Yard Art

I have a piece of sculpture in my garden. It’s a natural sculpture, not a traditional hunk of marble, chipped into shape by Michelangelo. My sculpture is made of wood, a piece of root from an ancient cedar, about my height and width, but otherwise without any human characteristics. I don’t display it prominently, in fact, it can easily be missed where it stands, slouched against the arbour. At times it makes me stop in wonder as I try to imagine the size and majesty of the tree that formed this remarkable shape. I suppose that’s its role now, like any sculpture, to cause one to pause and ponder.

Some would say that a garden is not complete without a sculpture or artwork. For many, a garden gnome might be the principal feature of their little plot, and I confess, I too own one, but he’s not easily spotted, partly because he’s not painted in garish colours, but mainly because he wanders off and I forget to look for him. Sometimes it’s months before he reappears, usually after the leaves have fallen from the shrubs. Interestingly, an internet poll shows gardeners are equally divided over whether gnomes should be welcomed into a garden.

If garden gnomes are indeed an artistic benchmark, then I’m guessing that plastic deer, fat fannies (those colourful plywood cut-outs of a person bent over weeding), or items that have served time in a bathroom would fall below the line.

A notch or two up the scale would have to be gazing balls, also known as gazing globes, rose balls, good luck balls, Victorian balls, or witch balls. The first recorded history of these hand-blown glass garden accents dates back to the 13th century where they were made in Venice.  In the 16th century Francis Bacon stated that a proper garden would have round coloured balls for the sun to play upon. I find them intriguing, but I’m happy to gaze at them in someone else’s garden.

I suppose at the top of the statuary heap would be something by Rodin, a little beyond my range, but there are tons (literally) of beautiful replicas, including Michelangelo’s David. Many are now cast in concrete and are long lasting, although they don’t look their best until they’ve attained that ancient, moss covered look.

Besides the work of the old masters, it’s possible these days to find something to suit anyone’s taste from cute hedgehogs to ancient urns, or even fascinating, but hideous, Victorian gargoyles. They make a great conversation piece but I think they look more at home lurking in a huge gothic garden than lurching off a suburban deck, unless, of course, they happen to frighten rabbits away.

Since most garden accents are not meant to have such a practical use, then placement becomes the most important factor. Smaller items are useful for punctuating an entrance or creating particular interest within a planting, but using too many can disrupt the flow and confuse the design.

A garden is enhanced by a sculpture, and many an expanse of green lawn cries out for a focal point, but a cleverly placed statue awaiting discovery at a turn in the pathway will gently delight the unwary visitor. Similarly, a magical effect is created when a piece concealed by plantings is revealed only when a breeze stirs foliage or tall grass, or when Aphrodite, framed by an archway, is positioned to emerge in the distance from a September mist. Scale, theme, and location, should be considered when choosing a sculpture for the garden.

I have in my collection of well-placed garden art (?), in addition to my old cedar root and my concrete gnome, one broken pedestal that originally supported an old birdbath; a pink cherub; a concrete fedora; a steel heron; and Albert, a small, stone figure—my favourite. Most of these were gifts, found, or simply wandered in and I haven’t the heart to dispose of them, despite their artistic merit, which I suppose is how other folk feel about their fat fannies and plastic Bambis.

Puttering Days

It’s understandable if readers assume that I must have a huge, sprawling property, the outer reaches only accessible after a day’s ride on the back of grumbling burro. In fact, it’s barely large enough to support a pair of weight conscious sheep. Since I don’t believe I’ve ever really described my garden as a whole, I should tell a little more about it. The front, like many suburban gardens, is dominated by a driveway with a narrow strip along each side. The few scattered evergreens there are surrounded by ground covers — Scottish moss, creeping thyme, and phlox. I don’t spend a lot of time on the front as it’s fairly low maintenance.

The path that leads to the back yard is bordered on the shady side by periwinkle and old evergreens and is about halfway down my someday list for rejuvenation.  The other side of the path is startlingly different, and it’s glorious — for about week each year. Just three ornamental grasses soaring from a long bed of lavender.

