Filed under: Uncategorized
It took a few decades of designing gardens for me to appreciate how sculptures and garden art can add another level of interest to the plants and hard-scape structures I’ve always included. Having seen gardens with way too many examples of ‘art’ littered around the property, I proceeded cautiously incorporating pieces into my designs and my own gardens. I have a few pieces I am fond of, two of which were made by a friend, Gil Hawkins, a New Jersey-based sculptor. On loan (perhaps permanent at this point, eh Gil?) is a brushed aluminum piece entitled, “Hudson Highlands”. It has been installed in my gardens with the Hudson River as backdrop. 
and a detail… 
In celebration of my son’s Blessing Day, Gil presented us with a mobile. The two piece construction featured a ginkgo leaf and ginkgo nut suspended in a vertical plane. I have known Gil since 1980 and he in my life at the genesis of my garden design company, G. biloba Gardens. The Ginkgo has always been my favorite tree and Gil captured my object of my affection with the simple and touching gift. I move it around the gardens occasionally, to see how its movements change with different exposures. 
Another piece is special to me as well. It is an early 20th century stone pedestal carved from red sandstone. It reminds me of the building fragments scattered about the grounds of the Roman Forum…yet even better that is it hand-carved from slabs of my favorite local stone. 
The final garden art in my gardens is a creation from a collection of weather vanes known as ” Wind Leaves”. I purchased this in the early 1980s, from its creator, Bart Kister. This one, a dogwood leaf, is solid copper and has turned effortlessly in the gardens of every house I’ve ever owned. I also bought a Ginkgo leaf ‘vane, but time claimed it a while ago. 
Of course, I have to admit, there’s something about a giant frog greeting you at the end of a day…
…just like that. It’s colder outside and darker earlier. House heat comes on – drying out the air. No more hosing down the plants to water them. Delicate pouring is the only way to keep the plants alive and not ruin the floor.
I hope these make it through to Spring.
In my landscape design/build firm, refurbishing a client’s landscape occasionally involves removing well-established specimen trees. Frequently, the client will offer us the tree in exchange for what they imagine will be a huge discount off of the job price. Invariably, they’d heard wildly exaggerated stories of the value of the tree and images of 4-figure savings dance around their heads. Ninety-nine and seven-eighths percent of the time, we can’t move, or aren’t interested in, the tree. When we were offered the Japanese Split-leaf Maple pictured below, however, it was too good to pass up – especially when we knew exactly where to put it… OUR garden!
Always a risky venture, the decision was made to commit the time and resources required to move the mature specimen.
Early one morning, four men set out to begin the transplanting process – equipped with truck, excavator machine, trailer, shovels, burlap, baling string, hoisting straps, peat moss and fertilizer.
Extracting the fifteen-foot wide tree from the ground required every tool they brought to the site, including the horticultural knowledge and delicate maneuvering skills each man had acquired through years of experience.
Once successfully separated from its native soil and loaded on the trailer, the operation shifted to prepare the spot where the tree would spend the rest of its (hopefully) long life. The following slideshow and video chronicle the final phase of the project.
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Filed under: Día de los muertos, fallen trees, garden design, Halloween storm, inspiration, snow pattern, storm damage
In most parts of the United States, our days leading up to Halloween can be busy hanging ghoulish decorations, carving pumpkins and perfecting costumes. This year, though, if you live anywhere in the Northeastern US, such plans were set askew by a freakish snowstorm that blasted its way up the Atlantic Coast just two days before ‘tricksters’ were to swindle ‘treaters’ out of their candy.
Nearly one foot of snow fell here in Nyack. The weather event came so early in the autumn season that most trees had yet to complete their end of year leaf-drop. As a result, gravity’s pressure on increasingly snow-laden leaves began to quickly and violently detach limbs from trees and trees from soil.
Looking out at the tops of trees swaying in the strong winds, I heard dozens of loud cracks, followed by ‘smoke-like’ puffs of snow, then finally definitive crashes of wood hitting the ground.
