There’s something magical
about an October sunset. Low, golden light ignites red geraniums, apples, and
red maple leaves with an inner fire. The landscape transforms into an open
treasure chest of sparkling gemstones. Among the most beautiful is the pink
Japanese anemone.
One fine fall day twenty years ago, her airy
personality caught my eye while strolling Shakespeare’s Garden in Stratford,
Ontario. Smitten, I posed with my husband for a photo before her masses of
blooms five feet high. Pink has always been my favorite color. So peaceful and
soft.
Then, I knew
nothing of anemones, nor the legend Shakespeare borrowed from Ovid’s Metamorphoses for his amorous poem
titled Venus and Adonis. The goddess fails
to lure the young mortal into her lair. A boar mortally wounds Adonis—his blood
stains the forest floor where he’s metamorphosed into a purple anemone. The
wind blows the petals away. Thus, the Greeks named the new beauty “daughter of
the wind.”
“The
mystery of a single flower”, as John Ruskin said, possessed me until I found a
greenhouse that stocked plenty anemones. Garden designers say uneven numbers
arrange balance in small to large spaces, so I planted three healthy anemones
around our pergola. The two plants in full sun thrive; the third under the
lilac tree vanishes. Perhaps the tree’s roots deprive the anemone’s rhizomes of
necessary nourishment.
In search of answers, splayed
open before me is a book I bought in Stratford titled Portraits of Flowers. The artist, Gerard Brandis, provides growing
conditions and illustrates each plant with an intricate woodcut of his creation.
In another book, A Gathering of Flowers
from Shakespeare, Brandis pairs his woodcuts with flowers mentioned in the
bard’s poetry and plays. I savor both books with fine chocolate and Earl Grey
tea, dream of blooming “windflowers” my height.
Of
the Ranunculaceae family, windflowers include buttercups, delphiniums and
clematis, all native to the Mediterranean, as is lavender of the Lavandula
family. My land will not grow delphiniums, and the clematis teases me with a
season or two and then gives up the ghost.
“Fall is the best time to plant, but given our
rough winters most catalogues sell them in spring; the confused anemones may
not flower until next May—if they survive,” says Brandis.
Since
I prefer punctual windflowers, today I planted and composted six new pink anemones,
three in two different gardens. Then I transplanted several Hidcote lavender shrubs
close by for companionship, seasonal color, and fragrance. Hidcote blooms in
July—the Japanese anemone in September-October. The low, bright green foliage
and slender stems of the anemone should contrast just fine with the compact, grey-green
lavender shrub.
Dear
Reader, wouldn’t you know—as I tamped soil around the last lavender transplant,
a gorgeous sunset splashed autumn’s daughter of the wind with gold
dust. I rested my gloved hands atop the shovel’s handle, warm sun on my back,
and admired her yellow face and pink petals.
“Now, you two, please grow and love thy Mediterranean neighbor,” I said, and called it a magnificent
day.
