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Today's Show Notes

May is National Salad Month.

And if you've never grown a salad garden, this is the perfect time to begin.

An honest salad garden starts smaller than you might think.

Soft bib lettuce.

Red and green.

Mustard greens.

Arugula.

Spinach.

And Swiss chard that just keeps coming in all those glorious colors.

And don't forget the herbs.

Dill.

Flat-leaf parsley.

Cilantro.

And mint — which will take over a bit.

And you should let it.

Along with chives.

And chervil.

And then, of course, the radishes.

For the weeks before the heat sets in.

And then — don't forget the edible flowers.

Nasturtiums are worth growing for two reasons.

First, they're peppery.

And beautiful.

Second, they're a trap crop.

Plant them near whatever the aphids love.

And the aphids will find the nasturtiums first.

Other edibles include calendula.

And pansies.

Both are hardy.

Both are beautiful.

And both are right at home in a salad bowl.

Or a summer drink.

And if you don't know where to start, don't worry.

We'll come back to that.

Today's Garden History

1828 José Jerónimo Triana was born in Bogotá.

He grew up in a country of steep contrasts.

River valleys below.

And high, wind-swept uplands above.

Colombians call those uplands páramos.

Treeless alpine moorlands near the top of the Andes.

From an early age, José understood that plants belong to place.

Altitude matters.

Climate matters.

Survival shapes form.

José's father was a schoolteacher.

And he learned the way good teachers teach.

Through the senses.

Through touch.

Through naming the living things growing just outside the door.

As a young man, José joined the Chorographic Commission.

A government expedition sent across Colombia to map the land.

And catalog its natural resources.

It was during this work that José focused on quinine.

In the nineteenth century, quinine was the most reliable treatment for malaria.

It comes from the bark of the cinchona tree.

José studied cinchona closely.

Learning to distinguish species.

To identify potency.

To understand which trees truly held the medicine the world needed.

That work mattered deeply to him.

And it mattered to Europe.

In 1856, the Colombian government commissioned José to go to Paris.

To promote Colombian plants of economic value.

Especially cinchona.

Two weeks after marrying Mercedes Umaña, the couple left for France.

Paris was one of the great centers of nineteenth-century science.

Alive with botanical gardens.

Scholars.

And exchange.

José entered that world fully.

Over more than three decades, José and Mercedes built their family in Paris.

Their children were born there.

Paris became home.

All the while, he continued his botanical work.

And served as Colombia's Consul General.

José also used his plant knowledge in practical ways.

Developing plant-based remedies for everyday ailments.

Corn plasters for sore feet.

Tooth powders.

And a popular cough remedy known as Triana Syrup.

He was versatile.

Attuned to the needs of the moment.

Comfortable working at the intersection of science and daily life.

At the end of his life, his family endured a dark chapter.

He had been struck by a horse-drawn carriage.

And never fully recovered.

José died on October 31, 1890.

And just days later, his twenty-six-year-old daughter, Liboria, died in childbirth.

Two funerals in one week.

Today, José is buried in Paris.

At Père Lachaise Cemetery.

But his name lives on.

Inside Colombia's national flower.

Cattleya trianae.

2021 Cornelia Hahn Oberlander died in Vancouver.

She was ninety-nine years old.

Cornelia was born in 1921 in Germany.

In an industrial city along the Ruhr River.

Three moments shaped her life.

The first came when she was five.

Her mother, a horticulturist, gave her a small section of the family garden to tend.

Cornelia planted peas.

And her mother said:

You are going to be a landscape architect.

Seven years later, her father died in an avalanche.

Her mother raised the family alone.

Then, in 1938, Cornelia survived Kristallnacht.

She and her family fled Germany.

Eventually settling in New England.

At twenty-six, she became one of the first women admitted to Harvard's Graduate School of Design.

There, she met and married the urban planner Peter Oberlander.

The couple made their home in Vancouver.

A coastal city between the Pacific Ocean and the Coast Mountains.

Over the next seventy years, Cornelia helped shape Vancouver into a city rooted in nature.

She wrote:

I work with a concept driven by the idea that people want to be surrounded by nature — it's in our genes.

She designed more than seventy playgrounds.

