The sign may suggest good thymes, but clearly, this thyme is suffering.
It’s an unspoken North State rule that we residents don’t complain about our unbearable heat. To do so is considered whiney and in poor form. Instead, we keep our mouths shut and endure successive triple-digit temperatures as if we aren’t dying in the heat and wishing we lived on the coast.
Even so, I don’t know how much longer I can put up with the facade of tolerating another Redding summer. Each morning when I step outside to hand-water my plants, it’s obvious that my plants are stuggling, even though I’m showering them with a criminal amount of water.
Back in the spring, I chirped about how therapeutic it was to stand with a hose in one hand and a beverage – coffee in the a.m., wine at night – in the other as I breathed in cool breezes and marveled at the heavenly horticultural paradise I’d created. I basked in the compliments. Thank you, thank you very much.
I cherished those pleasant watering moments.
Now, I dread these watering sessions. Before I head outside each morning for my watering chores – and they have become chores at this point — I use a spray bottle to spritz myself with water, head to toe — clothing and all — to help me tolerate the heat, because I’m a hopeless heat weenie. By the time I’m finished, the sprayed water has evaporated.
I hand water because I can’t be sure which drip systems are working, and which aren’t, so I just rush about the yard spraying the plants that look the most parched. Even the most resilient plants, like mint and oregano, are taking a beating.
I’m a fraud, because the truth is that most of those gorgeous plants I boasted about in the spring are either dead or dying. The ones that look presentable are on life support.
This planter looks OK, but don’t be fooled; it takes daily soakings to keep the flowers alive.
Basically, all my plants, with the exceptions of succulents and a few others, are showing signs of stress.
Wait. I take that back. There is one exception; a 10-foot tall that I learned was pokeweed that looms over my neighbor’s fence. It’s bright green with berries and growing strong. It’s in full sun. It receives no water. It dominates the landscape and taunts me as I attempt to keep my chosen plants alive.
It towers above a fence near my sun-scorched canna lilies, flowers that are designed to grow in tropical places with at least six hours of sun each day. They’re fried!
When I took a photo of the massive weeds with my plant identification app to learn its name, the notification proclaimed, “This plant looks Healthy!”
I would have to agree.
It’s my own fault. I was the one in the spring who purchased flats of flowers with total abandon and no thought for the coming heat waves. I bought packets of seeds that I planted before the rains were finished, so they drowned. Another waste of money tied to my lack of horticultural impulse control. I was a bit of a spring brat, and showed off my lush, beautiful yards and gardens.
Not one of the plants in this photo is still alive. The pot is empty.
Like a mother who somehow forgets the painful intensity of childbirth, each spring I have amnesia when it comes to buying new plants. I’ve gardened all my life, so it’s not like I haven’t experienced the death and destruction that Redding’s heat brings to all but the most sturdy plants.
How I wish that summer Doni could get through to spring Doni, and warn her away from delicate flowers that will surely perish by mid July; the pretty lobelias and petunias and snapdragons and cyclamen. If summer Doni could get through to spring Doni, she’d recall which plants came through the summer unscathed, and which didn’t. This year, I’ve made a list of the super-star survivor plants that I should plant next year. They include lavender, rosemary and succulents. I’m not a fan of spikey succulents, but I do like the softer varieties. In fact, a large planter of succulents sits on my front porch where it basks in the sun and gets bigger and more lush with each day.
Speaking of that large mixed bowl of succulents, about a week ago a pale green praying mantis appeared from deep within the greenery, as if coming out to see who turned on the shower. Each day, the praying mantis did its little boxer imitation, swinging its thin arms in the air as if to say, “What the hell, Doni! You planted two dogwoods? Are you crazy? A coastal redwood? Seriously!!?”
Yesterday morning, I actually heard myself say hello to the perky pale insect. She seemed friendly. Perhaps I’d been in the heat too long. But watching for the praying mantis has become the highlight of my daily watering routine. She’s quiet, but has a sort of wise look about her that inspired me to confide in her about my gardening failures. It’s no accident that she inhabits the large succulent on my front porch, one of the healthiest plants in my yard, which happens to live beside a thriving plumeria plant, a house-warming gift from dear friends. I don’t want to jinx it, but I’m surprised I haven’t killed the plumeria yet.
Here’s my plan: figure out which drip systems are working, and which are not. Cut my losses and quit trying to resuscitate the dying plants with more water, such as that hydrangea that never had any business being planted where it currently lives. Instead, I will let them go, give them a decent burial, and vow to never plant them again. I will trim back the irises, and come late summer, plant them in an area designated just for the iris, all inspired by a wonderful couple and their Happy Valley iris farm. I was also inspired by iris farm neighbors, another Happy Valley couple and their lavender farm.
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With my new mind set, I will look around my yard and allow the living plants to guide next year’s plantings. Yes to rosemary, lavender, iris, rock roses, salvia, California redbud, non-pokey soft succulents, sage and crepe myrtle.
And oh yes, a word about crepe myrtle.
Photo source: Walmart.com
They’re controversial, because people either love or hate them. The downsides include the fact that they’re not native, and they’re messy, and they are aphid magnets, which is a problem because the sticky aphid excrement drips on vehicles and sidewalks. But there’s no denying that crepe myrtles are pretty. They come in some gorgeous jewel-toned colors, and most of all, they thrive in the North State’s heat, so I’m keeping mine. I have three, all in that deep pink color, and none are planted near parking areas.
Doni’s guara plants have taken over, and are out of control. But still, they’re alive, so she’s keeping them.
Yes, also, to guara — Oenothera lindheimeri — although I will stay on top of trimming, so they don’t completely take over the yard.
Naked ladies never disappoint
To prove that I’m not totally negative about North State summer plants, there is one shining star, a flower that only appears during the worst of the blistering Dog Days of summer; Naked Lady Lilies, more properly known as Amaryllis Belladonna. They appear on slender bare stalks – hence the naked reference – only after the lush bladed greenery has died away. They show up when everything else is on its way out. They’re slightly fragrant, and the petals are pretty and delicate. Truly, they’re the best thing happening in my yard this time of the year.
But the Naked Lady Lilies are summer outliers. And of probably more than a dozen plants in my yard, so far just this one bulb has shown up this summer. That’s ok. I’m grateful for this one.
As I reconsider what plants to keep and which to give up on, some plants are non negotiable, such as my Daphne, a gift from departed friend Jan Gandy as a house-warming gift when I bought this house nearly 10 years ago. And the trio of citrus in my front yard – one representing each grandchild – they’re keepers. Same with the violets from departed friend Joann Lockwood.
When in doubt, I’ll confer with my praying mantis gardening consultant. A tiny thin green thumbs up, and I’ll keep the plant. Thumbs down, I won’t.
I just need to hang on until fall. Until then, let’s hear your tried and true plants that thrive in the North State’s punishing heat. I mean other than pokeweed. No pokeweed, please.
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