Magnolia, Bradford Pear, Purple Plum and Tulip trees seemed to be the most affected, though no species was uniformly spared.
Many old-growth trees and established landscapes were destroyed – a loss of plant life much worse than had resulted from any hurricane or ice storm I can remember.
The aftermath looked like a tornado. A Bradford Pear, about thirty feet tall, was felled in perfect symmetry, as the following pictures show.
In many countries, Halloween is not so much about candy, but rather for remembering family and friends that have died. Certainly, the massive loss of trees caused by this storm qualifies a new type of celebration for El Dia de Los Muertos, the Day of the Dead.
Filed under: bluestone, garden design, inspiration, masonry, patios, Uncategorized
I find comfort in the company of rocks. Boulders, field stone, quarried stone or sandy pebbles – they all make me grin. The feelings run deep, relating mostly to my preference for using natural materials in my garden designs.
As with enduring lifelong friendships, certain rocks have accompanied me through more than one house move, becoming part of gardens in different locations. A good rock is hard to find and not lightly left behind.
One day last Spring, I wanted to rearrange a few plants and rocks in the garden. For some reason, I encountered exceptional resistance while attempting to move one of my larger ‘friends’ just a few inches from where it was. The wrestling match that ensued left me breathless, yet exhilarated.
At that moment, with a twinge in my back and twinkle in my eye, I realized that even though I design and build gardens every day, it had been quite a while since I was in the trenches, interacting with rocks at that more personal level. I missed the action, bloody fingers, blisters and all.
That brief encounter was an eye-opener. And, whether it was a personal challenge to summon long-dormant abilities, or a direct, some said foolhardy, attack on the aging process, I gave myself a summer project of building a bluestone patio on our property.
I set out each day full-tilt, buoyed by youthful enthusiasm and, no doubt, glorified memories of my own past conquests. With focus firmly fixed to the tough work of hauling, lifting and sorting slabs of stone, the patio quickly began to take shape.
However, as August gave way to September, fatigue and apathy had me in their grips and slowed progress considerably.
Heart and soul lost ground to creaking bones and aching joints that led to nightly bouts of live rigor mortis.
I’m convinced that had it not been for a hurricane, flattened wheelbarrow tire and my Chiropractor’s summer vacation, I surely would have finished in time for our Labor Day party.
When did rocks get so heavy, anyway?
It must be love.
Nothing else could justify the presence of roses in my garden.
Let me explain. Whether driven by personal design style, or an unfounded sense of Plant Kingdom hierarchy, I take pride having excluded certain plants from my landscape designs.
You wouldn’t, for instance, find a Yucca in my beds. Pachysandra wouldn’t be spec’d. And most definitely, prissy Roses were never, ever, a consideration.
With these self-imposed limitations, imagine the predicament I found myself in during a home-improvement project my wife and I undertook a few years ago.
We wanted to close off from view, the exposed underside of our wood deck, and finally finish a project started eight years before.
Tired of looking at the ugly, barren space, we struggled in choosing an approach to make the sixteen foot long, by eight foot tall space seem less imposing. Realizing the problem had no great solution, we feared that the wrong strategy would only make the situation worse.
We decided to install cedar lattice panels as screening, and though we were by no means convinced the choice would be visually satisfying, we felt we picked the best of the worst options.
Unfortunately, when the project was finished we were miserable – it didn’t work. We needed a fix, and quick!
The only solution was to grow something on the structure to disguise it, and in my heart I knew only one plant would really be right – and I didn’t like the answer. By the excited look in her eyes, I immediately knew the same thought had popped into my wife’s head, as well.
“Can climbing roses be trained on the lattice?” she asked.
Before taking time to dream up reasons why not, I heard myself stammer the unimaginable.
“Uh, I guess so”.
My answer triggered a smile that reddened her cheekbones and raised her ears skyward. I, on the other hand, was already dealing with my anxiety of actually being a rose owner.