And helped shape landmarks like Robson Square and the Museum of Anthropology.

"There's no froufrou here," she once said.

Pragmatic.

Clearheaded.

Her philosophy was simple.

Everyone deserves access to green space.

After her husband died, she kept working.

Continuing the projects that defined her life.

She described her work as invisible mending.

Restoring native plants so seamlessly they seemed to have always belonged.

Vine maple.

Douglas fir.

Wild ginger.

Still visible all over the Pacific Northwest.

Just four days before her death, the city awarded her its highest civic honor.

She died on this day in 2021.

And fittingly, she is buried in a cemetery she designed.

In the shade of a cedar grove she had planned decades earlier.

Unearthed Words

In today's Unearthed Words, we revisit a newspaper feature from May 22, 1937.

It appeared in The Hutchinson News.

The headline read:

Woman Mixes Fun And Work! Dr. Florence E. Meier Is Expert On Algae.

The article begins:

"It's a dark day when the elevator refuses to run to the office of Dr. Florence E. Meier of the Smithsonian Institution staff.

She has a little hexagonal room on the top floor of the flag tower, which makes it the highest office in Washington."

That line was a nod to the Smithsonian Castle.

Built in 1855.

With towers and turrets rising like something out of a storybook.

Florence worked in the tallest one.

The Flag Tower.

Getting there was no small thing.

"But sometimes the asthmatic elevator rebels, and then Dr. Meier… has to trip lightly up 11 floors on an iron ladder…"

Eleven floors.

Inside a stone tower.

Up an iron ladder.

Through a trapdoor.

Often carrying trays of specimens.

Up in that tower, Florence studied algae.

Microscopic plants gathering in green films along the edges of ponds.

The article praised her as a "pure scientist."

Someone free to follow her curiosity wherever it led.

She wrote letters to colleagues in Hungary, France, and Japan.

Debating her findings.

Building knowledge.

And she believed in balance.

Scientists can become very dull if they don't arrange a well-balanced life.

The reporter visited her apartment.

Tennis rackets by the door.

Schubert on the piano.

Books stacked beside her chair.

But later that same year, something changed.

While giving visitors a tour, Florence demonstrated the ladder.

As the elevator carried her guests downward, she stepped backward.

Waving goodbye.

Forgetting the trapdoor had been left open.

She fell through.

And broke her back.

She survived.

At the hospital, she was treated by Dr. William Wiley Chase.

Two years later, they married.

The tower that nearly ended her career.

Became the beginning of her marriage.

Florence continued her work.

Raised a family.

And lived a long life in science.

She died in 1978.

At seventy-five.

Book Recommendation

Bella Donna by Jill Johnson

This book is part of Garden Mysteries Week.

Which means all this week's book recommendations feature tales of intrigue, plants, and poison straight from the garden.

Professor Eustacia Rose is done with murder cases.

She has a partner.

Matilde.

She has her university work.

She is ready, finally, for a normal life.

But then a murder victim turns up poisoned with hemlock.

One of the plants stolen from Eustacia's own illegal garden.

Bella Donna is the second book in Jill Johnson's series.

And by now, Eustacia feels like someone you already know.

Brilliant.

Difficult.

And completely unable to leave a poisonous mystery alone.

Botanic Spark

And finally, here's something sweet to ignite the little botanic spark in your heart.

1909 Margaret Mee was born in Chesham, England.

Her earliest memory of flowers came from walking the Chiltern Hills with her father.

He taught her how to truly see wildflowers.

By 1945, Margaret was thirty-six.

Divorced.

And searching for her purpose.

She found her footing in night classes at St. Martin's School of Art.

There, she met Greville Mee.

A fellow artist.

And her lifelong companion.

In 1952, they traveled to São Paulo, Brazil.

What was meant to be a short stay became a lifetime.

About every other year, Margaret traveled into the Amazon.

Painting plants where they grew.

She called the rarest ones "botanical dodos."

Plants she feared would vanish.

For nearly thirty years, one flower eluded her.

The Amazon Moonflower.

She saw it in bud once.

But lost it in the dark.

By morning, it had bloomed and faded.

Gone.

The flower blooms for just one night.

Open for twelve hours.

Then collapses at dawn.

In May of 1988, on her final expedition, she found one again.

