tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36494542077147543462024-03-13T09:41:01.863-07:00Daniel Mount GardensDANIEL MOUNT GARDENS PROFESSIONALLY IN THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST. HE LIVES ON A SMALL FARM IN CARNATION, WASHINGTON. HE SHARES THE INSPIRATION HE GETS FROM HIS WORK AND THE NATURAL WORLD IN THIS JOURNAL.Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comBlogger224125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-47178531790871662042013-11-24T17:14:00.001-08:002013-11-24T17:14:45.826-08:00Rotten Blog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dNpOECQkaQs/UpKjtJDppKI/AAAAAAAABkY/zHnQkWN84F0/s1600/DSC05696.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dNpOECQkaQs/UpKjtJDppKI/AAAAAAAABkY/zHnQkWN84F0/s400/DSC05696.jpg" /></a></div>
This blog has been neglected so long it's starting to rot...go to my new blog at <a href="http://www.mountgardens.com/blog">mountgardens.com</a> Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-53581557044458861952013-01-19T13:36:00.000-08:002013-01-19T13:37:02.342-08:00DEAD OF WINTER<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This blog is dying a slow death, but you can find my new blod coming to life at <a href="http://www.mountgardens.com/blog">mountgardens.com</a>.
Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-90465231500784136792012-06-10T09:33:00.002-07:002012-06-10T09:33:40.877-07:00Irises<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t8RlpOWwOpo/T9TMCDsznyI/AAAAAAAABjo/Kz2abNwoxqs/s1600/_DSC3990.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="213" width="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t8RlpOWwOpo/T9TMCDsznyI/AAAAAAAABjo/Kz2abNwoxqs/s320/_DSC3990.JPG" /></a>
Read more about irises on my new <a href="http://www.mountgardens.com/blog">blog</a>.Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-19744069162323133722012-05-11T14:16:00.000-07:002012-05-11T14:17:16.609-07:00This blog has been <a href="http://www.mountgardens.com/rose-is-a-turnip-is-a-rose">transplanted<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</a>Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-56333716618153336192012-04-22T16:34:00.007-07:002012-04-22T16:39:42.861-07:00Tulip Time Everywhere<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iOI4pacOVEg/T5SV2ROpPmI/AAAAAAAABjM/BhTaHHFetv8/s1600/DSC00042.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iOI4pacOVEg/T5SV2ROpPmI/AAAAAAAABjM/BhTaHHFetv8/s320/DSC00042.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734372985119784546" /></a><br />Tip-toe through the tulips with me to my new blog at <a href="http://www.mountgardens.com/what-another-tulip-post">mountgardens.com</a>Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-940082235867489402012-03-19T20:31:00.002-07:002012-03-19T20:36:46.278-07:00HAPPY TRAILS<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ohfZdRAFcsc/T2f7K1_dGjI/AAAAAAAABjA/q4gLPItH-co/s1600/DSC02102.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ohfZdRAFcsc/T2f7K1_dGjI/AAAAAAAABjA/q4gLPItH-co/s320/DSC02102.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721818015307995698" /></a><br />If you haven't caught on yet, this blog has moved to <a href="http://www.mountgardens.com/blog/">Daniel Mount GARDENS</a>. You can read more about tulips like this 'Happy Generation' there.Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-84815845388955502632012-02-20T08:40:00.001-08:002012-02-20T09:06:28.456-08:00MOVEMENT<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DonhjVpWbd0/T0J3__25sFI/AAAAAAAABi0/gZ8IkIED8wo/s1600/DSC00014.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DonhjVpWbd0/T0J3__25sFI/AAAAAAAABi0/gZ8IkIED8wo/s320/DSC00014.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711259218816381010" /></a><br /><br />Those of you who have known me for a while will not be surprised that I am moving. I’ve been moving since I left the womb, whether running across my mother’s kitchen floor, or packing up and moving to my 3rd new apartment in a year, back in my college days. I have finally settled here in the Snoqualmie Valley outside Seattle, and dread the thought of ever packing up and actually moving again. But move I must. This time it is a very simple cyber-move. I have launched my new website and blog on wordpress. Please move with me by following this link: <a href="http://www.mountgardens.com/">mountgardens.com</a>, and continue reading about the joys and tribulations of this plantsman, gardener and farmer living in a flood plain.Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-85376552329100000922012-01-25T07:15:00.000-08:002012-01-25T07:35:40.213-08:00FROZEN FOODS<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qACzHU8GxEY/TyAdLChePWI/AAAAAAAABic/W-To8kdHMiQ/s1600/DSC02136.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qACzHU8GxEY/TyAdLChePWI/AAAAAAAABic/W-To8kdHMiQ/s320/DSC02136.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701589203744079202" /></a><br /><br />Well, I got my wish. Snow, snow, snow and more snow with freezing rain and then some more snow. I know why people complain about snow. But being trapped in the house for a few days having to eat as much of the frozen food as possible because there is no power and everything is thawing faster and faster isn't so bad. ANd I think these cabbage will somehow survive.<br /> I got the office cleaned and made a few hikes out into the glistening valley. Not so bad, now that it's over. Though I think the bamboo would have something else to say if it could talk.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3dRNl5ez50Y/TyAg1YH_6NI/AAAAAAAABio/FsWQXER-EyM/s1600/DSC02158.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3dRNl5ez50Y/TyAg1YH_6NI/AAAAAAAABio/FsWQXER-EyM/s320/DSC02158.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701593229632202962" /></a>Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-19367661992660148692012-01-15T12:10:00.000-08:002012-01-15T13:25:27.627-08:00THE END OF THE BEGINNING<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rE659aBjMyQ/TxM0QoB3QnI/AAAAAAAABiE/rHvTxPBpij8/s1600/DSC02032.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rE659aBjMyQ/TxM0QoB3QnI/AAAAAAAABiE/rHvTxPBpij8/s320/DSC02032.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5697955413781594738" /></a><br /><br /> When does the New Year end? and the regular year begin? In our rush to get back to work, on with our resolutions and to stash the Christmas decorations away most of us start the year on January 2nd. But when exactly does the baby become a child?<br /> In the Shinto tradition the new year lasts until January 15th—now that’s a generous holiday. Of course in modern Japan like most modern countries people get started as soon as possible after the New Year’s Day. We are uncomfortable with fallowness. Even though I’m a gardener and supposedly more connected to the seasons than many other people, I have been very productive since January 2nd. Not gardening necessarily, though I have done a bit of clean up and pruning. I’ve been busy trying to get my unruly office in order, no success yet, and in getting my new website launched.<br /> Each Year around New Year’s Day, Michael and I travel down Crooked Mile Road outside of Granite Falls to Tsubaki Grand Shrine. We go to wander the beautiful site of this Shinto shrine, to stand on the banks of the Pilchuck River which bends and eddies there with poetic vigor. We go there to receive the New Year blessing from the high priest, who sweeps a wand of crisp white paper over our heads, booms on a great deep voiced drum and jingles bells. Though it would be easy to dismiss this ritual as ancient mumbo jumbo, I can’t help but put some hope into it, as I do in touching the great stone frogs which are said to bring good fortune to those who return to the temple each year.<br /> When we came home the mild weather had induced the tree frogs to start their spring songs. It fills the night air of the sleeping swamp that lies around our farm. They boomed and jingled like temple bells and drums. Though I know that spring is months away a great positivity rose up in me. After all the witch hazel’s already in bloom and I saw a flock of swans today decidedly flying north, though the ground was covered with snow.<br /> And the baby has stood up and started to walk.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UyJ7GvWyCdA/TxM0Q6WnjWI/AAAAAAAABiQ/2a7ci7JXq4M/s1600/DSC00056.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UyJ7GvWyCdA/TxM0Q6WnjWI/AAAAAAAABiQ/2a7ci7JXq4M/s320/DSC00056.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5697955418700483938" /></a>Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-2616533538615307302012-01-01T09:54:00.000-08:002012-01-01T09:54:00.473-08:00DIGGIN' IN<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y9k_DfTasM8/Tv9Mls3jqzI/AAAAAAAABh4/f07he5k7ibQ/s1600/LexmarkAIOScan19.