Taking stock of the garden


© Lorraine Flanigan

It seems that summer just won't give way to fall. With Thanksgiving only a few days away, the temperature is 26°C, the sun is shining, and not one cloud is in the blue, blue sky. My garden thinks it's still high season. The phlox is blooming beside the sedum, the asters sparkle alongside the purple coneflowers, and the Japanese anemones are producing a snowstorm of white blossoms.

This is the time of year when I like to step back and take stock of my garden. First, I'm always amazed that the bare spots of spring have turned into a lush, green landscape splashed with bright spots of colourful flowers. So, before deciding what's in the wrong spot, what needs dividing, and what borders could use a few more bulbs, I give thanks for the plants that have thrived despite the droughts of summer; the combinations of flower colours that harmonize side-by-side (did I really plan this?); and, for the fledgling leaves that appear one magical day from a newly planted perennial.

Thanks given, it's time to be ruthless. But, ruthlessness means taking a hard, appraising look at the garden through cold, critical eyes - not so easy when the first thing I do each morning is stroll through the garden to see what's new and what's fading, and the last thing I do before dusk is gaze at the garden before darkness descends. With such intense daily scrutiny, you'd think I'd have noticed the honeysuckle vine clinging to the trellis with the last of its bare, withering branches before succumbing to some mysterious ailment that escaped my notice until a discrete word from my neighbour brought it to my attention. I guess it's a case of not seeing the forest for the trees.

So, to help me really see the garden, I've developed a five-point plan designed to bring it into focus - it works for me, and I'll bet it'll work for you.

1. Invite friends and relatives to an alfresco lunch. Over a glass of wine, I casually mention that I'm having trouble with a corner of the garden. Before long, the suggestions start to flow - usually in direct proportion to the amount of wine imbibed. A ho-hum hosta is replaced by one with deeply puckered leaves in a fashionably bluish hue; astilbes waning in the dry shade of a cedar tree is moved to a moist spot by the pond; and, daylilies are plucked from random spots in the garden to soften the edge of the driveway.

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