This time, still in bud.

Margaret was seventy-nine.

She didn't let it out of her sight.

When darkness fell, she used a flashlight.

Watching the petals move.

She wrote:

The first petal began to move…

I was spellbound… by dawn, the flower was limp and dying.

She painted through the night.

Later that year, her book was published.

And days later, she was gone.

Killed in a car accident.

Margaret left behind more than four hundred paintings.

And a record of plants that may no longer exist.

Final Thoughts

I promised you a place to start.

Here it is.

One red bib lettuce.

One green bib lettuce.

That's your foundation.

Add one herb you'll actually use.

Parsley.

Chives.

Or mint in a pot.

Then one edible flower.

Nasturtiums are easy.

They spill.

They bloom all summer.

And you can tuck them into salads.

Or float them in lemonade.

Start there.

Because a garden doesn't begin big.

It begins with one thing in the ground.

And the decision to keep watering it.

Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener. And remember, for a happy, healthy life, garden every day.

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Today's Show Notes

On this day in 1950, the English gardener Vita Sackville-West sat down with her garden journal and noticed something she couldn't let go of.

In her earnestness for horticulture, Vita wrote that snobbishness lives in gardens the same way it lives everywhere else.

That we sometimes pass a plant not because it lacks beauty — but because it has become too familiar.

Too common.

Too easy to overlook.

Once Vita asked:

What do we lose when we stop seeing something because we've decided we've already seen it?

May has a way of putting that question right in front of us.

Right now, the garden is at its fullest.

And we find ourselves moving past whole sections of it without stopping.

Maybe today is a good day to slow down.

The common thing.

The familiar one.

The one you stopped being surprised by.

It might still have something to say.

Today's Garden History

1715 Pierre Magnol died in Montpellier.

A city he had never really left.

And a city that had never quite let him in.

Born in 1638 as the youngest son of a generational apothecary family, Pierre grew up in a household that smelled of crushed herbs and drying roots.

He earned his medical degree in 1659.

And then, instead of practicing medicine, Pierre turned almost entirely to plants.

As a young man, he spent long seasons walking — the Alps, the Pyrenees, and the islands off the coast — filling his journals.

For much of his life, Pierre's biggest dream was to manage the Montpellier Botanic Garden.

The oldest botanic garden in France.

But Pierre was Protestant in a France that was becoming Catholic in its bones.

And when the position of Demonstrator of Plants opened in 1664, Pierre was the strongest candidate.

But he was passed over.

And when a professorship opened in 1667, he was again the most qualified.

And again, he was passed over.

But through every rejection, he kept walking.

And at the same time, he kept filling his journals with dreams.

Thinking about the way plants related to one another.

Not just as lists.

Everyone made lists like that.

But as families.

As connections that were not obvious to most gardeners.

In his heart, Pierre knew the way a rose and an apple carried the same arrangement of petals and stamens.

He knew that characteristics in families were shared.

Passed down.

To him, it was history written into the shape of a living thing.

Waiting for someone to read it.

In 1685, the Edict of Nantes was revoked.

The law that had protected Protestants in France for nearly a century.

Suddenly, Pierre had a choice:

His faith.

Or his life's work.

He converted.

Within two years, the doors that had been shut for decades finally opened.

In 1687, he was appointed Demonstrator of Plants at Montpellier.

In 1689, he published his masterwork.

For the first time in history, Pierre used the word "family" to describe natural groupings of plants.

He organized seventy-six of them.

Not by one feature.

But by what he called the total composition.

The whole shape of a thing.

Before Pierre, botany was a list.

After Pierre, it was a tree.

Sixty years later, Carl Linnaeus would arrive and build his famous system on this foundation.

Pierre didn't get that credit.

But he finally got the garden he always wanted.

In his final years, he served as Inspector of the Montpellier Botanic Garden.

Surrounded by the seventy-six families he had spent his whole life arranging.

He was seventy-six years old.

By then, the botanist Charles Plumier had already named something for him.

A magnificent flowering tree discovered in the Caribbean.

He never saw one bloom.

But every spring since, when the magnolias open — first, before anything else, before the gardener is ready — they are still delivering a tribute to a man who gave up his faith to be allowed to do what he loved.