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 202px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y9k_DfTasM8/Tv9Mls3jqzI/AAAAAAAABh4/f07he5k7ibQ/s320/LexmarkAIOScan19.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692352664602651442" /></a><br /> I sit here to write, sluggish and bloated with holiday cheer, a laughing Buddha on the precipice of the New Year. The landscape I survey is hazy, what will I make of it and what will it take of me. I know it will be busy with travel , gardening and writing. <br /> Thomas Jefferson said, “I’m a great believer in luck, and I find the harder I work, the more of it I have.” So it’s time to get down to the digging and uncover some of that luck. I hope to share it with you here as the year unfolds.<br /> Best wishes for good health and good luck in 2012,<br /> DanielDaniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-73072420251124109692011-12-24T09:31:00.001-08:002011-12-24T11:08:48.886-08:00THE COLOR OF CHRISTMASAlready 3 weeks ago, when I first heard Bing Crosby’s dreamy crooning, I too began to dream. And even wish out loud for snow. Not mountain-top, ski-slope snow, but snow right down here in the lowlands. I know my wish was childish, say around 10 years old with a new sled under the tree. I know my wish had traffic-snarling, jet-grounding impact, but all I cared about was my dream, and well, Bing’s too, and any other number of crooners who’ve tackled the song. Ask someone who grew up in Wisconsin, there is nothing like a white Christmas.<br /> So weeks ago I began with the dreaming. In some sort of neo-shamanistic ritual I sprinkled popcorn along the rails of the deck outside the kitchen window. I told Michael it was to entice the birds closer to the house, but under my secret wishfully dreamy breath I was also trying to entice the weather gods to give us snow.<br />It’s not that I am ungrateful for the incredibly mild December we’ve been having. Nor do I mind the dense fog that the inversion layer kept pushed down around our ears for weeks now. I actually like the truncated visibility, turning the swamp surrounding our farm into a gothic masterpiece inhabited by spirits wearing moss pelts and opalescent pearls of dew. I love to walk through the valley this time of year when most others avoid it.<br /> As I walked through this river of fog a few days ago and the season hung drab all around me and my dreaming about snow crescendo’d and collapsed, a strange sensitivity awoke in me, as if the low levels of light made my eyes more sensitive to subtle color variations. We grumpily refer to this weather, the fog, as the gray as if it were one thick coat of paint over everything. But it often reads blue especially early and late in the day. Sometimes even a vague sort of yellow when there is incandescent lights near by, haloed with eery greens.<br /> And sometimes you enter pockets of the purest white. I had entered such a pocket on my walk that day when what to my wondering eyes did appear, actually it was my ears first that caught the magnificent trumpeting. A jubilation. Then just over my head out of the white sky a flock of 8 swans, a multitude of heavenly hosts, dropped from invisibility just yards over my head. They had not seen me either and a honk-honk-honk of warning echoed among them and they banked. The breath from their 16 wings brushed my upturned face. Then they vanished in the swaddling opaque fog. As this sublime monochrome moment opened and closed a shimmer like a shutter went through me. It was nothing that electricity could duplicate. Or, alas, words convey.<br />By solstice the weather had shifted a little. Shifted I say because there has been no wind to speak of, no great change, just a sleeper shifting under blankets of fog and clouds. The sun broke through. At first it merely laid on the fallen leaves, the walls, the blacktop, not penetrating, not heating. Even in the bluish shadows I could see it’s presence though, cool as electricity, skittering across the pebbled pavement, the rough trunks, and the smudged window of the Salvadoran restaurant where I ate pupusas.<br /> Then through a slow persistence that seemed to bare no force heat came through. As I walked northward from the restaurant to my parked car I could feel this heat massage it’s way through 2 layers of wool and 2 layers of cotton and touch my fog-pallid skin. I forgot about summer and everything I did to keep the suns burning rays from damaging my oh-so-pale and cancerous skin. My skin called to the sun that day, nearly lifted off my shoulders as if desperate, as if starved for the closeness of those warming rays.