Reggie's Return

Hello Dear Reader.  After a one year and one month absence, I am pleased to return to the Blogosphere, and to pick up with you where I left off.  It has been an event-filled period in my life, with both ups and downs.  I am older and wiser and better for it, I believe.  I genuinely thank the many of you who contacted me during my absence to let me know that you have been thinking about me, hoping that I'm all right, and encouraging me to return here.  It means a lot to me.

This past weekend we attended the splendid Trade Secrets Rare Plant and Garden Show, held annually in Sharon, Connecticut, which I've written about here several times before.  The photograph I'm showing is of yours truly carrying a marvelous tree fern up the walkway at Darlington.  We bought the fern at the show from the good people of Snug Harbor Farm, of Kennebunk, Maine.  The fern is destined for our screened porch, where it will take pride of place I am sure.  I look forward to enjoying its company in the ensuing months.

Late spring is one of my favorite times of year, Dear Reader.  It is a time of rebirth and renewal, where the world comes deliciously alive here in the Hudson River Valley.  I love it for many reasons, including the prospect it heralds of growth and for beauty unfolding.

It's nice to come home.

Reggie

photograph by Boy Fenwick 

Trade Secrets Redux

This past weekend was the annual Trade Secrets Garden Show in Sharon, Connecticut.  I wrote about attending it last year (it is a "must do" in our calendar), so I'm not going to go into too much detail here about the show except to say that this year's well-attended event was a glorious one, and held on a blissfully lovely day.  It was heaven!

Reggie's topiary loot purchased at Trade Secrets
sitting on a bench at Darlington House

Litchfield County, Connecticut, where Trade Secrets is held on a gentlewoman's handsome working farm, is known for its rolling hills, quaint villages, open farmland, and estates hidden down long gravel driveways.  The area is a magnet for rich New Yorkers who prefer its low key charms to the frenzied mayhem of what has become of the Hamptons.  Nothing showy about this part of Connecticut, Dear Reader—it's all very discreet and tasteful.  Which is just how Reggie likes it, by the way.

We were joined at the show and over the weekend by the charming and amusing Meg Fairfax Fielding, of Pigtown Design fame.  The weekend was a non-stop gabfest of stories, laughter, and socializing.  I encourage you to check out Meg's blog, Dear Reader, as she is a kindred spirit, indeed.

So what did Reggie succumb to at the Trade Secrets show this year?

Topiaries.  Again!  And not just a few, mind you, but rather nine of them (an instant collection!), purchased at the booths of Atlock Farm and Snug Harbor Farm.  While Reggie has vowed time and time again not to buy any more myrtle topiaries (given his unfortunate history of murdering them), he is not a very disciplined fellow and he rationalized while considering his topiary options at the show that adding only one myrtle to the mix was permissible.  That's because if when he murders it at least he'll (hopefully) be able to console himself with the several remaining (non myrtle) topiaries that (he prays) will have avoided such a dismal fate awaiting the (currently healthy) myrtle one he bought at the show.  In the meantime, the topiaries he brought home with him are giving him lots of pleasure, which is what it is all about, isn't it?

Wish me luck!

Photograph by Reggie Darling

Autumn (Leaves) in New York

Fortunately we had a lot of warning at Darlington about Hurricane Sandy, so we were able to prepare the house and grounds and button everything up ahead of the onslaught.  But for a few lamp flickers during the worst of it we emerged blessedly unscathed with power intact, no trees down, and a dry basement.  Others were not so lucky, I am afraid.

As any dog owner knows, one's furry, four-legged friends can find the approach of a heavy storm to be physically and emotionally taxing, what with all the electrostatic changes in the air that those more sensitive than we humans can feel.

Our darling Pompey is not immune to such effects.  As I've written before, he doesn't care for rain, water, or snow one bit.  In fact, he hates it all.  One must drag him out of doors, negotiating with his locked paws, in order for him to do his "business" when heavy rain is pounding and gale force winds are blowing.  I don't blame him, though—I suspect you'd have to drag me outdoors, too, if that's where I had to do my business under such circumstances!

In any event, in order to preemptively address such matters, dear Boy decided to take Pompey out for a constitutional just as the storm was beginning to kick its mischief up here in the Hudson River Valley.  Hoping against hope that the desired results would be made manifest.

While Pompey was endlessly sniffing (and alternately cowering when a particularly heavy gust blew through), Boy patiently waited for the desired results.

