Friday the Thirteenth

A dead Daphne giraldii. It was doing fine, even last week, until one day it wasn’t. Just like that. Okay one day, then wilting, then this.

It’s only moderately annoying, since now I can’t say to myself, “I’ll plant this next to the daphne”, unless I remind myself that I now mean the other one, the one that’s still alive (as of this minute). I plan to get rid of most of the plants in this part of the garden anyway.

I didn’t plant either of them; they just appeared as seedlings, after the parent plants, and their offspring too, did the same thing. Got really big, flowered, and then died. That’s right: daphnes are weeds in the garden here. I pull them up all the time, but I left some plants of giraldii because they looked okay where they appeared.

Talk about a Dramatic Statement. And form, texture, structure, all that. I can’t really say anything about iteration, supposedly a necessary component of garden design, since one plant is alive and one is, all too obviously, not.

I’ve often wondered if making a garden full of nothing but dead plants might start a trend. (Had I started this when I began gardening here, I’d need about fifty acres by now…..) You spend money on a plant, it dies, and you throw it away, or toss it into the compost pile. Why not put it in a separate garden, with its departed companions?

The maintenance alone would make it worth the trouble.

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Glitterbelle

I talk to myself, a lot. I rarely have anything interesting to say, but I just keep babbling. I also talk to the dog (who understands more than he lets on), to my late wife, to the birds, rabbits, squirrels, and any other creature I happen on in the garden.

I also talk to my plants. Sometimes they do talk back, in their plant language. Things like “Will you please look at me? I’m dying of thirst over here.”

I know almost all their names, their botanical names, without labels, which I find ugly (though I do have a few to remind me of plants new to the garden, also of bulbs I’d rather not slice through with a trowel), and, because of this, I try to avoid putting plants in the garden that have less-than-terrific names.

Here’s one. Penstemon ‘Glitterbelle’. Or maybe it’s ‘Glitterbell’. I wish I could forget it, but I can’t. I think about it every time I walk by it, which is constantly.

Glitterbelle

Why did I buy it? (Them, really.) Because it’s a penstemon, it’s called ‘Glitterbelle’ (or ‘Glitterbell’), it was for sale (at the DBG Mother’s Day plant sale), and if I hadn’t bought it, then I couldn’t say I was growing it, complain about its name, pretend to be a snob about such things, or have written this post. That’s how this works.

 

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