We’re going to the local garden centre, would like for us to pick some plants up for you and bring them to you? Would I? Yes please! What a gift! The garden centres are recently allowed by the UK government to reopen and we’re encouraged to support them. Of course (any excuse will do)! My wish list was long though I knew that it was too early for some things and others too soon for newly restocking garden centres. No orange nemesia—these bloom nearly forever, putting on quite a show, no zinnias—again, probably too early, no miniature pink water lily. But I had to try; you never know what might turn up. I also asked for a cup and saucer vine or an orange black-eyed susan climber for our garden arch but only some sad-looking white climbers had made their way to the nursery. Alas.

HOWEVER, My friend found a gorgeous striped leaf canna—we don’t yet know what colour it will be but if images on Google are any indication it will likely be orange—my favourite. The pot says Canna Island but when I searched it, I only got listings on an Island in Scotland.

Petunias in burgundy (red violet) and blue (purple) were there—some of my all time favourite bedding flowers. They bloom again and again in their showy colours and heavenly scent. Since gardening in England, I’ve become a fan of dahlias, spurred on by frequent mention and glorious photography on BBC Gardener’s World (if you don’t live in UK, you can find excerpts on YouTube—I recommend!) In the US, we pronounce the flowers, dahl-yah; a vintage celebrity’s name—Arlene Dahl, gave us what seemed an obvious clue to pronunciation. But the Brits say dale-ya. Either way, they come in many sizes, shapes and colours blooming well into the autumn. I had picked up a couple of small ones at Aldi, which are nice but this Amazone is a prize.

I also asked for a Victoria Blue salvia, something I’ve grown every year for a couple of decades. They can be counted on for their deep blue, nearly violet spires to keep blooming until the heat slows them down, then burst into bloom again in the autumn. And again, in spring. Hmm..blue hill and blue marvel only. Yes, definitely the one that leans toward violet. Surprise! It is indeed what I’ve known as Victoria Blue—a good colour companion to my yellow green euphorbia.

We rounded out the gathering of plants with a tomato, two courgettes (zucchini) and a tray of runner beans.

My containers are looking more colourful and less lonely these days thanks to my thoughtful friends.

What’s on your garden wish list?

The tiny patch of dirt by the fence—no more than 60 centimetres by 130 centimetres (1 foot, 11 inches by 4 feet, 3 inches), after I extended it a bit with a layer of compost over some paving stones, had been overtaken by stinging nettles (and various bits of broken glass and rubble). I did not want to tangle with those nasties after accidentally finding out why they have their name–there was no forgetting for days. Besides, I was busy with bringing the other parts of our gardens to life; it was easy to ignore that bit. Unfortunately, they didn’t go away and as we began to relax on our back patio near the patch of nettles, as much as I dreaded it, I knew it was time for them to go.

I donned long sleeves, gloves, and wellies, armed myself with every tool I owned, from trowel to heavy rake, and tackled the stinging beasts—piles and piles of them. I’m chuffed to say–without getting stung.

Next spring, no nettles came up—victory! In their place, the bed brimmed with intensely yellow, shiny-petalled buttercups (Ranunculus repens). I had to clear the bad (I know nettles can be made into a smelly concoction to feed plants, even to make tea, but no thank you) to make room for the lovely little flowers.

When the buttercups had finished their display, I knew it was time for them to go as well, to finally make room for flowers of my own choosing–flowers with loads of colour. As the bare ground came into view, I discovered the answer to my earlier question of, “Where do all those snails come from?” This rocky little bed was a colony, a breeding ground for those devourers of my garden! The dangerous had been hidden by the pretty. I even counted them at the time, but have forgotten how many got a free ride to the “forest” out back, though I know there were scores.

I’m sure I planted more flowers than the space can hold but who knows how many will germinate, especially as seeds, in this year of pandemic, are hard to find? Monty Don of BBC Gardener’s World has assured us to not be afraid to plant old seeds; I would anyway but it’s nice to have an expert’s reassurance. Hopefully the orange cosmos, yellow orange, and orchid purple zinnias, dahlias, cobalt blue lobelias, and I don’t remember what all, will make beautiful colourful flowers in plenty of time to accompany our evenings on the patio.

I look forward to the day new colour comes to this tiny patch. What colours will you have in your garden and why do you like/love them?