As Boy waited and waited, while uttering words of encouragement and admonishment to our little pug, Boy cast his eyes about the grounds at Darlington.  He was struck by the beauty of the colors of the fallen sugar maple leaves that covered the lawn.

Boy used his time to pick up a bouquet of the lovely leaves and presented it to me when he returned to the house, once his mission with our sweet Pompey had blessedly, and much to our collective relief, been accomplished.

I hope you enjoy the photo montage of these leaves, Dear Reader.

photographs by Boy Fenwick

Pompey: Daddy's Little Helper

Pompey, like many (if not most) dogs (and humans, too), enjoys gamboling about outdoors when the weather is pleasant.  This past weekend at Darlington House, one of the loveliest weekends of this summer so far, Pompey was determined to slip out the door and into the sunshine at every opportunity.

As I've written before, we've had a dry summer in the Hudson River Valley.  So we've needed to do a lot of watering of our lawns and potted plants.

I spend much of each weekend pulling around a hose, delivering water from our well to thirsty plants and grass.

Pompey is a curious little fellow, and he likes to be in the thick of things.  He was determined to be helpful in my watering efforts.

What he really did was mostly get in the way.  But in a very cute way.

After a while Pompey lost interest in my watering activities, as pugs do in these sort of things.  They really don't have very long attention spans.

It is much more interesting to sniff around the base of one of the urns.

"Pompey, what are you doing?"

As can be seen by the pools of liquid on the bluestone at the base of the urn, Pompey did exactly what most dogs do after sniffing around.  Oh, that's not right!  That's the overflow from when I just watered the urn!

Afterwards, Boy asked, "Now, what do you plan to do, Pompey?"

Our little darling turned, then headed back up towards the house.

But first a stop was in order, on the way to the door, to examine the hose again.

"Pompey, do you know what time it is?" I asked.  "It's DINNER time!"

With that, he promptly turned and trotted toward the door.

Do you see that marble step Pompey is standing on?  We had it made for the house.  It weighs over three thousand pounds, and extends well below the bricks.

Eagerly anticipating his dinner, Pompey waits by the door, with visions of kibble dancing in his little head.

Hooray!  Dinner at last!

Photographs by Boy Fenwick

Mrs. Whaley, By Way of Maxminimus

I recently received a gift of a book from my esteemed fellow-blogger Maxminimus.  Titled Mrs. Whaley and Her Charleston Garden, the book is ostensibly about the author's justifiably famous garden in Charleston, South Carolina.  But it is more than that.  It is a charming and thought-provoking memoir that delves into Mrs. Whaley's past, her family, her marriage, and her philosophy of life.

Maxminimus' gift, photographed by Boy Fenwick
in the gardening barn at Darlington House

Maxminimus sent it to me, he said, because of the post I wrote awhile back, on Charleston Receipts.  He thought I might like it.  And he was right.

It is always so nice to have a book inscribed by its giver
Photograph by Boy Fenwick

It is not a particularly weighty tome, but it is one that resonates and ripples beyond its covers.  I highly recommend it to you, Dear Reader.

Mrs. Whaley's Charleston garden
Image courtesy of Preservation Nation

Mrs. Emily Whaley, who died in 1998 at the ripe age of eighty-seven, was of a vanishing breed of women that once spread throughout this country, whose population has been sadly depleted by the passage of time, the spiraling cost of living, and the supposed benefits of "progress."  She was of a class of women, largely wives and mothers, who were raised in a culture that valued tradition, continuity, self-discipline, service to others, and positive thinking.  While some, like Mrs. Whaley, were raised in affluence, it was not a prerequisite for belonging to this breed of women.  An appreciation for thrift and economy were also among its hallmarks.  They planned ahead.

Mrs. Emily Whaley with landscape architect Loutrel Briggs
Photographed in the 1970s
Mr. Briggs designed Mrs. Whaley's garden in 1940
Image courtesy of the Cultural Landscape Foundation

I was quite charmed by Mrs. Whaley's book, the stories she tells in its pages, and the nuggets of wisdom she shares.  The book is full of her keen observations and sensible opinions on matters ranging from working with others, marriage, raising a family, faith, getting involved, and being active.  She genuinely liked people, was appreciative of the advantages she had either been given or worked hard for, loved her dog Rosie, and didn't take herself (or others) too seriously.  She was happy to poke fun at herself.  And she was a worker, too—whether it be in her garden, helping out family members or friends, or toiling on behalf of a worthy cause.

