The Incredible Shrinking Man

I say I don't have a lawn, but I suppose I do--a very tall lawn, a simulacrum of a tall grass prairie, highly modified. Modified in very specific ways to grow on my wet land perched on the rim of the Delaware River Valley. To see my garden as lawn, it's helpful to imagine yourself very small, like the incredible shrinking man, walking among blades of grass that have become like giant trees.

Indulge my little conceit, a lawn of very large plants, many not grasses. The Rudbeckia maxima and the scrim of fading Filipendula below are taller than you are. So taking a walk through--not across--the lawn at this time of year is a thoroughly three-dimensional experience.

Unless you're a giant, the Rudbeckia maxima and Filipendula venusta behind it are taller than you are.

This kind of lawn has several advantages. You don't have to water it. Even with day after day of over-90-degree temperatures, and little rain, it's doing fine. After several years of growth, the roots have gotten deep enough to reach what water remains well underground.

You can  hide in this lawn--totally disappear, just like the incredible shrinking man, and no one in the house can see you. Need I enumerate the advantages? A fine place for dalliance, though that's not likely to happen at Federal Twist, except among the bugs and butterflies and frogs. A fine place for peeing outside too; that's good for driving away groundhogs. And it adds nitrogen to the soil.

Nor do you need to feed it. The plants stay in place over winter, so their goodness returns to the soil. After burning and chopping in spring, the detritus adds organic matter to the earth. It's certainly not self-maintaining, but care is infrequent, and not too much work.

It plants itself. Above, self-seeded Vernonia with Hydrangea arborescens by the pond ...

Another self-seeder, Silphium perfoliatum, on the right by the path. It, too, is taller than you. The lone Liatris is from one of several experimental corms I haphazardly put into the ground last winter. I see I should add many more.

Bees love it.

Filipendula, Joe Pye Weed, and Cup Plant (Silphium perfoliatum) above. Now that the Filipendula has faded from garish pink, it blends in well, and it remains a great structural plant. Structure is important to maintaining a tall lawn and keeping high visual interest. Flowers are a frill, nice but secondary.

Breaks in the tall field of planting create voids, corridors of view, and relative perspective. Here the tall Rudbeckia maxima, Miscanthus giganteus, Cercis canadensis 'Hearts of Gold', Filipendula, Calamagrostis acutifolia 'Karl Foerester' (l to r) tower over daylilies planted amid shorter grasses and carex, other low plants. Your eye can move freely among the taller plants and roam the open spaces, knowing potential for freedom, anticipating change, seeking the new (or old), reconnoitering routes to elsewhere. Then behind it all, the wall of forest, setting the boundary, but with its own interstices leading into a darker world.

So another advantage of this kind of lawn: it offers opportunity for daydreams, psychic mini-vacations. Make of the spires of Thuja what you will. But do notice the silver white bloom of the Pycnanthemum muticum, buzzing with hundreds of bees and wasps, so fragrant it opens the door to another sensual world.

Traveling the main path across the lawn is almost like moving through a three-dimensional simulation. All the tall yellows and purples shift relative position as you move through the field, and the sharp orange and red daylilies play visual tricks, sometimes moving closer, at other times receding, adding to the perception of depth.

This lawn gives pleasure in many ways, some quite subtle, but you have to bring a certain sensibility, attention to detail, openness, moments of stillness. These little emotional pleasures require a contemplative state of mind, then they come, transient re-cognitions, like meeting dear friends from the past.

Daylilies planted out in the field of grasses are virtually invisible until they bloom. (Some flowers are important, and I want to add 50 or 60 more daylillies.) They offer transient visual delight, surprises, like giving a child a bright colored object.

Moving on to the far end of the garden, where a layer of rock under the surface makes a dryer, leaner planting environment ...

... and the plant community is different. More of the "legacy" plants were left in place (Timothy grass and other pasture grasses, Blue-eyed grass, bracken, assorted Persicaria), so the character of the planting is different.Those tall plants not yet in bloom beside the paving are Inula racemosa 'Sonnenspeer', another prolific self-seeder.

Prairie dock (Silphium terebinthinaceum) with big, paddle-shaped leaves gives this area a unique solidity and mass, and a bit of humor. They seem to impose themselves on the landscape, squat down on the ground almost like uninvited guests who decide to take up more room than anyone else. Or like strange animals from another planet.

Miscanthus 'Silberfeder', daylilies, self-seeded Vernonia, the circle of red logs, Calamagrostis acutifolia 'Karl Foerester', dying Poison hemlock (Conium maculatum), Eryngium yuccafolium (l to r).

I was twelve when I first saw The Incredible Shrinking Man. It was a formative experience of my childhood. I remember Scott Carey, at the end of the movie, disappearing into the grass of the lawn as he continued to shrink, the grass having become like a forest. He'd become an explorer of the infinitesimal, perhaps to find a door to infinity.

Eryngium yuccafolium.

This fired my imagination far more than anything I had ever heard at the Southern Baptist Church. It still does.

No, I don't imagine I've become Scott Carey when I walk through towering plants, but I do feel some of that sense of mystery and discovery.

Contemplating this scene, watching the changes from season to season, from year to year, I recall those feelings I had over 50 years ago as I watched Scott Carey receding into invisibility.

Here today, gone tomorrow.

The path out ...

... and the path in.

At the end of the movie, Scott Carey stands at the window screen of his basement, about to walk out into the natural world to meet his fate ...