Through the gate at the top of the steps is where my real garden begins, the backyard. There’s a brick courtyard first, a shady corner covered by a pergola. A climbing rose on the trellis at the end further cuts down on the light, making it perfect for the tuberous begonias I grow there in galvanised pails. They swing gently from the pergola, sometimes not so gently if I’m not looking where I’m going. Watch out. They’re just a few of the far too many containers that are everywhere around the garden.

Beyond the pergola is a brick patio, a mixed perennial bed on the left with a pair of clematis on the fence. It’s old barn board and surrounds the rear garden, except it’s completely covered at the bottom end by Virginia creeper and by Boston ivy down the right side. The rear garden is about ten metres wide and thirty meters deep, and I’d hardly call it formally landscaped as I tend to scatter plants at whim, but it seems to work out. Getting from one end to the other isn’t straightforward. The most obvious pathway diverts onto the mini lawn. A right turn right instead crosses the patio and around the trellis which hides the huge rose garden (ahem) and my pond — no diving from the deck.

Find your way back onto the original path and it will take you down between flowerbeds to a cedar rail archway into the veggie garden, which also contains a couple of compost heaps, and a rabbit sanctuary. At least they think it’s a rabbit sanctuary.

I don’t seem to be growing as many vegetables as I used to, so I’m thinking — just thinking, of completely redesigning the whole area here. Retrace your steps and take the shortcut onto the dog lounging lawn and there’s a bench to sit on. This spring I took out and old shrub behind the bench. It was one of the originals and had become overgrown. It blossomed in spring but didn’t contribute much through the rest of the year. Its removal opened up a completely new area where I’ve stuck a few things in to fill the space. I didn’t so formulate a plan, but rather, I’ve given the plants an opportunity to perform and then I’ll manipulate the results. There’s definitely a lot of replanting that goes on in my garden.

Overall, I think it’s a gardener’s garden and I try to keep it interesting for as much of the year as possible, but there’s always one day when I look at it and think, yes, this is it; this is the day. Maybe it will be tomorrow — maybe not.

Treasure in my Garden

I have treasure in my garden, lots of it, but please, don't rush over with picks and shovels. Before I have to bar the gate and electrify the fence, I should clarify my concept of treasure. There is nothing remotely of value buried in my garden apart from the composted remains of numerous plants that were not as hardy as I'd hoped. The ones that are healthy can be found in any nursery or garden centre. Of these, I do have a few favourites that I'd hate to lose. But there are a number of items that I do treasure, things that I couldn't leave behind I were ever to abandon this garden for another.

I think most gardeners feel this way. A friend once wrote to me of her cherished items — a collection of rocks (just shy of boulder variety), cement planter "bowls" made in an art class, an old piece of fence from an address three moves ago, and a the hunk of barbed wire and wood from a rotted fence post, all of which she would be moving to any new address.

The treasures in my garden are similarly varied, and just as eccentric. Many are hidden from sight, but I know roughly where they are. They turn up when I'm weeding or pruning and I delight in rediscovering them. I also rediscover other items that needed to be hidden — garden show paraphernalia that is not to my taste. I don't have the heart to junk it, so back it goes, under the shrubbery.

Amongst my oldest treasures is a huge chunk of root from an ancient cedar tree, a remnant of the giants that once grew around here. It's somehow symbolic of the loss of forest and farmland within this region. The place where I discovered it has long since been swept away by urban sprawl and is now closer to downtown than the present edge of the city. Root, as I call it, has travelled with me from home to home and garden to garden. I think by now it deserves to be designated as a heritage artefact.

Beside Root, attached to the trellis, are three, nifty, glass insulators that might vanish from view for a while if  the new climbing rose stops lolling about and puts a little more effort into doing what it's supposed to do. Glass insulators aren't particularly rare, but these three came from an old telephone post on my late Grandfather-in-law's farm. I tell my wife that they might be useful in case he ever tries to reach us.

Nearby, in the side yard, are a few railroad spikes and a handful of dated nails driven into a post. I found the nails along a stretch of disused railroad track where I used to walk a dog I once knew, many years ago. They would have been used to record the date when the ties were originally laid — 1937 is the earliest.

At the corner of the pathway stands a slender piece of rock. It is, in fact, two pieces of rock, the smaller one balanced on the other. The smaller piece is a piece of weathered limestone which, when approached from the right direction, resembles a face. I call it Albert, the garden guardian, after my old dad.

