IRRIGATION
The recent dry, extreme heat spell left my garden looking like a corral of crispy critters. The normally boisterous hostas have grown pale, their leaf edges tinged with sepia. Daylilies that bloomed last week now sport foliage that is already brown. The roses are sulking and even the Japanese beetles seem torpid. In short, despite some recent rain, it is a mess out there.
The mess was not caused by lack of attention. Though I have always prided myself on a near total avoidance of supplemental water, the withering 100 degree days sent me out with the watering can to dump water on the suffering hydrangeas, recently installed specimens and a few of the less stalwart roses. While lugging the can around, I became obsessed with a single thought–soaker hoses.
Many of my friends have in-ground irrigation systems, but my pocketbook won’t accommodate that right now. Besides, I am only really worried about the garden beds. The back lawn is so problematic that in-ground irrigation would only encourage the crabgrass. The front lawn is so thick and deeply rooted that it doesn’t really need any help.
I will start with soakers for the most vulnerable areas, and add to their numbers as time goes by. It’s the very least I can do for my languishing hydrangeas.
While I await the arrival of the first 50-foot soaker hose, I am doing garden triage. I feel a bit alike the Grim Reaper, removing the corpses of the dead and clipping off the browned leaves of the living. It is necessary work, but not nearly as uplifting as puttering around giving tender loving care to a verdant, vibrant array of perennials, annuals, shrubs and trees.
Still, the survivors look better now that they have been divested of dead or dying foliage. Some are only half the size they were before the inferno, but the surviving parts look strong.
The roses, the majority of which are doing fine, have been pruned way back. Like all stressed plants, they benefit from having fewer appendages to support. Most of the cranesbills and all of the lavenders and catmints are healthy and need only a seasonal shearing. I have put a cardboard awning over the newly mulched Japanese painted ferns in the hopes that they will revive themselves.
The roses of Sharon don’t need any attention at all, decked out in hundreds of hollyhock-like blossoms. They look like they are ready for a party, even on the hottest days. The youngest of them, the lovely double ‘White Chiffon’, is unveiling its flowers right now, without any concession to the weather.
My little 4-foot Carolina silver bell tree is leafy and green, even though it sits in the middle of the “hell strip” between the curb and the sidewalk. Its cellular memory must contain recollections of 100 degree days in its native clime. I am sure that when the sun beats down ferociously, it simply sighs like a southern belle and thinks of cooling rainstorms. I give it occasional drinks, just to be on the safe side.
Perpetual annoyances, like the rampant bugleweed or Ajuga reptans, continue to rage through the beds unhindered by heat. I love ajuga’s blue spires in the spring, but I am generally weary of it by this time of the year. Now I am in the process of re-evaluating my attitude, since it seems to act as an excellent and indestructible green mulch.
There is no more odious job than mulching when it’s hot and the air around you is as damp and thick as a wet shower curtain. Lover of mulch that I am, I still hate putting it down. These days though, I steal a few minutes in the early morning or evening to spread some additional mulch on parched areas. It is a way of protecting my substantial plant investment and, despite what my husband says, there is really very little chance that my efforts will generate enough additional heat to produce spontaneous combustion.
It is perverse, but as I create garden bare spots by removing dead plants and foliage, I find myself wanting to fill those gaps with divisions of existing plants or specimens from my holding area. I will not mention any of this to my husband, lest he decide that psychiatric evaluation for me is a much better investment than 10 more bags of mulch.
Of course, those hypothetical, newly-installed specimens will make soaker hoses even more necessary. But even if I don’t get around to all that dividing and replanting, I have to view the acquisition of a soaker hose as an act of altruism. The minute I hit the “submit order” button on my computer, the skies darkened. In the days since, we have had several rain showers, perking up everyone’s lawns and gardens. By the time the soaker hose actually hits the ground at my place, we will be having a monsoon. It’s the least I can do for my neighbors.