1904 Emily Dix was born in Penclawdd.

A small town on the Gower Peninsula in Wales.

Where the coastline meets the edge of coal country.

And the landscape carries both.

Growing up on a farm, Emily's family worked the land.

She was bright and gregarious.

And at eighteen, a scholarship brought her to University College Swansea.

There, she found Arthur Trueman.

A geologist who had figured out how to date rock layers using fossilized mussels.

When Trueman looked at her, he saw something rare.

And called her the most extraordinarily brilliant student he had ever taught.

After Emily graduated with First Class Honors, she found her subject:

The fossilized plants trapped inside coal.

Three hundred million years ago, the land that became Wales was a tropical swamp.

There were giant ferns.

Towering clubmosses.

Ancient horsetails.

They lived and died in dark water.

Pressed into rock over millions of years.

During the 1920s, the coal mines of South Wales were working around the clock.

And Emily was granted access to go inside them.

An unusual privilege for a woman.

The mining engineers didn't just tolerate her.

They admired her.

As Emily descended, she looked for leaves on the walls.

The farther down she traveled, the more she realized that the fossilized plants changed over time in a specific order.

One family of ancient ferns dominated a certain era.

Then another family replaced it when the climate shifted.

As the fossilized leaves changed across layers of rock, she could identify exactly where she was in time.

From her repeated observations, Emily created nine floral zones.

Nine distinct timestamps in the Welsh coal.

As a result, a mining engineer could hand her a piece of rock.

And she could tell him which layer he was working in.

And how deep the coal beneath it would be.

From all of that work, Emily turned fossilized leaves into a map.

In 1936, the Geological Society of London awarded Emily the Murchison Fund.

One of their highest honors.

While the president gave a long speech about the high industrial value of her work, the archives note, simply, that Emily herself made no reply.

She let the fossils speak.

Then came 1941.

While Emily was evacuated to Cambridge, German bombs hit London.

Her records were destroyed.

Years of field notes.

Her catalogs.

All her books.

The fossils survived.

But Emily's work did not.

Afterward, she tried to carry on.

But the war had scattered her colleagues.

And the loss of the records had shaken something in her.

In June 1945, just as the war in Europe ended, Emily led one last geological field trip.

Then she stopped.

At forty-one years old — at the very height of her powers — she suffered a complete mental breakdown.

Then she entered The Retreat.

A Quaker hospital in York.

And stayed for twenty-seven years.

That's how a woman who could read three hundred million years of plant life from a piece of stone spent most of the rest of her life.

In a quiet room.

She died on New Year's Eve, 1972.

Back at home in Swansea.

Emily Dix's nine floral zones are still used today.

And somewhere in a Welsh archive there is a piece of coal with a fern pressed into it.

A plant that lived before the first dinosaur took a step.

And Emily Dix is the reason we know exactly when it lived.

Unearthed Words

In today's Unearthed Words, we hear a poem and a garden memory from the American poet Robert Creeley, born on this day in 1926.

Robert grew up in Massachusetts.

After he lost his father when he was four, he spent much of his adult life moving — from New England to rural France to a farm in New Hampshire.

No matter where he went, he was always writing.

Robert once tried farming.

And he wrote about that hungry summer:

"That was the summer we lived for the most part on chickens and blackberries since that was all we could get hold of.

The garden hadn't come in yet and what we had canned ran out in the early spring.

It was all an idea, in a way, but we were certainly serious — and we were also young enough to bumble along without falling completely on our faces.

There was a smaller garden for the kitchen, close to the house, but the big one was where we had the potatoes, corn, beans, all the vegetables we used primarily for canning."

Robert's poems moved the same way.

In short, powerful lines.

He once wrote:

I think I grow tensions like flowers in a wood where nobody goes.

Each wound is perfect, encloses itself in a tiny imperceptible blossom, making pain.

Pain is a flower like that one, like this one, like that one, like this one, does not remind, does not concern.

Robert wrote for fifty more years after this poem.

The lines he wrote stayed short.

But the feelings stayed large.

Book Recommendation

The Poison Grove by Jill Johnson

This book is part of Garden Mysteries Week.

Which means all this week's book recommendations feature tales of intrigue, plants, and poison straight from the garden.