We planted three climbers and they began to grow, covering the lattice with a profusion of blooms and gentle fragrance. The problem solved, I reluctantly tended to the needs of the vines. The scratches and punctures resulting from their pruning became constant reminders of my generosity in planting them.
One very hot day, after a particularly sacrificial session of cutting back the vines, I felt woozy from blood loss. In that semi-conscious state, a memory appeared of the flowers my wife chose for our wedding and of the vows we took that day.
Regaining strength and becoming aware of my surroundings, it occurred to me that of all the wedding proclamations we voiced, there was one I purposely had not made.
Still somewhat dizzy, and blinded by the day’s unforgiving sunshine, a voice from above commanded me, “I want more!” I was startled by this heavenly directive.
I realized it was just my wife, standing on the deck, shouting down to me.
“I beg your pardon,” I sang, “I never promised you a rose garden!”
Filed under: Loofa sponge, Richard Nixon, Self-sufficiency, Vegetable Gardening
May is the month suburban vegetable gardeners rekindle their dream of achieving self-sufficiency: to live off the land by the fruits of their labors. As the first seeds are sown and seedlings planted, the desire to produce enough food to feed their family awakens from its winter idle.
Perhaps the pursuit begins even before the crops go in. Taking in the smell and feel of the earth while tilling cherished compost into the soil, mulching beds and pathways to keep feet dry and roots moist does much to stir the spirit for the season that lies ahead.
My first garden was about the size of a Volkswagen Rabbit. Though caring for it required little effort and the variety of plants was limited, I felt myself an Early Settler, carving out a section of earth, cultivating a sense of permanence.
My last garden, encompassing nearly half an acre, was more a working farm than veggie patch. Its size created nearly as many challenges as produce. I became obsessed with keeping a step ahead of the varmints and pests that anticipated each harvest as anxiously as I did. Proudly, I never abandoned my strict organic-farming methods. I did, however, temporarily arm myself with an air rifle to thwart an ever-growing groundhog menace. I gave up the gun quickly though, as my unease with firing pellets combined with the realization that the shots bounced off uselessly without the critters taking notice.
As most seasoned gardeners would agree, success emboldens us toward more cultivated land and greater crop diversity. We seek cultivars beyond the ‘garden-varieties’ available locally. Personally, the search was a combination of satisfying an urge for excitement and the desire to thrill others. At one time or another, the garden included red popping-corn, horseradish, yellow watermelon, purple potatoes as well as other less notable aliens.
The most memorable of my attention-grabbing crops were the Loofah sponges grown from seeds for the garden of ‘95. Thought seen by most as some sort of ocean pickle, Loofah is actually a gourd, with a vining growth habit similar to cucumbers. The elongated fruits were stunning as they hung from the garden fence. Conspicuously placed, they dazzled and puzzled visitors from the moment the garden came into view.
To this day, friends relate the tale, ‘The Year of the Sponge’ as treasured garden lore. Some still use the dried-sponge scrubbers I gave as novelty presents, years before they became popular bathroom accessories. In my twenty-five years of providing such garden entertainment, the Loofah reigns supreme, easily trumping the former frontrunners, a twenty-two pound zucchini and the eggplant that looked like Richard Nixon.
Originally published, June 2011, The Nyack Villager
Early on, I had to take many a stand on the important issues of the time: Yankees over Red Sox. The Beatles over Rolling Stones. Peace over War in Viet Nam.
Later in life, it was Microsoft or Apple.
I went with the Upstart.
Steve Job’s machines helped make my life creative and expressive. I identified with Apple as an inspirational company especially the undertones of political and social reform.
Macs debuted on my 26th birthday. Somewhere around my thirtieth, I bought my first, the Macintosh II. Today, two dozen years later, I joyously own at least one of every great product they make.
I remember the relief I felt chucking out the IBM clone I struggled to embrace, to make room for the new, boxy miracle machine.
