I’m a vegan, but lots of times I get a hankering for “regular food,” the food of my childhood, of family reunions and bake sales and my parents’ office picnics. (I’m a secret fan of your ’70s prefab desserts, those fluffy, dreamy concoctions made from …
I wanted to tell you about a very special plant in my yard, my banana shrub or port wine magnolia (Michelia figo). It’s my oldest plant by far. My house was built in 1850, so you’d expect the surrounding gardens to be lush and tangled, …
I consider myself so lucky to live in a place that is truly interesting. No boring subdivisions here in Quincy. Each house in our little town is special, unique . . . and so is each garden. There is a definite sense of place in Quincy. The houses are characters, and so are the trees, the granddaddy live oaks with all their humps and warts and their robes of ferns; there’s no mistaking one for another.
Last night I went out and took pictures of some more of my favorite houses. I skulked about among the azalea hedges, peeked through curly iron gates, peered out around the sides of trees, and got raindrops all over my camera. I probably seemed weird, but I got a few good shots. Here are the best ones:
The McFarlin-Lester House. This fancy Victorian, with its turret and stained glass, was built by a prominent shade tobacco planter, John Lee McFarlin, in 1895. McFarlin actually helped develop the shade tobacco growing process. The house is three stories tall and has an enormous wrap-around porch surrounded by aged camellias, hydrangeas, and Japanese magnolias. There are big bays and towers and lots of lacy trimmings, and everything is elaborately painted in the old “painted lady” style.
I don’t know anything about the history of this house, but I love it. It’s so Gothic. I wish you could see how dark and romantic the yard really is, tented by giant live oaks and so much Spanish moss. Ordinary garden plants have grown enormous with time and neglect; dark hollies cover several of the windows on the lower floor. The front door is so grand, with huge expanses of leaded glass, diamonds that catch the dim light. Who lives here? Baby Jane Hudson and her sister, Blanche? The house is so dark, so mysterious, so quiet; it never gives a hint.
The Davidson-Thomas House. This house was built in 1859 by J.E.A. Davidson, who served as a state senator for Gadsden County. The marvelous semi-circular porch, with its huge Corinthian columns, wasn’t added until 1890.
When I was a kid, some family friends lived in this house for a few years, in the ’70s. And one time, when I was nine, we even got to visit, got to have a picnic under the pecan trees in the yard and explore the house’s secret passageways (yes, there were secret passageways!). I remember peering through fan-shaped windows, and coming into the grand entry room with its foggy gilt mirrors 15 feet high. . . . I never forgot. That visit was a life-changing experience for me. Ever afterward I always wanted to live in Quincy myself, in my own old house. And now I do. I made that dream come true.
I’ve had the nicest morning. I got up obscenely early, which is really fun for me (I feel like I’m stealing time, cheating the system). I was sitting in the sun room in my pajamas when I saw a big barred owl in the backyard, …
I’m so happy with how lush my foundation plantings are looking these days. I’ve always wanted the house to be nestled in greenery, and now I’m finally achieving that effect. The beds around the house are full of dwarf wax myrtle …
I wanted to take a minute to tell you about one of my favorite garden plants, Turk’s cap (Malvaviscus arboreus var. drummondii). It’s a perennial, semi-woody shrub that gets to be about 4 feet high and wide, and I’ve planted it all around the barn, in light shade.
I like Turk’s cap because it blooms throughout our long, hot Florida summer, which can be a dead and dreary time in the garden, sort of miserable and not very colorful—unless you’re growing Turk’s caps, that is. The flower is the brightest red, and never fully opens, remaining bud-like instead (and turban-shaped). The curving petals wrap around a long, red, protruding stamen.
Turk’s cap is a great hummingbird attractor, which is probably the main reason I snatch it up every time I see it at the nurseries. Since June we’ve had ruby throats zooming around the yard, zipping from flower to flower. It’s so neat to look out the window and see one hovering, sipping—all silvery, and flashing in the sun.
Turk’s cap blooms pretty much all summer, and when the flowers are done, there are shiny, candy-apple red fruits to look forward to in fall. The fruits remind me of tiny cherries or cherry tomatoes and are gobbled up by cardinals and mockingbirds. People can eat them too, I’ve read, but I haven’t tried them yet. I’m sure I will this fall—because my gardening books make them sound quite tempting, crisp and apple-flavored.
Around these parts, Turk’s cap freezes back in winter. During the cold months, all you’ll see of it are some silvery sticks. But it comes back reliably in spring. The broad, velvety leaves are profuse and heart-shaped. Turk’s cap isn’t too fussy when it comes to light conditions, but I like it best in a little shade since the leaves tend to fade and yellow a bit in full sun.
Turk’s cap isn’t native to Florida (it is native to Texas). However, it’s usually included on Florida-friendly plant lists because it’s drought tolerant and low maintenance. There’s no need to fertilize or baby it.
Yesterday there was a little rainstorm in the afternoon, so I came inside and stirred up some vegan gingerbread. I made a huge mess. Molasses and syrup dripped off the edges of the counter, and sugar sparkled on the floor as the lightning flashed. Of …
Babs died on Wednesday. I won’t go on and on about how angry I am about this. I’ll just say I’ve been writing down my memories of her, and here are just a few: She would always sit on the steps by the screen door …
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| The Barn Garden, which is not mentioned in this post. My pictures tend to be irrelevant. |
On Sunday I woke up early and started mulching the enormous bed we’re creating on the south side of the front yard. We’ve been building this bed for about two years—that’s how huge it is. We put down layers of newspaper to kill the grass and weeds, and then we top the newspaper with shredded wood mulch that I order from Britt’s Dump Truck Service. I’ve had to order load after load.
The bed (I call it the Southside Bed) is in a pretty dry, sandy, shady spot. When we first moved in, it was a jungle of invasive plants—camphor, Old World climbing fern, and wisteria. We’ve cleared the area over and over, but the invasives keep coming back. We plan to keep on cutting and clearing until they give up, until we wear them out.
On Sunday morning I was cutting wisteria and spreading newspaper. I was having fun. When I go outside early, it always seems like something mysterious and wonderful might happen, that I might be a witness to something amazing. I might see a deer—or God. So I was working, but I was also taking time to look around.
So far the bed is still pretty empty, but some little sumac plants are popping up. Someday soon I hope the bed is full of sumac . . . and rosinweed and woodland sunflowers. Right now, though, it’s almost bare, a vast plain of mulch. A wide, silvery path of grass runs along beside it, crunchy from lack of rain.
When I ran out of newspaper, I did some harvesting in the vegetable garden. Rob and I pulled a bunch of carrots. Our carrots are so funny this year—they’re really short, and most of them are pretty skinny. The reason? Rob was too softhearted to thin them, so they’ve been growing like grass, really close together. Rob is much, much nicer than I am. I don’t generally feel sorry for carrots, but he does. He feels sorry for everything.
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| The carrot harvest |
We used our carrots to make a big pot of curry. And we had some delicious, oily, salty stir-fried kale on the side. Rob says this is the last kale we’ll get this year. He’s pulling it all out because it’s really spent now . . . and full of whiteflies.
As we cooked, Buntin played with some fresh okra. Buntin loves playing with okra. She carries it around in her mouth, making braggy sounds; she’s really proud of catching such dangerous prey. She bats the okra and runs after it. The other cats watch, fascinated, and then one of them inevitably starts chasing her as she dashes around the house.
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| Buntin. Rob calls her Honey Bun, especially when she’s being bad. |