Last weekend’s rain set everything right in garden world. I was beginning to get into some serious fretting.
I still have not had a hard killing frost on the property. The wax leaf begonias nested into a covering of fallen maple leaves is particularly beautiful.
The Bloomerang lilac is reblooming. A nice little shrub with both small leaves and blossoms, it is a nice addition to the front of a shrub border. It doesn’t get more than four feet tall.
Like all lilacs, it blooms on old wood so pruning should be done carefully. Another striking shrub right now is Callicarpa. Also known as American beautyberry, it is covered in fall with tiny purple berries.
There is a striking one next to a winterberry between Vineyard Gardens and the drive-thru of the West Tisbury bank.
There is also a large Crape Myrtle in front of the bank with lovely bark that reflects the now low-in-the-sky autumn sun.
Fall clematis has gone to seed. I do an aggressive cut back as it tends to be quite invasive. Regardless, it is very nice with a jasmine aroma when in full bloom.
I like to avoid the terms hack or whack when it comes to cutting but for once, the words apply. The vine always comes right back in spring.
This week’s Veterans Day reminded me of the 1918 poem about the poppies in Flanders Field. Let me refresh everyone’s memory.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
-John McCrea
For years, growing up, we wore a little cloth poppy on that day.
Poppies are an interesting plant. There are several types. The red ones mentioned in the poem are an annual that tends to replace itself over the years. Trying to grow them in a traditional way never tends to work. They loathe being transplanted. I simply gather some seeds after early summer bloom and toss them about willy-nilly.
I have some in the vegetable garden paths every year. For the life of me I have no recognition of the original ones.
The men in my family were veterans. We have a documented ancestor who was killed in the Civil War.
My 21-year-old Dad and his brothers all went to the local recruiting office to sign up the day after the bombing of Pearl Harbor.
Dad joined the Navy. We often joked with him since he couldn’t swim.
One of his ships was torpedoed and limped into Casablanca.
Then off he went to the Pacific. He watched, with binoculars in 1945 from on board a mine sweeper, the surrender of Japanese Emperor Hirohito, to the Allied forces.
Fast forward to my anti-Vietnam War activities in the late sixties. Never once did I hear a fellow protestor call fallen veterans “suckers and losers” but here we are.
Hopefully sanity will prevail after the midterm election. Hope springs eternal.