Memory aid

I live in a land of dramatic contrasts. In January, it's good to remember that July will come. A snapshot tucked into a Christmas card from my sister is a quick and easy reference to what last July looked like in roughly the same area of the garden.

Iced greetings

I hung this wreath made with cranberries and scented geranium leaves on one of the plant supports in the garden. Sunshine is starting to chip away at it.

I've been wanting to make one of these for six years, since I worked on a newspaper package about ice wreaths in December 2004.

I used a Bundt pan but any gelatin mold will work. I filled the pan about half full using a bag of fresh cranberries and water and left it outside to freeze. Once that layer was solid, I finished filling the pan with water and left it to freeze.

Found deep in the bowels of the Christmas closet.

Unmolding the wreath was as easy as running a little water over the pan in the kitchen sink. Add a wide ribbon and you're ready to hang it on a post or a trellis or prop it against a snowbank or chair. Depending on the weather and whether it's displayed in direct sun, the wreath can last for days or weeks around here. When it does melt, the cranberries are a treat for the birds and other critters.

Actually, all sorts of ingredients other than cranberries can be used. Orange slices would be pretty. So would rings of green pepper. Other choices include spruce and cedar sprigs, cinnamon sticks, walnuts, and glitter. For one wreath, I added leaves from my peppermint-scented geranium plant for a counterpoint to the cranberries.

This one is just cranberries. I propped it in the snow on a bed of balsam.

Ch-ch-ch-chain-saw changes

The stump on the left used to be a tall balsam that balanced the balsam on the right with the stairs between them.

Sometimes, after I'm gone for the day, dramatic changes welcome me home. Sometimes, a tree gets planted. Other times a tree gets moved. Or, like most recently, a tree gets cut down.

I knew it was coming -- we had talked about the necessity of taking down a balsam that stood sentinel on one side of the entrance to the little wooded enclave we call the Shady Nook. The tree was tight against an aspen -- as tight as crossed fingers -- and the situation with its girdling roots wasn't good for either of them. Then, this past winter the top of the balsam snapped off. No sense putting it off any longer. The tree, which had been ailing for some time, had to come down. I went off to class and the resident head gardener pulled out the chain saw. And suddenly, the Shady Nook looked very different.

First, of course, this means the Shady Nook isn't so shady anymore. And it means that the area, which was the very definition of dry shade, also won't be so dry anymore. It means opportunities to rethink the area and to use the balsam stump as a pedestal for a pot of something trailing or a place to put a birdhouse. Maybe one similar to the birdhouses with roofs planted in succulents that we saw at Winter Greenhouse. It means that someday, a new conifer of our choosing may sink its roots there. And the Not-So-Shady Nook may become the Shady Nook again.

One of the green-roof birdhouses we saw last year at Winter Greenhouse.

Thankful for wheat

A few stems of black-tip wheat.

Wheat was never an option in the home garden when I was growing up. Wheat was a field crop, something farmers planted by the acre and harvested with huge noisy machines. Those amber waves of grain were pretty, but they were destined to be bread and, as everyone knew, food crops and ornamental crops just didn't mingle.

Funny how these boundaries, like so many others, are history.

This Thanksgiving, among the many things -- big and small -- that I'm grateful for, I'm glad that Brian had the good sense to plant black-tip wheat (Triticum durum) this year. We got the seed from Territorial Seed Company and it germinated quickly in a sunny spot between the garage and the side door. The green shoots quickly grew into buff-colored spikes that took on an ethereal glow in the late afternoon sun. The black in the awls didn't quite rise to expectations but it was still satisfying.

Sunshine lights up the wheat at left and right in early September.

Satisfying outside in the sun and now satisfying inside on the table. The wheat dries beautifully and is a natural for autumn/Thanksgiving decor. You can go minimal with just a few stems in a vase or lush with a bunch tied together with a ribbon. And, now that Thanksgiving is over, some of the wheat can go to a friend for use in a Hanukkah play and some can be recycled for use in Christmas decorations. No boundaries.

Bundle a bunch of stems together for a lush effect.

A feast for the eyes

The formal garden at a home in New York is set up for
a late afternoon wedding ceremony.

In summer, there's no place I'd rather be than at home in the garden. Yes, even with the weeds, the slugs and the deer damage, I still prefer hanging out among the ornamentals and the edibles in my little corner of the planet. Especially if there's a cold beer or an icy mojito nearby. But when travel is on the agenda, it's nice that some garden touring is included. And this summer I couldn't have asked for more. I had the pleasure of seeing two lovely private gardens as well as getting my first look at Battery Park, Central Park and the New York Botanical Garden. I returned home inspired -- and with a severe case of tree envy.

The formal garden where the bride and groom exchanged vows was among the most beautiful I've ever seen. It was sophisticated, yet welcoming. Classy, yet charming. Serene, but with a sense of humor. What I really loved, besides that gorgeous fountain and pond, was the choice of plants. Many were familiar -- lamb's ear, woolly thyme, baptisia, allium -- and they all contributed to the sense of joy so appropriate to the day. Here's some of what inspired me:

1. It bears repeating: the use of familiar plants that are readily available. It's not always about the exotic or the rare (although that's nice, too); sometimes it's about "ordinary plants" used in extraordinary ways. For example, that narrow border of lamb's ears around the pool -- very cool.

2. Hardscape matters. OK, most of us don't have the space or resources to make a garden like this. But attention to paths and the use of stone, gravel or other paving material pays big dividends. The gray tones of the walkways and urns complement the whites, silvers and blues in the plants.

3. Focal points and sight lines. I'll never have a fountain like that egret, but I can pay attention to where I place trellises and decorative items. While details are critical, it's important to remember to see the big picture, too. Where does the eye go? What do I want to emphasize and showcase?

4. Neatness counts. Everything was trimmed, deadheaded and in its place. A testament to well-organized nature.

The fountain is a jaw-dropper. The musicians prepare for the ceremony under one of the rose arbors.

Stone pillars with pineapple finials mark the garden entrance.

Guests gather just inside the garden. Robust plantings soften the garden's geometry.

The garden-maker also has a sense of humor. The gnome, hidden from view until you leave the garden, keeps watch.