Across the lawn, beneath the hibiscus, stands Gneville the gnome, a gift from someone special who believes no garden is complete without one. He is of unpainted concrete, wears a wry smile, and believes the garden is his domain. Interestingly, an internet poll lists the acceptance rating for garden gnomes at roughly fifty percent — about the same as cats. Providing Gneville stays put, and stays out of trouble, he is welcome to stay and believe whatever he likes.

There are other miscellaneous items about, including a few best described, charitably, as objet trouvé. I even have a pair of small, plastic rabbits, gifts for a pair of small non-plastic boys. The rabbits disappear for months, even years, one of them even passed unharmed through the compost heap, but they always return, just like the real ones, but with far less frequency. 

These are my treasures, as is the compost heap, and as I wander the garden I'll occasionally reflect on the nostalgia of the inert items that make up my garden. I'm sure you do the same.

I do -- I Think

They will have been featured in a number of wedding bouquets this summer, or any floral display for that matter. But right now, they're blooming in my garden and as always, they're gorgeous.

Zantedeschia or, if you prefer, calla lilies, are one of my favourite flowers, and despite their almost tropical appearance, they're one of the easiest plants to grow. I have a couple of pink varieties, but somehow it's the plain white that always stand out, particularly after sunset. Like many white flowers they almost glow in the dark, but more so because of the expanse of the spathe, which is really one large petal.

We call them calla, although the true calla is a plant called Calla palustris, also known as bog arum. It's a hardy little plant native to our northern hemisphere that will grow happily in a pond or bog garden. The flower has a similar form to that of Zantedeschia, and they are in the same family, but of a different genus. In fact, Calla palustris is the only species in its genus, whereas the genus Zantedeschia comprises six species, all of which originate in the moist soil and swamps of southern and eastern Africa.

But that’s enough of the botanical language. We all know a calla when we see one, and calla is what we calla them. I don't get to many weddings, but I've yet to hear anyone exclaim, "Isn't she beautiful, and aren't the Zantedeschia rehmannia in her bouquet simply divine?" Maybe I attend the wrong weddings.

Wedding white may be the most familiar calla, but many other colours have been created through the hybridization of two slightly different groups. The above-mentioned rehmannia have lance-shaped, green or dark green leaves. The flowers, or spathes as they are called, are typically white to pink or purple and surround a yellow spadix (oops, the botanical crept back in there).


The other group is the Elliottiana. Callas in this group generally have green leaves covered with translucent white spots. I think this is probably what I have growing beside my pond. I'm only being vague because I've had them so long I can't remember where they came from. I probably had them given to me at least ten years ago. That's how callas proliferate. It's not that they're invasive.

On the contrary, they grow from tuberous rhizomes that tend to increase in size. Leave them in the ground over winter in this climate and they're goners, but dig them in fall for cool storage and come spring you can cut the big ones in half and pass them on to friends, as in — here, take this knobbly looking thing that looks like Mr. Potato Head's disowned cousin and stick it in your flowerbed. If the friend has never grown a calla, you'll hear the "Wows" a mile away when it blooms.

Between the hybridising and ongoing tissue culture of callas, the colour range keeps expanding. There are pinks, reds, peaches, and purples with names like Pink Chiffon, Pillow Talk, Bridal Bliss, and Garnet Glow. You can see that these are being marketed to the wedding planner rather than the gardener. There's also a black calla (read dark burgundy) called Black Forest. I suppose it's best suited to the "She should never have married him" wedding.

Pots and plants

Finally, the weeds are under control and I’m getting caught up on planting. I fully intended to plant fewer containers this year, but a quick count yesterday revealed over ninety. It sounds ridiculous, although it might not appear to be that many to a casual observer because the total includes window boxes, spare pots, and odd stuff lying about the yard. Still, they all have to be watched and watered. Obsessive compulsive? Not me. It’s all the fault of hybridisers forcing new plant varieties on me, plus there are old favourites that I always have to have.