Mrs. Emily Whaley with her beloved Rosie
sitting in her Charleston garden in 1997
Photographed by Milton Morris
Image courtesy of Workman Publishing Group

In short, Mrs. Whaley was a lady.  In the very best sense of the word.  She was someone that one would be proud to have as a mother or as a wife.  And she was a person that one would most certainly be honored to count as a treasured friend.

Thank you, Maxie, for introducing me to the delightful Mrs. Whaley.

Reggie is sure that you will enjoy Mrs. Whaley's memoir as much as he did, Dear Reader.  It can be ordered here from its publisher, Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill.  It is also most likely available in print and on ebooks at your local public library.

Trade Secrets

Every May for the last twelve years, a very special horticultural event called the Trade Secrets Rare Plant and Garden Antiques Show has been held in rural northwestern Connecticut.  Founded by the inestimable Bunny Williams, the two-day show is a fundraiser for Women's Support Services of Sharon, Connecticut.  The show features vendors of rare and unusual flora; antiques dealers of gardenalia; and providers of tools, pottery (such as those of Guy Wolff, about whom I wrote several years ago), and related crafts.  Trade Secrets is a buying bonanza for anyone who appreciates out-of-the-ordinary gardening resources.  For the last several years the show has been held in Sharon, Connecticut, on the grounds of the glorious Lion Rock Farm, a handsome and substantial working farm.  Lion Rock is no run-of-the-mill farm, but rather it is a gentlewoman's working estate, owned by a successful Wall Street financier.  It is gorgeous.

"Three little coleus are we!"

Boy and I make a point of attending the Trade Secrets show every year, to stock up on unusual plants for our screened porch, for plants to fill our metal urns for the summer, and for whatever else strikes our fancy.  And there is a lot to strike one's fancy at Trade Secrets.  We enjoy going to the show for a number of reasons.  Not only is it a wonderful source for all things flora, and in a beautiful setting, but it is also an opportunity to see the Tribe out in full force.  Trade Secrets draws affluent shoppers from the surrounding Connecticut, New York, and Massachusetts areas.  That means there are lots of well-cared-for, perfectly art-directed ladies with blond hair, straw hats, quilted jackets, and Hunter boots.  And there are also many well-cared-for, perfectly art-directed men who might possibly wish that they, too, were well-cared-for, perfectly art-directed ladies with blond hair, straw hats, quilted jackets, and Hunter boots.  Not surprisingly, given who founded Trade Secrets, one sees any number of fancy Manhattan decorators, antiques dealers, and lifestyle purveyors at the show, busily shopping, visiting, and having fun.  One can also be assured of seeing a certain blond lifestyle goddess who appears at the show every year, without fail, enthusiastically shopping along with the rest of the blondes in attendance.

This year the Trade Secrets show was blessed with sunny, balmy weather.  The grounds of Lion Rock Farm were beautifully groomed to a fare-thee-well, and there seemed to be more dealers than ever and blockbusting attendance.  In other words, it was a huge success!

The map showing the location of all
the dealers at the show

We arrived shortly after the 8:00 a.m. opening for the premium-priced Early Buyers portion of the show and were amazed at how many people had gotten there before us.  Boy was issued buyer's number 339 on his admission bracelet, indicating that more than three hundred people had already entered the grounds by about 8:30!  The parking fields were so heavily planted with Range Rovers, Mercedes-Benzes, and other expensive cars that I was afraid we would have difficulty in harvesting ours when the time came for us to leave.

A portion of our Trade Secrets bounty

This year we approached the show with a restrained buying appetite.  We only needed a few potted plants for our porch, and that's what we got.  I refrained from buying any myrtle topiaries from Atlock Farm this year, even though I was sorely tempted.  As I have written before, I am unable to keep myrtle topiaries living beyond a month or two, and I couldn't bear the misery of watching yet another one wither and die under my supposed administrations.  Boy did find three diminutive variegated coleus plants and a charming fern at Atlock Farm's booth, and a bay standard with great potential at the nearby Hoffman and Woodward booth.  He also bought three striking bromeliads at David Burdick Daffodils & More, which has been an excellent source for unusual daffodils for us in years past.