<br /> The sun left that day smearing the western horizon with an explosion of oranges, reds and yellows. I tipped my hat, so to speak, knowing it was now on it’s way back. And shivered under my for layers, a little wet with sweat, as I scurried through the crowds of shoppers back to my car.<br /> Here its is Christmas Eve already. No sign of snow, not even in the mountains, much to the skiers’ chagrin and this snowshoer’s. It seems ironic the the classic Northwest Christmas song is written by Brenda White and extols the blessings of a “Christmas in the Northwest / a gift God wrapped in green.” Looks like the lyricist name is the closest we’ll get to a white Christmas this year. Why am I so obsessed with a Christmas that is a certain color? <br /> About 20 years ago when I was working as ‘Mr. Christmas” for Molbak’s Seattle Garden Center in the Pike Place Market, there was a big push for a jewel tone Christmas by the people selling decorations. The traditional silver and gold, red and green were being replaced by multi-syllabic colors like turquoise, amethyst and aquamarine. Classy colors. I’m all for reinventing the wheel. But when it comes to Christmas I’m a traditionalist. I don’t want any Chippendale mermen on my tree, or chili pepper lights or jewel tones. <br /> Give me silver and gold.<br /> Give me the mono-syllabic red and green. <br /> And, please, oh, please give me a white day after Christmas, if only in my dreams.Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-13288131914229875582011-12-23T11:07:00.000-08:002011-12-24T11:08:12.168-08:00WHO NEEDS POINSETTIAS?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o6Lz3oRWCus/TvYN2K3-y_I/AAAAAAAABhg/OTv0boJd-rw/s1600/DSC01899.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o6Lz3oRWCus/TvYN2K3-y_I/AAAAAAAABhg/OTv0boJd-rw/s320/DSC01899.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689750403512454130" /></a><br /><br />Rhododendron 'Ostbo's Red Elizabeth' blooming again the day before Christmas. Eat your hear out all those of you who are blanketed in white.Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-10864649114442551362011-12-16T09:52:00.000-08:002011-12-16T09:52:00.231-08:00FALL COLOR X<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5W8___y9aho/TtkRXQ7t7nI/AAAAAAAABhU/lAr6Ugmk9Hg/s1600/DSC02952.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5W8___y9aho/TtkRXQ7t7nI/AAAAAAAABhU/lAr6Ugmk9Hg/s320/DSC02952.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681591496284696178" /></a><br /><br />I love prune brown, though I would never eat these old pear leaves, frozen, rained on, in decay. But the color to me is as rich as chocolate, savory as braised lamb, hefty as pumpernickel. Who needs pink this time of year? There’s a bucket of potatoes to be peeled for dinner.Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-24992864453091359932011-12-09T09:38:00.000-08:002011-12-09T09:38:00.956-08:00FALL COLOR IX<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zHVOuYPEdOI/TtkNrXWPAJI/AAAAAAAABhI/-uivxxL_00s/s1600/DSC02940.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zHVOuYPEdOI/TtkNrXWPAJI/AAAAAAAABhI/-uivxxL_00s/s320/DSC02940.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681587443557400722" /></a><br /><br />How precious the light. I don’t care how high the price of gold goes. This time of year when the clouds break, you have to stop and catch it. Not just with the camera, or the skin, but with the very fiber of being. That is all that will sustain us until the clouds break again. Decorations are distractions, but the way this fading Japanese forest grass (Hakonechloa macra ‘All Gold’) shines under the wash of sunbeams enlivens.Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-39644557430803826262011-12-02T09:13:00.001-08:002011-12-02T09:52:09.214-08:00FALL COLOR VIII<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CJH7f0kPwjo/TtkHtiE8V_I/AAAAAAAABg8/RYIZ_bW9Ypc/s1600/DSC02925.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CJH7f0kPwjo/TtkHtiE8V_I/AAAAAAAABg8/RYIZ_bW9Ypc/s320/DSC02925.