Gardens

The other morning we had fog. When I stepped out onto the porch to get the newspaper, I felt like I was in Jurassic Park. The air was all thick and prehistoric. Plus everything is so green from our front porch.
The hollyhocks are growing tall with hand-sized green leaves stretching over the edge of the porch. A couple of lavender bushes peek over the front of the porch. The ivy rolls down the front hill toward the rock walled garden that edges the sidewalk. And when I looked down at the garden, I was pleased that even though most of the irises have finished blooming, I could still see color. Columbine in purple and yellow dripping down. A green shoot stretched toward the sky with tiny white bell flowers dripping down from it.

And then I saw a color that I didn't expect to see it. It was another garden surprise, like the one last year where I had planted gladiolus bulbs the autumn before then forgot about them. So when the gladiolus bloomed, they thrilled me. They sprang up in such a variety of colors.

I ventured down to the garden, knowing it was too early for the gladiolus to make their appearance, and there I saw a delicately cupped poppy in the most gorgeous pinky-peach color, and other green bulbs on the stem were ready to burst into color too. I was thrilled.

Look at the purple inside. The picture doesn't do it justice, so you'll have to take my word. And I had just been wondering why I didn't have any poppies in my garden. They add so much color. I guess I planted these last year. Good thing my memory is going, so the garden can keep surprising me.

Rainbow of Petals

Last week I wrote about my garden surprise -- the gladiolus that sprang up from nowhere. Okay, I had planted the bulbs, but I forgot, so I was surprised by them. I was alerted by the peachy, rosy color of the first gladiolus that bloomed.
Nothing else in my garden is that color.
But I didn't want you to think that gladiolus only come in that color. We planted bulbs randomly and these are the colors we have seen so far.

White, of course. Pure, but slightly predictable in a flower.


The palest pink tipped with brighter pinks at the edges, and, wait? What's that? Yellow in the center? Who does your decorating, gladiolus, because that looks phenomenal.


This one looked intensely purple before opening and then once opened, released its purple to the wind and was satisfied to be lavender tinged.


The red is so dark and rich. It made me want to plan a December wedding with girls in green taffeta dresses and armloads of red velvety gladiolus.


And then I found these. Yellow, no shrinking yellow, but a hello-I'm-here yellow with reddish orange in the center. And the blooms opened all along the stem at the same time, flashly, like a can-can girl at the Moulin Rouge.
Oh, gladiolus, you flirts. You promised color and drama, and you delivered.

Garden Surprises

Last week, I talked about how I'm trying to get more color in my front garden. I made that vow last summer when the tiger lilies faded and I was left only greens and browns.
So the zinnias have given me some much needed color.
I was sitting on the front porch when I looked down the hill and amongst the greenery and the red, orange, purple zinnias, I saw an unusual color: a peek of peachy rose.
"What is that?" I sat upright in my wicker chair.
"What?" Earl asked looking up from his book.
"That peach colored flower?" I asked. I was already climbing down the concrete stairs with my bare feet.
"Those are the gladiolus," Earl said.
Oh. I'd forgotten that we planted a row of gladiolus bulbs in early spring, intent on adding color. And now, here they were.

I know it shouldn't be a surprise, since I planted them. But I'd forgotten and now, here they are, a garden surprise.
Lovely.