Three bromeliads with a frog for companionship

We often combine our visit to Trade Secrets with stops along the way home at Privet House in Warren, Connecticut, and Hunter Bee Antiques in Millerton, New York.  Last year we met our friends James and Calista Littlefield for lunch at the White Hart Inn in Salisbury, Connecticut.  Recently renovated by new owners and beautifully decorated by Michael Patrik Smyth, the White Hart Inn is everything that one could wish for in a Connecticut country inn.  The lunch we had on one its spacious porches was delightful.

Looking down into the opening of a russet-colored
bromeliad

This year we headed directly home to Darlington House after the show, though, as we have much to do to prepare for Memorial Day Weekend, when our dear friends Preston and Digby are spending the holiday with us.  One of the things we have on our docket for next weekend is a visit to a large antiques show in Rhinebeck, New York, about which I will try my best to muster a post.

Boy selected the plants to coördinate
with our porch furniture's upholstery

In the meantime, Dear Reader, do please mark your calendar to attend next May's Trade Secrets show.  And don't forget to tell them that Reggie sent you . . .

A pretty, feathery fern to complete the decoration
of our porch at Darlington House

More can be learned about Trade Secrets by visiting their website here.


Photographs by Boy Fenwick

Pulling Dandelions

I have a confession: I'm not much of a gardener.

What a lovely, evil flower . . .

I like having a handsome landscape, but I'm not all that hepped up about being the one who actually does the gardening.  I prefer to leave that to others who are better equipped.

But there's one thing in the garden I genuinely enjoy doing.  And that's pulling dandelions.

Every spring, in April and May, I spend several weekends in a row weeding our lawns of dandelions.  It is highly satisfying.

. . . given to multiplying alarmingly

When we bought Darlington we were astonished by the legions of dandelions that sprung up on the property our first spring there.  The lawns seemed to be nothing but dandelions.  There were thousands of them poking their saucy, sunny heads up, smirking at us.

Better catch this one soon, before it opens
again, having gone to seed

I spent weeks and weeks digging them up, and Boy spent an equivalent amount of time spraying them with herbicide, along with the disgusting plantain that also defiled our lawns.

Within a couple of years we had tamed the dandelion beast.  Now it is only a matter of maintenance.  But living in the country, as we do, surrounded by farms and fields, the beast requires vigilance.

This afternoon's bounty

Even though we have a gardener and a gardener's assistant to help us with such chores, I like to get in on the action.  Last weekend I pulled up several bushels of dandelions.  I expect to spend the better part of this weekend doing the same.  I'm rather stiff after all that bending and stooping, I admit.  Stiff, yes, and happy.

There is little that is more satisfying than getting a good purchase on the root of a dandelion with one's weeding tool, yanking it up from the soil, and tossing the intruder in the waiting basket.

Take that!

Oh no!

And now, Dear Reader, I'm off to finish the second installment of "The Family Secret". . .

Photographs by Boy Fenwick

Ink Pots for Posies

This past weekend we noticed that what little muscari we still have scattered about the lawns and tucked along the hedges at Darlington House was in its final stages of blooming.  A decade or more ago, before a series of landscape improvements, grading projects, and removal of decrepit and long-neglected garden beds, we had bumper crops of muscari on our property that had wondrously naturalized just about everywhere.  Today the hanger-on bulbs continue to sprout only here and there, and are a treasured reminder of our former bounty.

Our collection of vases and vessels for arranging flowers and branches has over the years become extensive and varied enough that we always seem to have the right container or group of containers for every need.  Yet with so few muscari, it was clear we needed a new option.  Long gone are the days when Boy could quickly gather dozens and dozens of stems to pack several English porcelain coffee cans.

Saturday, while exploring the current offerings at Red Chair Antiques, a wonderful shop in Hudson, New York, Boy spotted a shelf displaying, among other bits of stoneware, seven little antique stoneware ink bottles, each measuring about 2 ½ to 3 ½ inches tall and each with a narrow neck and opening.  Choosing among them was not an option; all seven were immediately wrapped by the charming clerk and accompanied us back to Darlington.

While the diminutive pots make an instant sculptural collection within Boy's stash of larger stoneware bottles, pots, and crocks, they are the ideal size and design to cradle several stems—or just one stem—of muscari, one pot alone, or in groupings.  They are perfect, too, for displaying the flowers of other little spring bulbs, such as galanthus (already finished in our lawns) or scilla (of which we have probably thousands continuously naturalizing through the grass).

