Story And Photos By William A. Gregory
It has been said that planting a garden is an act of optimism and faith. For many, it’s a seasonal pursuit, relegated to the warmer months of the year. Not so for the dedicated gardener. Each season brings with it a particular beauty, and much of the enchantment of cooperating with growing things is in the planning and anticipation — as vital as enjoying the results of our efforts.
As I write this in late March, it is snowing. Tulips (apricot beauty) bloom in a pot outside my window. I forced them in my small greenhouse, which I keep just above freezing. Isabelle my cat sits here beside me. A warm fire is in the stove. I just got back from a walk around the dwindling winter garden, which is about to burgeon into spring. The tulips shine in the snow. It’s just at freezing but they’re fine, although I did move the lettuce flats inside. There are glimmers of sun now. Yesterday, I dug and split snowdrops "in the green." A clump can be divided and moved easily in expectation of next February’s bloom. Even in spring, I want to think ahead to next winter.
As you read this in autumn, I will be preparing for winter color. For the gardener, an Asheville winter is really six months long. It’s a gray time, depressing for some but not for me. I look forward to winter’s sparseness, and to the subtle gifts of the winter garden.
The muted days start with Thanksgiving. This is for me the real start of winter. It’s dark around 5:30, but many evenings are warm and beautiful. Often I sit outside in the gloaming with a fresh cup of coffee, watch the sunset and listen to the birds calling softly. Even in a light rain, I will sit outside on these mild evenings. The cyclamen are blooming; a few autumn crocus and early buds of the bear claw hellebore are swelling. Early camellias look promising, and late mums are still rich in spite of the few frosts.
I’ve ordered winter aconite as early as possible and have wasted no time in getting them in the ground. They will bloom in the open or even in a thick groundcover of pachysandra. The bulbs must be fresh to do their best. They will blossom bright yellow on a warm day in late January, just when they are needed most. I love Adonis amurensis, a member of the buttercup family, for its brilliance, though it is hard to find commercially.
Most of all, I love my hellebores, the "Lenten roses" that begin to flower in February. One favorite is species H. cyclophyllus. Like Adonis, it is vibrant chartreuse. Not many nurseries sell these as plants yet, but you can get the seeds from the seed exchange programs of many plant societies, like the North American Rock Garden Society. Growing from seed is a miracle — a perfect way to continue gardening when the weather makes the outdoors inhospitable. To keep you focused on warmer days to come, you might try growing primroses from seed, which bloom here in late winter in some years — usually just about mid-March.
One might think of winter color as an oxymoron, but nothing is further from truth. The red stems of the shrub dogwoods, like "midwinter fire" are best appreciated when positioned in bright sun, whereas new leaves of Italian Lords and Ladies — and Cyclamen coum — patterned and veined — prefer shady nooks. Cyclamen coum blooms with perky cerise hats at the base of my oak trees and rock walls.
The transitional months from autumn into winter into spring are pleasant days, particularly when there is something blooming. Rather than considering this to be down time, the astute gardener spends the autumn afternoons planting bulbs, adjusting the soil, transplanting shrubs and tidying up. It’s a time for admiring the lean lines of the dormant season and relishing the pioneering plants that venture out in the harsher weather. A little planning and reading can help us experiment with winter color and add a new dimension to our landscapes. Books offer inspiration and education: I particularly like Elizabeth Lawrence’s The Little Bulbs: A Tale of Two Gardens . But beyond the theories, you’ve simply got to enjoy being outside in winter. and Peter Loewer’s The Winter Garden
For me, summer is the least favorite time here. Yes the garden is lush. But heat discourages garden work. I do mow, weed and set out annuals, but the light is flat, the views are obstructed, and I suffer for the plants in every drought. Give me the stretched light of winter, shadows on the lawn, oranges and reds and yellows, brisk days and chilly nights. Give me long walks on snowy or warm winter days, rainy days for reading, days of working, raking leaves, a fire, an evening in our favorite restaurant or friends dropping in.
I’m relieved when summer is gone and winter comes. My garden has inviting paths and many places to sit and just watch the day unfold. I don’t bemoan the floral color of the high season. I love winter. It is broad-leafed evergreens and what’s left of the summer, now resting. Winter is a time for meaningful work — in measured and mindful ways. I’d pick it over summer every time.
But winter days are short, my book is good, and the stove is warm. The soup is hot and the comforter on the bed looks inviting. And I, like the garden, shall rest for a bit.