Professor Eustacia Rose is done with murder cases.

She has a partner.

Matilde.

She has her university work.

She is ready, finally, for a normal life.

But then a murder victim turns up poisoned with hemlock.

One of the plants stolen from Eustacia's own illegal garden.

The Poison Grove is the second book in Jill Johnson's series.

And by now, Eustacia feels like someone you already know.

Brilliant.

Difficult.

And completely unable to leave a poisonous mystery alone.

Botanic Spark

And finally, here's something sweet to ignite the little botanic spark in your heart.

1844 Henri Rousseau was born in Laval.

Known as Le Douanier.

The toll collector.

By day, Henri worked the Paris city gates.

But he spent his free hours at the Jardin des Plantes.

There, he stood for hours in the glass hothouses.

Orchids dripping overhead.

Palms arching in the humid shadow.

Ferns curling tight against the Paris chill.

Though he had never left France.

And had never seen a jungle.

He had stood inside those rain-streaked glass rooms long enough to feel what a jungle might want.

That's how he could return home and paint them.

With enormous, impossible greens.

Tigers mid-breath.

And every frond thick with elsewhere.

When Henri called them his Exotic Landscapes, the formal art world didn't know what to do with him.

Of course, they mocked him at first.

But Henri kept on painting.

And while there were twenty-five jungle scenes that made up his work, every one of them was built from memory.

Through greenhouse glass.

And whatever the light did on a rainy Sunday in Paris.

When Henri died in 1910, he left behind a world no one else could have invented.

Because it came entirely from what he loved.

One heated room.

One afternoon.

One window full of impossible green.

Final Thoughts

Vita named something most gardeners know but rarely say out loud.

We fall out of love with plants.

Not because they changed.

Because we did.

One season — obsessed.

The next — done.

No reason.

No warning.

And sometimes, years later, we come back around.

And that's what Vita noticed on this day, over seventy years ago.

Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener. And remember, for a happy, healthy life, garden every day.

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Today's Show Notes

I've been thinking about where we go to do our best thinking.

A lot of people put their desk by a window that overlooks the garden.

Or they carry a notebook outside and sit in a shady spot and let the ideas come.

There's a long tradition of this — the garden shed.

The garden hut.

The bench at the end of a path where nobody interrupts.

Two summers ago, I put two reclined wingbacks in my garden shed.

It was one of the best things I ever did.

They're a great place to sit and admire the garden.

But really, they're a place to rest and reflect.

And I think that's what the garden does for us when we let it.

It doesn't make us more creative by trying.

It just gives us a place to be still — and the ideas find their own way in.

If you're in a creative slump, maybe give that a try this year.

Go outside.

Sit near something growing.

See what happens.

Today's Garden History

1862 Mabel Keyes Babcock was born in Somerville, Massachusetts.

And since her father was a botanist, Mabel spent her childhood growing up in a garden.

After high school, Mabel earned her undergraduate degree from Northwestern.

Twenty years later, at forty-six years old, she became the first woman to earn a master's in landscape architecture from MIT.

After graduation, Mabel went on to teach horticulture and landscape architecture at Wellesley — all while running a solo design practice on the side.

In 1916, MIT asked Mabel to design the Great Court at the center of the new campus in Cambridge.

As an alumna, she saw it clearly.

And she wrote all of her notes in purple ink.

Since her vision would follow the French style, there would be more gravel.

And not grass.

And the pièce de résistance would be an enormous reflecting pond beneath the Great Dome.

For plantings, Mabel added groupings of maples with conifers and magnolias to soften the bare outlines of stone.

She also placed a border of rhododendrons to brighten the base of buildings with greenery — and a dash of brilliant color when they bloomed.

During the First World War, Mabel directed agricultural courses at the Lowthorpe School of Landscape Architecture for Women in Groton, Massachusetts.

She also taught food conservation as a way to support the country — a precursor to Victory Gardens.

But then in 1928, Mabel's vision for MIT came to an end.

The university wanted something different.

No more gravel.

Instead, they wanted lawns meandering throughout the campus.

Although Mabel had lived long enough to see her vision built, she also lived to watch it dismantled and taken apart.