I am hopeful that when we arrive at the house this coming weekend we will discover other diminutive spring-blooming flowers to fill our new old little vessels.

photographs by Boy Fenwick

Another February, Another Snowdrop . . .

Oh, la, it is that time of year again!  The snowdrops are peeping out of the ground at Darlington!

Their appearance is such a favorite seasonal marker for both Boy and me.  We are excited with joy and anticipation.

The bulbs have awakened, right on schedule.  

Photograph (taken not fifteen minutes ago) by Boy Fenwick

I'm Just a Cockeyed Topiary Optimist!

As readers of this blog may recall, Reggie isn't very lucky when it comes to caring for topiaries—those charming, impossible-to-sustain, diminutive potted standards sold by swell florists and specialty growers to those of us weak-willed enough to succumb to their siren call.  I've written about my failures with keeping such darlings alive, despite my most earnest efforts to, here and here.

Our remaining topiaries—trimmed, rinsed,
and sprayed, and (I hope) ready to be brought
indoors for the winter...

But, being the optimist that I am, I never seem to figure out that buying yet another topiary (which for me actually means buying at least two of them at a time, since they look best in pairs) will lead to the inevitable death of said plant.  For under my care death is what their fate will most assuredly be, despite my best efforts otherwise.  I've killed countless dozens of them over the years.

This spring, at the Trade Secrets garden show held annually in Sharon, Connecticut, (founded by the inestimable Bunny Williams) I bought half a dozen new pots of topiaries from Atlock Farm, one of the vendors showing there, to replace the topiaries I'd murdered over the previous winter.  I did so with the newfound understanding that my approach to owning and caring for topiaries had theretofore been flawed.  In the past I had erroneously thought that I could keep them alive for months (if not years) with careful and loving treatment.  I had also considered that my inability to do so was, well, a failure on my part.  Not so, one wise reader, named Flo, advised me—I was in good company because it is virtually impossible for mere mortals such as Reggie to keep such tender lovelies alive over the winter in a northeastern house, particularly one such as Darlington House that is lived in only on weekends and where there is no temperature- and humidity-regulated greenhouse for the topiaries to vacation.  Just think of a topiary, she wrote, as an expensive potted plant that has a limited life span, and enjoy it as such.

Such freedom!  I now understood that my topiaries' withering was as inevitable as the tides rolling in and out, something entirely beyond my control.  That is, unless I were Bunny Mellon, famous for—among other things—an extensive collection of perfectly cared-for topiaries, acres of greenhouses, and armies of gardeners charged with ensuring said topiaries' long life.  As I've pointed out here before, I am, most assuredly, not Mrs. Paul Mellon.

Of the half dozen topiaries I bought at the Trade Secrets show this spring, four remain with us, having survived a summer of mostly benign neglect on our screened porch at Darlington House.  I am showing them, ahead of our bringing them indoors for the winter, pruned (by Boy) of their late-summer shagginess and returned to their desired, perfectly coiffed profiles.  They are resting behind our gardening barn in the shade, after having been rinsed and sprayed, awaiting their transfer into the house.

Even though I know there is scant hope that these topiaries will survive until spring under my care, I still hope and wish that they will, despite the odds stacked against me.  I just can't help myself.  I'm a tender-hearted optimist when it comes to such things.

And that is why there will always be a demand for nurseries and plantsmen to bring fresh batches of topiaries to market every spring—because of cockeyed optimists like Reggie who, when confronted by a  new topiary deludes himself into believing that he might be able to, this time, nurture it from one year to the next.

And because I am aware that such optimism is foolishness on my part, I know that I will return to the Trade Secrets show next spring to, once again, replenish my stock of topiaries, continuing the never-ending cycle . . .

The Crocuses of Darlington

Call me old-fashioned, but I adore crocuses.  The older the variety the better, as far as I'm concerned.

I love it when crocuses are irregularly scattered about lawns, more so than when they are planted in rows or in beds.  It looks quite natural and, unexpectedly, just right.

It is such a pleasure when they peep their pretty heads up out of the grass, like so many chicks in a nest, their mouths open, waiting for sustenance.

I'm most partial to white and purple ones, which is—not surprisingly—all that we have at Darlington. 

Ours range from purple-throated white to the palest of lavenders to the darkest of ecclesiastical purples.

The crocuses were at their peak this weekend in our part of the Hudson River Valley.  What a joy it was.

All photographs by Boy Fenwick