It was finally time to plant my seeds! The winter seemed especially long and wet, but spring had finally come.  It was still too cold at night to plant out some varieties of flowers and vegetables, but I still had my seed trays from last year. One clear plastic dome had broken and the other banged around by high winds but the two trays and one lid, along with some soapy water were ready for their new assignment. I couldn’t get any fine seed starting compost—I was simply happy my friend brought me some regular compost. I filled the cells with the fresh compost and “delicate” seeds—yellow beans, purple beans, courgettes, tomatoes, basil. Their flowery companions in process are mimulus, morning glory, nemesia, and petunia. Since I have a lot of mauve wallflowers still blooming from the autumn, plus a swathe of bright yellow volunteers, I decided at the last to leave them unplanted for now.

The hard seeds of morning glories have to soak overnight but the extra step is worth it. I hope they do well; my husband and I love to see their intensely blue, almost purple show each morning. I’ve planted them at nearly every home we’ve had.

Last year’s seedlings didn’t fare well having dried out while I travelled, but since I won’t be travelling during the pandemic, I’ll be able to keep an eye on them.

Some of the seeds, such as the yellow, and purple beans and courgettes were large while the mimulus were tiny—each producing its own kind.

Jesus talked a lot about seeds since life, the life he created in the Beginning, began in a

garden. He said faith can be compared to a tiny black mustard seed—a black dot that grows into a massive plant that’s the largest of garden plants. I’ve seen pictures of mustard plants towering over men’s heads—up to ten feet high! It’s not that it takes such a small amount of faith to accomplish, since Jesus often chided his disciples for having “little faith;” it’s the proportion of the tiny seed to the massive plant. It’s the little seed “that could.” So many hundreds, even thousands of tiny black dot seeds are borne by each huge plant that if each one spread and dropped its seeds into favourable earth there would be a forest! I read that the black mustard could so easily take over a garden, they were outlawed in Israel in Jesus’ day. Wow! That’s big faith!  What if we had proportionate faith like that? What if we really took Jesus at his word? Might things that are wrong change for the right?

A couple of weeks later, my seedlings are up and straining for the sun coming from the three windows that surround them. Spraying them with water a couple of times each day keeps them growing.

What flower, vegetable or herb seeds are you planting? Are you having trouble buying seeds during the lockdown in your country? Are you planting any “seeds of faith?”

Several people have lately told me, “I only plant the kind that come back every year.”  That’s good; it saves time—and eventually, money.  I plant perennials too but as a renting “foreigner,” I don’t want to invest too much since perennials tend to cost a lot more.  That aside, how can I refuse the glorious fiesta colours-reds, oranges, yellows, pinks—even purples, of zinnias (though mine grow as slow as treacle pours) or the cheerful trailing nasturtium of Monet’s Giverny? Do without fragrant, velvety petunias? I can’t. Surprisingly, petunias make okay cut flowers. Or what about stately golden sunflowers (though the snails do seem to love them)? No, the garden would be poorer without these dazzling, often bigger blooms.

I love cutting flowers from my garden and bringing them in our home–annuals and perennials.  My “vases” are an odd assortment of jars, bottles and cups plus a few small “real” vases.  For some reason, I never find a vase that I like in the shops—that I can afford, so these bits and bobs are fine. I cut the flowers first, then fit the vase to them.  The best time to cut flowers is in the morning when they retain the most water. Cut flowers should be displayed away from sunny windows and any heat source including TVs and radiators. Ideally, the water should be changed daily and the stems re-cut at an angle.

Though I spent about five years working in the floral industry—not as glamorous as people think but better than working at an office desk in my view, I tend to keep my arrangements simple.  I keep remembering that my grandmother preferred a natural look in her flower arrangements, “like they grow in a garden.”

 

This is “Wilma,” the canna—“Happy Wilma,” so named by her developers.  Born in a

subtropical climate, I’ve always enjoyed the flamboyant and colourful plants.  I had planned to find one with yellow and green striped leaves and orange flowers—and I did, but Wilma had more flowers, cost less and was easier to carry home on the bus.  Besides, her colours were beautiful too with reddened leaves and bursts of yellow orange and coral flowers, so she came to home with me to be the back anchor of our long garden.  There’s no missing her even from a distance.

After the first flush of blossoms, for a while, only the leaves showed their colour, so I prayed over the plant. Then Wilma was happy again—really happy, with two spires of blooms!

When I studied art in college, I painted a large yellow green- leaved canna and called it Flambeau. Later, I painted it again as part of a large church mural. Initially, a friend told me that she really didn’t like that part of the mural

because it reminded her of a destructive fire in her childhood home. Week after week as she looked at it; Jesus healed her memory of the traumatic event.  She didn’t know that the painting was named Flambeau—Burning Torch. God uses plants and paintings to heal.