And as the steam shovels dug it all up — even the reflecting pond which was her quiet formal oasis — it all disappeared forever to live on only as part of the school's history.

Three years later, Mabel Keyes Babcock died on December 3rd, 1931, in Boston.

She was sixty-nine.

Yet every spring, the rhododendrons she planted still bloom at MIT — just in time for graduation.

Mabel's dash of brilliant color still masks the stone at the base of the buildings, doing exactly what she intended.

1902 Horatio Hollis Hunnewell died at his home in Wellesley, Massachusetts.

He was ninety-one.

Since he never liked his first name — Horatio — everyone called him Hollis.

A man of the 1800s, Hollis was born in 1810.

By his forties, he had made a fortune in the railroads — all twelve of them — and successfully steered through panics and collapses that ruined many of his friends.

Because his wife's last name was Wells, he named many things in her honor.

Including their estate, Wellesley, which rested on the shores of Lake Waban in Massachusetts.

Eventually, thanks to his generosity, both the town and the college followed suit.

Which is why the Wellesley name is so ingrained in the town.

With his passion for gardening and his generous spirit, Hollis loved sharing his garden with others.

Throughout his life, his garden was open to the public every afternoon.

In his Italian Garden, Hollis created the first topiary garden in America — using native white pine and Eastern arborvitae along seven terraces that rose seventy-five feet above the water.

On any given afternoon, guests could arrive by an authentic Italian gondola with a gondolier in traditional dress — gliding across the lake toward the terraces.

Visitors said that by moonlight, with the fountain splashing and the statues along the balustrades, the whole scene felt like Lake Como.

In his pursuit of new plants, Hollis became the first to try many new garden plants and techniques.

For instance, he was the first to bring rhododendrons to New England.

And he displayed them proudly in full bloom on the Boston Common in 1855.

He also installed a pinetum — filled with rare Japanese and European conifers.

Through trial and error, he quickly learned which could survive a Massachusetts winter.

Late in life, Hollis reflected:

"No Vanderbilt, with all his great wealth, can possess one of these for the next fifty years — for it could not be grown in less time than that."

Ever the pragmatist, Hollis knew that even infinite money can't rush a tree.

In the end, Hollis outlived his beloved wife Isabella by fourteen years.

He also, sadly, outlived several of his nine children.

It's fitting that he was buried at Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge — the first garden cemetery in the United States.

Hollis rests near the Iris Path.

And is surrounded by the kind of trees he spent his whole life planting.

For sixty years, Hollis Hunnewell worked on a garden he knew he would never see finished.

Yet that was exactly the point.

Unearthed Words

In today's Unearthed Words, we hear a passage from a novel by the Norwegian writer Sigrid Undset, born on this day in 1882.

She wrote her great medieval trilogy at a place called Bjerkebæk in Lillehammer, Norway — on a rocky plot she cleared herself, stone by stone.

She loved fruit trees.

Herbs.

And roses.

Here's an excerpt from The Bridal Wreath, the first volume of her trilogy about a young noblewoman named Kristin Lavransdatter:

"Groves and hill-sward smelt sweet; and as soon as the sun was down there streamed out all around the strong, cool, sourish breath of sap and growing things — it was as though the earth gave out a long, lightened sigh."

And later:

"Through the great darkness that would come, she saw the gleam of another, gentler sun, and she sensed the fragrance of the herbs in the garden at world's end."

Sigrid wrote those words while living alone on that rocky hillside she had cleared herself.

She was a woman who had left her marriage and raised her children in a cold house and a garden she built from what the ground gave her.

Somehow, Sigrid wasn't reaching for poetry.

She was simply writing what she already knew from kneeling in the dirt.

Book Recommendation

The Woman in the Garden by Jill Johnson

This book is part of Garden Mysteries Week, which means all this week's book recommendations feature tales of intrigue, plants, and poison straight from the garden.

Professor Eustacia Rose is a botanical toxicologist who lives alone with her collection of poisonous specimens.

Her life is quiet.

Her schedule never changes.

Her closest companions are her plants.

She does have one other habit, though — watching her neighbors through a telescope.

Taking careful notes on their lives.

For what she calls research.

When she hears a scream one evening, she cannot look away.

