Early Thanksgiving morning, I opened the pantry to get out everything to make stuffing. As I pushed aside cans to find the packages of bread crumbs, I came upon these lovely lavender flowers in the back and thought: What the heck is this? Then, I remembered: Saffron crocus. Oops. A couple of months ago, I bought a wide variety of bulbs from local garden centers. I was determined to plant them all at the correct time. This was the year I would be organized and prepared. Ha! Sound familiar? I forgot about this beautiful fall-blooming Crocus sativus, with the clear admonition printed on the package “Plant Now for Fall Color.” I didn’t have time to plant them immediately, but I whispered a sincere apology me paenitet (in Latin, of course) closed the pantry, and went on with holiday festivities.

The next day, I set out with my tools–handled bulb planter, Hori Hori knife, gloves, and pruners–and got to work. Not all of the bulbs, technically they’re corms, were blooming but they were all growing. At least it was easy to see which end was up and which end was down. Kind of.

A general rule of thumb for planting bulbs is to plant them two to three times as deep as the bulb is tall. I planted these corms about 5″ deep and covered them with soil. I sprinkled a small amount of Plantone on top and watered them in.

Yeah, they looked a little rough at first. But I knew they’d eventually perk up and be ok. And that’s the great thing about gardening! Plants are pretty forgiving. They survive without our help out in the uncultivated wild. Unless we forget to water a thirsty plant, overwater a satiated plant, or accidentally do irreparable harm–plants can bounce back. They’re pretty resilient in that way. I’m not saying plants won’t, and don’t, die from neglect or forgetfulness sometimes (or often if you’re growing a lot), but I am saying: don’t give up on a plant and don’t beat up on yourself for forgetting to provide care. Sometimes it isn’t too late! My life motto also works as a gardening motto: I’m doing my best and that’s the best I can do.

And look what happened just a few days later:

My faith and patience (benign neglect?) was rewarded with a gorgeous patch of saffron crocus. Just look at that bright red stigma (yes, this is culinary saffron)! Will I remember to plant my fall-blooming bulbs a little earlier next year? You betcha! I’ve already made note of this in my gardening notebook/planner.

So, what are you waiting for? Go ahead and plant any bulbs that you haven’t got around to planting yet. Plop them in the ground. Cover them with a blanket of soil. Then take a deep breath. It’s all going to be ok. We’re doing our best and that’s the best we can do.

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With the advance of climate change, the exact arrival of seasons is no longer predictable as spring comes earlier, summer lasts longer, and fall arrives much later. As the seasons have shifted, my definition of what a season is has shifted, too. As a gardener and naturalist, I follow an ecologically based calendar. Simply put, a season starts for me when I observe specific ecological events that announce its arrival: Fall brings the white-throated sparrow and breathtaking color change of leaves. Hellebores and snowdrops mean winter’s cold has arrived. Spring is here when dogwoods bloom and a multitude of songbirds suddenly appear and fill the air with nature’s soundtrack. Strawberries, hydrangeas, roses, heat and humidity herald summer here in North Carolina. 

I keep a detailed *phenology notebook where I note changes in temperature and sunlight, precipitation, animal and insect migration, and bloom and fruiting times of various plants—all the biological events that determine when one season starts and another ends. The two “extra” seasons, or micro-seasons, are pre-spring and lingering summer, often called by their formal names, Prevernal (hello primrose season!) and Serotinol (welcome glorious swamp sunflowers!), respectively. These subtle, in-between phases are also based on personal observation of my own garden, not pages on a calendar. 

I hope to encourage everyone to pay closer attention to what is happening right outside your doorstep. Being an active participant in the cycle of the seasons helps to bring us closer to the land—something I believe we could all benefit from. The nature writer and environmentalist David Orr says it more emphatically, “When we heal the earth, we heal ourselves.” The more we become acquainted with the mystery and miracles of nature, the more we will understand the importance of gardening in harmony with the land we are tending. Gardeners can help preserve the natural world for future generations to enjoy through all the changing seasons. 

*For more information on Phenology, see https://www.usanpn.org/about/why-phenology

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Jodi wanted to learn how to care for this paradise where she looked forward to spending a lot of time. We met for a consultation and I listened to her concerns and questions. She wanted me to teach her three things: 1) how to winterize the plants, 2) when and how to fertilize the garden, and 3) the correct timing for pruning shrubs and cutting back perennials. I presented her with a three-part gardening plan to address these concerns.

As we worked on these routine tasks together over the next several months, I emphasized a big part of gardening is experimentation. Yes, there are absolutely correct ways to keep a garden healthy and looking good. But there is also room for discovery and fun. And change. That’s what makes our gardens truly feel like they’re our gardens.

Jodi has a natural curiosity that keen gardeners possess. Her willingness to seek help when needed and enthusiasm for learning as much as possible about her new garden gave her the confidence she needed to tend to a gorgeous garden. I was delighted to be part of her tropical garden initiation.

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