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681580883727636466" /></a><br />As I searched through my my fiery vocabulary for a metaphor to describe the generous beauty of this sourwood (<span style="font-style:italic;">Oxydendron arboreum</span>), I ran up against trite words like “volcanic”, “molten”, unsatisfying phrases like “engulfed in flames”. Then I tried invoking the the gem-like quality of poisonous cinnabar, or the sugary cheeriness of cinnamon bears, to no avail. I exhausted quickly up against this beauty. And then I found these words of Rabindranath Tagore:<br /> “As the season ends let everything go in an orgy of giving away.<br /> Come, thieves of hidden honey; come now bees—<br /> The year has chosen to marry death and wants to give all as she leaves.”Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-69824644114890187372011-11-22T19:48:00.000-08:002011-11-22T19:58:55.087-08:00FALL COLOR VII<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ncXMUzSJ-V8/Tsxtj_QTxfI/AAAAAAAABgw/iwSf-lEPaLo/s1600/DSC02843.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ncXMUzSJ-V8/Tsxtj_QTxfI/AAAAAAAABgw/iwSf-lEPaLo/s320/DSC02843.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678033695250040306" /></a><br /><br />As the cold melancholic rains strip the color from the trees, flinging the golden leaves of the cotton woods into the gutter, the flaming reds of maples across the lawn, I wonder how I will sustain this post series until December 21 when fall ends. I could go on about green for the next month. But I’ll save that for later. What I see now is white, ominous white. Will snow come, or nor? Snow berries (<span style="font-style:italic;"> Symphorocarpos albus</span>) are certainly already here, ghostly, inedible and totally beautiful.Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-86188399799444068562011-11-16T07:45:00.000-08:002011-11-16T07:45:01.185-08:00FALL COLOR VI<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3WhWA_Wtgdo/Tr6VYuOZzuI/AAAAAAAABgk/69p_80HajVk/s1600/DSC02800.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3WhWA_Wtgdo/Tr6VYuOZzuI/AAAAAAAABgk/69p_80HajVk/s320/DSC02800.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674136832491245282" /></a><br /><br />If you’re prone to metallic hyperbole you’d probably call the color of these fallen cherry leaves bronze. If you’re like <span style="font-style:italic;">Crayola</span> you’d probably call it burnt sienna. If <span style="font-style:italic;">Caran d’ache</span> is more your style you’d most likely call it cinnamon. If masculine <span style="font-style:italic;">Sherman-Williams</span> supplies your color vocabulary you might call it tobacco, But if you’re slike me you probably prefer brown. Not that I don’t see the complexity and richness of color here, not that I don’t appreciate a lovely associative word. But because I love the roundness of the word brown. Because to me the color brown is round, not just for the sake of rhyme. It is a color swollen with implications.Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-59228316734803074972011-11-11T19:38:00.000-08:002011-11-11T19:38:00.469-08:00FALL COLOR V<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Sb_bx--I6Vo/Tq4KguyJKhI/AAAAAAAABgY/Cj1GlTVDtwM/s1600/DSC02790.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Sb_bx--I6Vo/Tq4KguyJKhI/AAAAAAAABgY/Cj1GlTVDtwM/s320/DSC02790.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669480538336471570" /></a><br /><br /> This lovely lavender dame’s rocket (<span style="font-style:italic;">Hesperis matronalis</span>) has been blooming since April. In July as it began to lay down slowly on the surrounding perennials I thought I should cut it back, but then forgot. By August I was wondering, “How long will this damn dame keep blooming.” The flower spikes were stretching nearly 8 feet by then. We’ve finally had a killing frost, 22º. Much was blackened and flattened over night. All the leaves of the empress trees dropped green. There was ice in the watering can. But the little, well not so little , dame’s rocket just keeps on bloomingDaniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-54029485242599623182011-11-06T19:36:00.000-08:002011-11-06T19:55:34.067-08:00FALL COLOR IV<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eQaXe2X0tzY/Tq4KFbbrsXI/AAAAAAAABgM/PPVTQi_zn6k/s1600/DSC02779.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eQaXe2X0tzY/Tq4KFbbrsXI/AAAAAAAABgM/PPVTQi_zn6k/s320/DSC02779.