The Woman in the Garden is about obsession — the particular kind that only someone who has ever lost themselves completely in a garden will recognize.

Botanic Spark

And finally, here's something sweet to ignite the little botanic spark in your heart.

1804 A parcel of seeds arrived in England.

That's the whole story, really.

A little envelope of seeds.

But let's back up.

In the late 1700s, a woman named Elizabeth Fox — also called Lady Holland — was a renowned English political and literary hostess.

And a woman who had paid dearly for the life she chose.

As a young woman, Elizabeth endured a scandalous divorce and had her children taken from her.

And for many years, drawing room doors in London would close quietly whenever she approached.

But through it all, Elizabeth turned her home — called Holland House — into the most brilliant salon in the city.

She could be sharp-tongued and imperious.

But underneath it all, she was someone who knew exactly what it felt like to be shut out.

In the spring of 1804, Elizabeth visited the Royal Botanic Gardens in Madrid.

Where she met a botanist named Antonio José Cavanilles.

There, Cavanilles gave her a small packet of seeds no one in England had been able to grow.

Dahlia seeds.

Later, the librarian at Holland House — a man named Mr. Buonaiuti — recorded, in his precise handwriting:

"On the 20th of May, 1804, the Right Honorable Lady Holland sent home from Spain a parcel of seeds."

That very summer, the dahlias flowered.

And within twenty years, the dahlia was touted as the most fashionable flower in England.

In a loving gesture, Elizabeth's husband, Lord Holland, penned an adoring note to mark her accomplishment.

Surprisingly, he was not, by reputation, a sentimental man.

But Lord Holland still felt moved to write her these words:

"The dahlia you brought to our isle your praises for ever shall speak; mid gardens as sweet as your smile, and in colour as bright as your cheek."

Final Thoughts

If you need a place to think clearly, you already have one.

It's right outside your door.

Your garden doesn't need a fancy shed.

Or a proper writing studio.

Just a chair.

And a patch of shade.

With something blooming nearby.

That's enough.

When it comes to creativity, the garden has always been the place where the next good idea finds you — not the other way around.

Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener. And remember, for a happy, healthy life, garden every day.

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Today's Show Notes

Today is Plant Something Day.

And I know — you probably don't need a holiday to tell you to plant something.

You've been planting for weeks.

But I like what this day can be if you let it.

Not just — plant something.

But — plant something you've been meaning to get to.

Something more of what you already love.

Something your grandmother grew.

Something you keep seeing at the nursery and putting back.

Or something to remember someone.

It doesn't have to be big.

One pot.

One seed.

Or one division from the thing that's finally big enough to share.

May in Minnesota is generous right now.

The soil is warm.

The evenings are long.

And there's still time to put something in the ground and watch it decide what it wants to become.

Today's Garden History

1834 Kate Furbish was born in Exeter, New Hampshire.

When she was still an infant, Kate's family moved to Brunswick.

And that was where she stayed — nearly all her life.

As a child, her father took her into the woods and taught her all he knew about nature.

And even though Kate studied painting for a time in Paris and attended botany lectures in Boston — she always came back to Brunswick.

But then, in her mid-thirties, Kate gave herself a task that no one asked for and no one funded.

To find, collect, and paint every flowering plant in the state of Maine.

She started at thirty-six.

It took her nearly forty years to finish her quest.

Throughout those years, Kate traveled alone to the most remote parts of the state — Aroostook County, the Saint John River, the bogs and the riverbanks and the places where no woman was expected to go.

Despite being a single woman, she rode mail coaches with no springs in the seats and no backs to lean on.

But she did carry a revolver.

Ingenious to a fault, Kate built rafts out of scrap lumber to reach plants growing in the middle of swamps.

And she crawled on her stomach through bogs to sketch what she found.

And in instances when the ground got too soft, she backed out on her hands and knees.

Her unending devotion to wildflowers led the French Canadians in the northern towns to call Kate the Posey Woman.

Yet somehow, she didn't mind.

Though the people in Brunswick proper simply called her crazy.

Kate liked that much less — but it didn't slow her down.

She once wrote,

"Had I listened to those who discouraged me, I should be as ignorant as they are of its natural beauties."

Traveling along the Saint John River, Kate once came upon a plant with dull yellow leaves — a lousewort no one had ever recorded.