The challenge is trying to have them get along with each other in the same pot. The old rule is one trailing annual, one mounding, and a spiky plant in the middle. Not for me. There are no rules in a garden as far as I’m concerned, and there’s no reason the plants have to be annuals. I’m quite happy to grow shrubs in pots or stick perennials in the mix. Many clematis, for instance, are recommended for patio pots.

If there’s a plant that’s caught my interest this year, it’s succulents. I’m using a couple of galvanized

tubs to hold my new collection. Most are varieties of Echeveria, Sempervivum, or Aeonium. They’re often confused because varieties of each can all resemble the more familiar hens and chicks (Sempervivum), but it’s important to note that Echeveria and Aeonium are not hardy. They can, however, be over wintered as houseplants. in our climate (zone 5)

Hybridization has produced a number of fascinating forms that mix and match beautifully. The leaves form rosettes that are ruffled or wrinkled, in contrasting shades of pink, grey, and purple. I have my groups planted in a moderately fertile, loose, almost sandy soil. To prevent the lower leaves from rotting, I’ve mulched the surface of the soil with fine gravel to keep it dry. Grow in full sun for best results.

I find it helps a lot to know the conditions in which plants originated. Sometimes just the country will give a general idea. Many Echeveria are native to Mexico, so right away it’s hot food, siestas and sandy beaches that come to mind — okay, hot and dry. Similarly, Aeonium hale mainly from the Canary Islands off the coast of Africa, another vacation destination with Spanish overtones — sounds sun, sand, and sangria to me. Sempervivum, meanwhile, are found in southern Europe, North Africa, and the near east. What all these plants have in common, besides belonging to the Crassulaceae family, is the ability to store water in their leaves. This allows them to survive dry periods, but they do need to be watered well when the soil dries out.

Speaking of soil drying out, and even though there hasn’t been much chance of that lately, it’s important to remember to mulch. If there’s a patch of soil visible anywhere in my garden or in a container, it either gets a plant stuck into it or it gets mulched. Mulching helps soil retain moisture and suppresses weeds. Considering the cost of water saved, it doesn’t make sense not to mulch. In addition, organic mulch will break down and feed the soil — a horticultural win-win. It even comes in bright red for those who have a hankering for that red Georgia clay look.

Mulch is readily available in bags from the grocery store if you have a small area or in huge, more economical bulk bags for larger areas. I have one waiting in the driveway that should take care of the front yard — and maybe my lower back. 

Weed em or Weep

In many respects, it’s been a perfect spring. The cool start with only a couple of days of bloom blasting heat allowed spring flowering bulbs to appear on stage long enough to receive a standing ovation. We did have a nasty frost in May, which punished the keeners who planted annuals too early. It also severely abused one of my tender hydrangeas — ‘Big Smile’.  It survived winter under the snow, sprouted leaves in earnest, and then lost them all to the frost. Guess who isn’t smiling now.

The good news is the regular rainfall this June. Instead of having to water at every legal opportunity to ensure new stuff actually grows after I planted it, as was the case the last few Junes, I’ve been watching my rain barrels overflow. The frequent rain is tough on farmers trying to harvest hay, but at least the corn is racing skyward, as is a columbine in my garden. It normally grows to about waist height, but thanks to the extra moisture and perhaps a little too much compost, it’s outpaced the nearby delphinium and is now as tall as I am, tall enough that I’ve had to give it a ski pole for support.

Everything is growing well in the veggie garden too, especially the zucchini. I like to see enthusiastic plants, but with zucchini, there’s a fine line between a good harvest and a disposal problem.

But, along with the good news goes the not so good, and the bad, and the worse. This weather has created perfect conditions for opportunistic vegetation, that is — you guessed it — weeds. When I say weeds, I mean anything that sprouts where it I don’t want it to sprout. Trouble is, I swear every seed that ever floated into my back yard, plus every seed produced by plants actually growing in my garden has sprouted. This is because they were protected this past winter by a good snow cover. With all the rain, germination has been guaranteed.

It’s the weeds in the cracks in the patio and pathways that are the problem. Out front, the gravel paths are especially susceptible and have taken on the look of an urban wasteland.

If you’re faced with out of control weeds, there are options. Plenty of mulch is a fairly easy solution for most flowerbeds unless the weeds are outnumbering preferred plants, as can be the case if a bed has gone untended. The only solution is to dig out the good plants, replant elsewhere temporarily, then cover the whole bed with plastic sheeting to smother out the weeds.

