red as they age.

Wetland meadows are probably not the first thing you think about when you hear “high Sierras”. And there’s a reason for that: most of the Sierras are seasonally dry; the vegetation runs from chapparal to sagebrush to red fir communities – and when you get to the timberline, the vegetation runs to rock and very small plants.

Most of the Sierra wetlands I’ve seen have been little pockets, tucked in among the dry clay and granite landscapes that are our usual summer fair. I’ve seen little fens on the side of a long, dusty road;  tiny oases by the side of a lake; and this more unusual wetland meadow, where, as you can see, dry sagebrushy land is not far off.

There’s an important lesson in this for gardeners as well as naturalists: take advantage of your microclimates and – I just made this up – microtopography. Gardeners can get ideas from landscapes like these. If you have a wet spot in your garden, what about making your own little pocket meadow, using wild plants from your own area?

*  Perennial sweet peas (or at least L. latifolia) aren’t actually sweet; they don’t have fragrance.

**Granted, it was a very small puppy. But still.

Some of you may already be thinking, well, that’s obvious: through transpiration, plants give off oxygen, and they take in our carbon dioxide waste.

That’s true, and very important, but that wasn’t what I meant. What I’m talking about is the circulation of air in the garden.

For someone like me, who wants to cram as many kinds of plants as possible in a small place – somehow being artistic about it – the idea of air circulation came gradually. But if you see certain plants dying or just being morose all the time, you start to wonder.

Finally I read (probably in Graham Stuart Thomas, purveyor of articulate, observant, and good-humored rose information) – finally I read that roses need air circulation. They need air flowing all around them to thrive. So if you cram them in with plants of a similar height, after a while, they start looking cheesey.

They need more air.

When I thought about it, I realized that our wild roses grow with maximum air circulation. They form huge mounds, but those mounds of roses are dotted throughout a meadow – air circulation in between the bushes, and air circulation through the meadow (you only find California wild roses in clear areas, or areas that have once been cleared).

When I found out that my lilies weren’t doing well because I had too many tall plants mashed in with them, I changed my planting habits – and got more flowers and healthier plants. Lilies like their roots cool, so covering their ground with low plants is a good tactic. And this, too, is how I’ve seen lilies grow in the wild: most often in low ground cover or thick duff (the wilderness equivalent of mulch).

Mediterranean plants, such as herbs, like a lot of circulation, too. That makes sense when you consider they are basically chapparal plants, dotted over a stony landscape, often on slopes, where air circulation is even better.

Knowing how plants grow in the wild gives us useful clues about how they’ll do in our gardens – and incidentally, helps us know our plants better. If you have plants which are mysteriously languishing, you might consider giving them a little air.