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669480069285523826" /></a><br /><br />A few night s ago I had dinner at a Japanese restaurant that I hadn’t dined at in years. It actually had changed hands and names several times since I was last there back in the early 90s. It’s in an odd little corner of Seattle and a basement at that. But when you enter this finely laid out and decorated subterranean restaurant, you feel like you’re in Japan. Well, I feel like I’m in Japan, though I’ve never been to Japan and don’t really know what being in Japan feels like. But the atmosphere of this restaurant, which has gone through some changes since I was there last, still has a quintessentially Japanese feel. At the end of the small front dining room, which used to be the bar twenty, thirty years ago, is the beautiful autumnal mural. Japanese maples in reds, oranges and yellows seem unusual, most Japanese restaurants focus on bamboo or spring and cherry blossoms for their decor. These maples frame a plunging narrow water fall now covered by Samsung large screen T.V. The waitress caught me taking this picture, looked puzzled and then apologized, “ It’s a shame we put a T.V. in the middle of that beautiful painting.” I just smiled.Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-88600442520007063442011-11-02T19:33:00.000-07:002011-11-02T19:33:00.289-07:00FALL COLOR III<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CTw72HgBv0w/Tq4Jhwky3eI/AAAAAAAABgA/yLI6DXlxOZs/s1600/DSC02785.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CTw72HgBv0w/Tq4Jhwky3eI/AAAAAAAABgA/yLI6DXlxOZs/s320/DSC02785.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669479456485596642" /></a><br /><br />This weekend we had a sunny day. Michael and I were rushing around the garden gathering the last of the gatherables before the next swath of rain passed through. A few pears, a few pumpkins. And even some beans. I bought the seed for this yellow romano bean in Lucca, Italy a few years ago. It’s called Meraviglia di Venezia, the Marvel of Venice, for a reason. The first year we grew it we was totally disappointed with it’s slow growth and reluctance to produce. But then late in the season, when the rest of the beans had given up it began to develop these beautiful and tender yellow pods. Again this year the late harvest was marvelously rewarding. Its a bean we will grow again and again.Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-9027632990015731692011-10-27T19:32:00.000-07:002011-10-31T06:34:17.063-07:00FALL COLOR II<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UDx4QNJON3w/Tq4JDXlvxkI/AAAAAAAABf0/nLaqspq4uG0/s1600/DSC02745.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UDx4QNJON3w/Tq4JDXlvxkI/AAAAAAAABf0/nLaqspq4uG0/s320/DSC02745.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669478934382626370" /></a><br /><br /><br />Last weekend Michael and I drove to Boise, Idaho for his parents Golden Wedding Anniversary. It’s a beautiful drive, that we take frequently through the Cascades, the sage lands of the Yakima valley and the Blue Mountains of Eastern Oregon. This was the first autumn trip we made. I was surprised by the colors.The cotton woods in the river valleys were golden, with that yellow between egg yolk and lemon rind that we call golden. The slopes were reddened with sumac and service berry. Yet the dominant vegetal color beneath the clear blue October skies was beige. Almost a non-color in its ubiquity and neutrality. The grasses were beige and every form of herbaceous growth, the flower head of shrubs like the rabbit bush (<span style="font-style:italic;">Chrysothamnus naseosus</span>) above and the stubbly fields of harvested wheat. It’s an affable if dead color, not cheery like spring time pinks, or bold like autumn gold, but valuable and calming. Or maybe it was just the long ride in this sublime beige landscape that calmed.Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-31721153671393152362011-10-20T06:12:00.001-07:002011-10-20T06:23:48.231-07:00FALL COLOR<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CrZXl6MjQSI/TqAeutX0GfI/AAAAAAAABfg/2xl2jWpi92k/s1600/DSC02732.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CrZXl6MjQSI/TqAeutX0GfI/AAAAAAAABfg/2xl2jWpi92k/s320/DSC02732.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5665562119034378738" /></a><br /><br />Fall is creeping up on us slowly. Certainly the temperatures have changed, the clouds are back, the rains have begun on schedule. It’s the colors that are being shy. The grand autumnal colors, gold, orange, red, are just starting to peek out here and there. Sometimes it does that here. Sort of like spring is a prolonged parade from February to June. I have been taking pleasure in other colors as I wait for Fall’s triumph. Like anemones and aster. And the leaves of this purple brussels sprout lacquered with glare.Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-1022268766895769392011-10-04T20:12:00.000-07:002011-10-07T07:41:34.607-07:00SITE UNSEEN<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m7K4HaJqsac/To5uhW6_rRI/AAAAAAAABfY/zH5aLorc2YM/s1600/DSC02698.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m7K4HaJqsac/To5uhW6_rRI/AAAAAAAABfY/zH5aLorc2YM/s320/DSC02698.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660583301019053330" /></a><br /><br />Last weekend Michael and I headed to Mount Rainier for a 3 day weekend. We were celebrating Michael’s birthday and escaping a myriad of projects around the house. Though the weather forecast was mixed, as it has been a lot lately, what we got was foggy, cloudy, rainy, actually any meteorological phenomenon that reduces visibility and gets you wet. Still, we had a beautiful time. “Invisibility is its own natural wonder,” writes the novelist Joyce Kornblatt. Certainly over the weekend as foggy distances gently opened and shrunk like schools of jelly fish, played peek-a-boo like a 2 year old, or teased like Sally Rand with her fans, we were continually awed by the beauty. And there was a certain peacefulness, which we didn’t realize we were seeking, that came over us, and would have been impossible if the sun was shining and the views gargantuan and triumphant as a brass band at Christmas.Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-43378438297991685512011-09-26T20:07:00.000-07:002011-09-26T20:26:46.686-07:00TULIPTIME?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KgekCzja_uY/ToE-Z0I-I0I/AAAAAAAABfQ/rtQq-rdLb9E/s1600/DSC02673.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KgekCzja_uY/ToE-Z0I-I0I/AAAAAAAABfQ/rtQq-rdLb9E/s320/DSC02673.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656871220167975746" /></a><br /> It seems an odd time of year to be selling tulips. There are sunflowers, asters and mums ripe for the picking. I wonder where these six-petalled beauties are coming from. Somewhere below the equator where it is spring? From some strange complex of coolers and hothouse nearby where spring could be electronically recreated? It makes you wonder how they can get them to us so cheaply.<br /> David Perry and Debra Prinzing are writing a book about sustainable, local flower growing called<a href="http://afreshbouquet.com/"> <span style="font-style:italic;">A Fresh Bouquet</span></a>. Their blog is full of beautiful photos and interesting interviews with growers around the country involved in local sustainable flower culture. I’d be visiting it know except my bulb orders just arrived and I have hundreds of tulip bulbs to unpack. Giant Darwin Hybrids, Greggii Hybrids and Fosteriana Hybrids for my clients. And a few species tulips for me.<br /> Maybe September is tulip time after all.Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3649454207714754346.post-14695312648820154802011-09-17T07:44:00.000-07:002011-09-17T07:44:00.763-07:00HOMESICKNESS<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gWBiIujLd8o/Tm9tP_Q5yuI/AAAAAAAABfI/whThw-PXk3s/s1600/DSC01877.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gWBiIujLd8o/Tm9tP_Q5yuI/AAAAAAAABfI/whThw-PXk3s/s320/DSC01877.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5651856178821057250" /></a><br /><br />I’ve read that all gardening is a sickness, a homesickness. A deep seated longing for our mythical home in Eden. Or an echoing refrain of our evolutionary beginnings on the African savannas. I know many people who plant lilacs or peonies because their grandma did. I grow cucumbers and pickle them in memory of my mother’s sour briny summer kitchen. And I am researching arborvitae, a native of my home state Wisconsin, for an article. This research lead me to Oregon last weekend to tour conifer nurseries, take photographs and interview growers. I saw many new beautiful cultivars of <span style="font-style:italic;">Thuja occidentalis</span>, as well as standards like the stalwart ‘Emerald Green’. But when I saw these ‘cactus’ I had to stop. I imagine the owner of this car wash was longing for his home in the Sonoran desert when he planted them. Even the 'Stella D'oro' daylilies seem like yuccas in this context.Daniel Mounthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18169327466873313576noreply@blogger.com