I never tire of going to an Apple store, extolling to whichever salesperson I snag that, “You know, I bought my first Mac in 1988′. My words flow with an air of superiority as I set myself up with the expectation I will, in some way, be rewarded for my early belief in the company. I don’t expect the entire store to stand up and recognize my insightfulness…well, actually I kinda do.
Filed under: April Fool's, garden design, Matt James, Sanguinaria, Wild Turkey
Much of my childhood was spent in my parent’s gardens. On any given weekend, I could be seen practicing the arts of digging holes, weeding, cutting grass and raking leaves – usually under some form of duress.
Learning about gardening, however, accounted for less than half of my garden time.
I lived in a neighborhood with dozens of kids, and like most boys and girls, we played outside constantly. Whatever the season, there were always ball games going on in the street and around the neighborhood. Errant throws and hits were indiscriminate in where they landed. Balls were lost to storm drains, overly enthusiastic dogs and into the ‘scary’ woods that surrounding our block. Occasionally a ball got trapped in the groundcover and shrubbery of ‘The Feldman Gardens’. Big mistake, especially on weekends when my dad was home. We all knew this was scarier than the woods could ever be.
Though my buddies Ricky, Danny and Jimmy were by no means immune, I took the brunt of the wrath for our wayward Wiffle balls and missed football touchdown passes.
My father’s booming voice, ”Jonathan!! – get out of the garden!” still rings in my ears, albeit now more fondly than in fear.
Finally, the Springtime weather has brought my son and I out of doors. He keeps busy with toys and games while I am puttering about. We throw a ball together and have fun chasing after them down the hill, under the deck, or…in the gardens!
The first time I watched him retrieve a tennis ball that lodged itself in the newly opened daffodils, I was immediately struck by a new, yet somehow eerily-familiar, sensation.
In our generation of father and son, my footsteps have been followed with his keen love of sport and a corresponding lack of accuracy. Though no windows have yet been broken, way too many airborne launches have found their resting places in my gardens. I’ve endured decapitation of cherished flowers, trampling of coddled perennials and an overall disregard for all of which I work so hard.
The echo of my father’s siren guides me to be more understanding with Richard, but I couldn’t hold back the time a football trashed a favorite Hydrangea.
”Richard!! – …”
May the circle be unbroken.
Occasionally,when considering a topic for this blog, I’ll leave my office seeking inspiration closer to nature.
Always a fruitful diversion, an idea could wash over me during a walk along the Hudson River. Staring at clouds has precipitated ideas that seemingly fall from the sky.
This month, the gift came from a more grounded source. No longer stuck for a topic, I was stuck in the topic.
It had officially, unofficially become Mud Season in New York.
It happened during my first baseball catch of the year with my son, Richard. Due to an extremely well-hit shot, we managed to lose the ball to the wild rose and bramble patch above the hillside adjoining our yard. Following him up the slope to search for it, I saw him first get stuck in a soft ooze, then continue to sink into it. With no traction to run, I crawled my way in his direction. As if in quicksand, we both were hit with a momentary sense of panic, but quickly recovered in uncontrollable laughter as we looked at each other’s clothes and body’s mired in the saturated soil.
Not until later did we realize he had lost a shoe in the process.
The transition from Winter’s ice and snow into Spring’s warmth and rebirth is unlike all other seasonal successions. Mud Season doesn’t come gracefully. It claims no celestial markers or unique equatorial alignments. No seasonal songs sing its praises.
It started comparatively early this year. Two monstrous rain storms in March hastened the melting of a long-enduring snow cover, depositing a large volume of water into the ground over a short period of time. Our sump pumps started running on that rainy Monday and, though rain had stopped a few days after, kept humming until that Friday.
We never did find that shoe. The remaining single has been relegated to the depository for other surviving gloves, shoes and socks.
Its disappearance did stimulate another idea, though. I am reconsidered my long-standing dissent on getting a dog. It’s not that I suddenly look forward to the responsibility of walking it – but I figure a good tracker could save us hundreds on replacement clothing purchases.
I’m lucky that cats can’t find gloves. Can they?