If things are especially bad, it may mean leaving the plants in and sacrificing everything. The plastic will need to stay in place for as long as a year, but it does the trick. As for weeds in pathways, I use a crack weeder, a hook shaped knife that works very well, especially after a rain.

Using boiling water, vinegar, or even salt to kill weeds is often suggested, and they do work to some degree, but too much of the latter pair can be harmful in a garden. Another alternative is a flamethrower — not a military version, but a small blow torch. Keep in mind that this will contribute to your carbon footprint, so use sparingly. Another trick is to sprinkle corn gluten on the pathways. It has been shown to inhibit the germination of seeds, though how well isn’t certain. I’ve tried this in the past and it did show promise. If all else fails, it’s keep on weeding and hope for a drought — or maybe not.

Plant in Haste and Regret . . .

I make the odd mistake around my garden when trying to choose the right plant for the right location. Sometimes the plant turns out to be the wrong colour, although I can live with most any combination, or sometimes the foliage is all wrong. Floppy foliage is fine providing there's flop room, which isn't guaranteed; I hate to see nifty little plants smothered by a new neighbour. Or, I'll make the mistake of filling in bare spots with bedding plants, only to see them vanish beneath the giant leaves of something that decides that this is the year it's going to be all it can be, which is usually the exception, rather than the rule.

So I'm confessing here that once in a while, I'm quite capable of making design errors, or I don't always make the wisest plant selection. Okay, maybe I excel occasionally in the "Ridiculous Things To Do In A Garden Contest". Have you entered? It seems I enter every year, usually modestly by planting something just slightly inappropriate, perhaps a plant that turns out not only to be aggressive, but verging on invasive, like the Campanula punctata 'Rubriflora' (spotted bell flower) I stuck in three or four years ago. It has the loveliest of pale purple flowers, but it doesn't like to stay put.

It is manageable if you keep an eye on it, but turn your back and it's off and running. I finally managed to remove the last of the renegades that it produced this spring, some from the front yard where I don't recall planting it, but then just last week, someone gave me a another variety called Cherry Bells and I couldn't resist finding a spot for it. I've a feeling those cherry bells are soon going to be ringing loudly, just for me.

But it's the Rheum palmatum that's now the problem. If there was a tabloid garden magazine, I'd be on the front cover. I brought it home over a year ago, something I picked off the rack in one of my many "I'll take one of those, too, moments". I'll find room for it, I no doubt said to myself. How could I have known? — it came in a small pot, for goodness sake.

After I planted it, I forgot about it. I stuck it in the bed beside the patio between a pair of clematis that grow against the fence there. I really don't know why, except I probably thought the bed could use a little more foliage. After planting, it barely did more than sprout a couple of leaves before vanishing behind taller plants for the rest of summer. In fall, I had my doubts that it would survive the winter, but it did, with excessive enthusiasm.

Needless to say, I now have foliage exactly as described in my Reader's Digest A- Z Encyclopaedia of Garden Plants which, had I been thinking, I would have read first before planting the thing, or better still, before buying it: "Rheum palmatum (Chinese rhubarb): Rhizomatous perennial with a massive rootstock and thick leaf stalks that bear broadly ovate to rounded, three to nine-lobed, coarsely toothed, dark green leaves to 90cm (36ins)."

I have foliage all right, enough to hide two clematis, multiple daylilies, a tree peony, and assorted groundcovers. Unfortunately, I don't know what the variety of Rheum palmatum is that is currently intent on being all that it can be. If it's 'Bowles Crimson', I'm in big trouble.

In good conditions, most Rheum reach only a couple of meters, but Bowles tops out at almost five. Mine is already way over my head. It will have to be moved. I do have a spot down the yard that's far more appropriate, but after reading the bit about massive rootstock, I'm a little concerned as I'm well aware of what the roots on regular rhubarb are like. Oh, and by the way, Rheum is not edible; in fact, it's toxic, packed with countless chemical compounds; so suggestions for opening a pie stall at the local market are not acceptable. What was I thinking of? Beats me.