Sandy Parrill: Garden is riotous, joyful, alive with movement, color (2024)

“Slow down, you move too fast

You got to make the morning last

Just kicking down the cobblestones

Looking for fun and feeling groovy”

“Feelin’ Groovy” by Simon & Garfunkel

The paths and woods are covered by a fresh snowfall of white violets with spent dogwood petals drifting down like huge flakes.

March’s glowing golds have vanished overnight to be supplanted by blue, pink/lavender and white. Scotch bells, woodland phlox, ajuga, Jacob’s ladder, camassia, starflowers and violets in every shade from palest morning sky to near indigo under trees have suddenly morphed from light chartreuse to fresh, rain-washed green. Emerald undergrowth densely fills the woodland floor where a scant month ago it was a just thick blanket of brown and gray leaves. Delicate blue and white native crested irises in the woods nestle with false rue anemone and trilliums between the roots of a giant oak, and wild ginger’s heart-shaped leaves cover the ground under May apples and hellebores. Nature’s inspired palette balances and underscores the optimistic energy of this early season.

And early it is. Nature says, “Listen up, y’all only changed your clocks an hour, but I changed the entire season. Try and keep up or you’ll miss me.”

Though April’s last average — or safe — frost date for the Ozarks is still two weeks away, early vintage German bearded irises have lined the streetside with deep purple, violet and mulberry wine for a couple of weeks now. I’m seeing flower buds on climbing roses, leaves sprouting on crape myrtles, and hostas nearly fully grown. Ground orchids (Bletilla) will be in full flower by the end of the week. Tall bearded irises are poised and ready to open, along with swelling buds of peonies and oriental poppies. None of this is supposed to happen until May. But we know we can’t trust spring’s fickle ways. April Fools’ Day may be past, but she’s still a tease with just a kiss away from winter. I, for one, am not putting away the old blankets and sheets I’ll use to cover tender growth in case she thinks we need to make one more snowman before summer comes.

In the greenhouse, Jim’s potted fig trees are not only in full leaf but already sporting an early crop of fruit. Some 10 years ago, after an aborted try at growing winter-hardy Chicago figs outdoors — spring growth was slow to start and the summer too short for this long-season variety to produce a ripe crop — Jim potted his baby trees. They have since spent winters in our cool greenhouse, and the now-mature trees normally begin growth in April, with plenty of time for a continuous supply of sweet, delicious figs all summer until taken inside in late October to spend the winter for a necessary dormant period.

Ideally, fig trees should stay dormant until nearly time for moving them outside after the last safe frost date, keeping them below 50 degrees, but lately our warm springs have made that impossible even in our minimally heated greenhouse. The nearly direct sun spurs their early awakening from dormancy, though they shouldn’t be moved to their summer spot before May 1. Repotting can be done every three or four years as needed. Keep in mind that the bigger the pot, the harder it is to move when necessary. While normally pruned in spring for size and/or shape if needed, that won’t be done this year; we’re not going to sacrifice those first ripe figs. The fig trees have proved to be among the least needy of anything we grow — all they ask is a little fertilizer in spring, water through summer and plenty of sunshine. Few pests bother them. So far, even the most inquisitive and adventurous deer haven’t touched them — crossed fingers here.

Early in the morning, coffee cup in one hand and camera in the other, I encounter the unexpected everywhere. Under one dogwood, a small, formerly well-behaved patch of native dogtooth violets has swelled to epic proportions, flooding the moss lawn, though it won’t bloom for a few more years. Under another, native bloodroot has established a colony. By the driveway, orange sherbet-hued intermediate irises in full glory are intermingled with late tulips of the same color, surely not something deliberate on my part. I disavow any knowledge of that serendipitous combination, nor did I have anything to do with the ajuga cozied at their feet, its blue spikes buzzing with bees and surrounded by a lacy, glowing fringe of white violets and lime green sedums. It’s a perfect tapestry woven by an artist far more inspired than I am.

I should know by now to not be surprised by anything nature designs without my advice or input. It appears more and more that Chaos has taken on a life of its own, disregarding any ideas I might have had in my previously optimistic, naive view of how my carefully planned landscape should look in the future. And the garden is better for it — riotous, joyful, alive with movement and color, and just, well, feelin’ groovy.