... and he speaks this monologue:

Scott Carey: I was continuing to shrink, to become. . .what? The infinitesimal? What was I? Still a human being? Or was I the man of the future? ... So close – the infinitesimal and the infinite. But suddenly, I knew they were really the two ends of the same concept. The unbelievably small and the unbelievably vast eventually meet – like the closing of a gigantic circle. I looked up, as if somehow I would grasp the heavens. The universe, worlds beyond number, God’s silver tapestry spread across the night. And in that moment, I knew the answer to the riddle of the infinite. I had thought in terms of man’s own limited dimension. I had presumed upon nature. That existence begins and ends in man’s conception, not nature’s. And I felt my body dwindling, melting, becoming nothing. My fears melted away. And in their place came acceptance. All this vast majesty of creation, it had to mean something. And then I meant something, too. Yes, smaller than the smallest, I meant something, too. To God, there is no zero. I still exist!

Queen of the Prairie

Queen of the Prairie they call it. Filipendula rubra 'Venusta.' It reached full bloom on July 1 and, though I can't say its blossoms are my favorite color--I generally dislike pink, especially pink of this intensity--it makes a statement and marks the beginning of high summer in my garden.

In a couple of weeks the pinks will fade to a subtle coppery color, much more appropriate to the surrounding plantings, as the tall yellow perennials come into bloom--Rudbeckia maxima, Rudbeckia nitida 'Herbstsonne', Silphium perfoliatum, Silphium lanciniatum, Silphium terebinthinaceum, Inula racemosa 'Sonnenspeer'.

Much more to my liking ...  Pontederia cordata, pickerelweed, in the pond.

Garden Diary: twilight with yellow, orange, green, white

Walking through the garden, seeing it in three (four) dimensions, is very different from looking at the photos in this post. The moving plains of plantings, changing perspective, perceived changes in relative sizes make a visit to the garden much more rewarding than two-dimensional photos frozen in time. I invite anyone in the area, or just passing through, to contact me. I welcome your visits and your suggestions. 

Twilight is best time in the garden now. Several hours either side of midday the direct sunlight, heat, and severe contrast between dark, shadowed woods and the bright open garden make walking less than pleasant and photography almost impossible.

The tall yellow tipped verticals -- Silphiums and Rudbeckias -- are mostly in bloom now, and that bright color shows best in the fading light of evening.

Filipendula rubra 'Venusta' (above) is fading from Pepto-Bismol pink to a much more pleasant copper ...

... and along the path the orange daylillies are in bloom. Even in midday, but particularly at sundown, that orange punches through the masses of green and carries the eye to the small, delicate, star-like flowers of the Silphiums (perfoliatum, terebinthinaceum, lacinatum) and Rudbeckia maxima. (Yes, I will have to do something about the color clash with the Astilbe taquetii 'Purple Lance' low down on the right).

The daylilies are particularly suitable to naturalizing in grasses, and I intend to add more on both sides of the path, starting right now. Eight more are going in today. I'm also transplating more of the wild daylilly (Hemerocallis fulva) into the garden (there are plenty on the road in front of the house). I don't particularly care for daylilies as plants. Apart from their bright flowers, their tattered foliage can be a real negative in the garden. By treating them purely as a design element, and planting them where their declining foliage isn't very noticeable, they can be quite useful. I don't try to remember their names. As long as they are orange to red, I don't care.

A mass of red-purple daylilies adds some midsummer interest to the area around Marc Rosenquist's sculpture. More are there, but the camera's not seeing them. These have been around for a couple of years now. I admit they'd be more effective if they were taller, but I'm willing to live with this kind of compromise in the garden.

White too becomes very evocative at twilight and Obedient plant (Physostegia virginiana 'Miss Manners') makes the start of a low-level field of brightness that, if planted in profusion, could really light up the dry end of the garden as darkness falls. I've tried to get more but it's hard to find around here. Last time I ordered white, I got pink!

Prairie dock (Silphium terebinthinaceum -- how do you pronounce that?) with its hard round buds (above left), Rudbeckia maxima with exaggerated black eyed Susan flowers, more terebinthinaceum, then Cup plant (Silphium perfoliatum), the large plant blooming behind the Miscanthus.

Sorry there's not much to give a sense of scale. Most of these tall yellows are several feet above my head. (The grey back of the "Wave Hill" chair above does give some visual clue of the comparative scale of a human body.) The garden is about one acre in size.

This shot gives a better idea of how the orange daylilies could become an effective component of the "prairie" planting (I realize Hemerocallis has never been considered a prairie plant) ... call it modified prairie, then.

Eryngium yuccafolium, form emerging from incipient chaos ...

Entrance to the central sitting area, a mass of Mountain mint (Pycnantheum muticum) center right ...

... and a new Redbud (Cercis canadensis 'Hearts of Gold') in the center, a recent replacement for a moribund Magnolia grandiflora 'Little Gem', which continued to put out elaborate lemony scented flowers, but just looked a wreck. Yes, that's a bunch of Inula racemosa 'Sonnerspeer' that's seeded in beneath it. I'll decide which ones stay next spring.

Above, more self-seeded Inula 'Sonnenspeer' stand sentinel over a planting of Pycnantheum muticum.

View from the other end ...

Rising from a planting of Veronicastrum virginicum is one lone, and persnickety, Compass plant (Silphium laciniatum). I think the garden just doesn't get enough light to make these happy. They always fall over and have to be rescued with long stakes. I hate staking. But since they're self-seeding now, I'll wait and see how the seeded ones develop. If they find the right place, and perhaps are shorter, they may become a useful part of the garden. But if they pass away, so be it. These are too much trouble.

A view across the garden showing Marc's sculpture from the "back" side (back, in this case, means looking generally in the direction of the house).

Speaking of which ... the house, an integral part of this garden. The mostly dead dogwood on the left was cut and removed today.

That's how things go at the garden on Federal Twist Road this July 17th. Have to go. Some neighbors are coming over to see the garden at twilight.