She sent her findings to Sereno Watson at Harvard.

Watson named the plant in her honor.

When Kate responded by letter, to say she would visit the school, she also issued this opinion:

"My second reason for writing is to say, that were it not for the fact that I can find no plants named for a female botanist in your manual, I should object to 'Pedicularis Furbishae'...

But as a new species is rarely found in New England and few plants are named for women, it pleases me."

And that is how the plant named for Kate stuck.

She gave it her blessing.

A tiny leap forward for women thanks to a tiny step forward for herself.

Nearly a century later, that same lousewort was rediscovered after decades of no sightings, growing on land about to be flooded by a billion-dollar dam.

Its presence helped stop the project — eighty-eight thousand acres of northern Maine forest saved by a little plant found by Kate all those years ago, with mud on her skirt and a revolver on the seat beside her.

Ultimately, her Flora of Maine — fourteen folio volumes and more than thirteen hundred watercolors — went to Bowdoin College.

The four thousand sheets of dried plants she painstakingly collected went to her friend Sereno Watson at Harvard.

Ever humble, Kate claimed no artistic merit.

She called it simply truthful representation.

Kate once said that flower and botanical books had been her only friends when she collected.

She wrote:

"The flowers [have been] my only society and the manuals [my] only literature for months [all] together. Happy, happy hours."

Kate Furbish lived to ninety-seven.

And if flowers were her only friends, she'd known plenty during her life and was never truly alone.

In 2020, the Kate Furbish Elementary School opened in Brunswick.

Its hallways were lined with her watercolors — so that children walk past the plants of Maine every morning on their way to class.

1898 E. Genevieve Gillette was born in Lansing, Michigan.

Her family and friends called her Genevieve.

When Genevieve was three, her family moved to a farm on the Grand River in Dimondale.

Every spring, her father would take her into the woods to kneel by the brook with the trailing arbutus flowering around them, and say, "Can you hear what it is saying? It's talking to us."

She never forgot that.

When her dad died when she was a teenager, the family sold the farm.

But the memories of her father wrapped up in those moments in nature stayed with Genevieve forever.

After high school, Genevieve enrolled at Michigan Agricultural College and in 1920 became the first woman to graduate from its first landscape architecture program.

After dozens of applications, she received just one offer — from the landscape architect Jens Jensen in Chicago.

A man who designed with native trees and believed trees enjoy each other's company.

Jensen paid her twenty-five dollars a week.

At first, Genevieve was only allowed to answer the phone.

But Jensen saw her potential and pestered her to return to Michigan and start a state park system.

So she did.

When Genevieve went back home, she met an old classmate and friend named P.J. Hoffmaster, who had become Michigan's first superintendent of state parks.

Together, P.J. and Genevieve began a quest to find and save special places throughout Michigan.

On weekends, she scouted for park land — driving across the state alone, identifying thirty state parks, like Hartwick Pines, Ludington, and the Porcupine Mountains.

She slept under the boughs of evergreen trees, inspected shorelines, walked dunes, and knelt in the woods the way she had with her father.

And when Sleeping Bear Dunes was about to be developed into condominiums, she made repeated trips to Washington, D.C. until it was protected as a national lakeshore.

For decades, Genevieve worked as an unpaid volunteer.

The Detroit Free Press called her a saving angel.

Although she admitted that talking to legislators terrified her, she did it anyway.

And when P.J. died of a heart attack in 1951, she was left to carry their vision alone.

She kept going.

And didn't stop.

Somehow, Genevieve found an inner courage she didn't know she had.

Which is how she founded the Michigan Parks Association and then kept working for another thirty-five years.

Although she never married or had children, she said she felt that the parks were her life's work.

By 1965, President Johnson invited her to serve on his committee for recreation and natural beauty.

When Genevieve heard the news, she called it the honor of her career.

After all the scouting, and the planning, and the struggle to save the most glorious wild spaces in the state, Genevieve could look back and see her part in all of it.

She died on May 23rd, 1986 — just four days after her eighty-eighth birthday.

Genevieve's final wish was that money from her estate be used to buy park land.

And that's how three hundred thousand dollars went to purchase five thousand acres along Lake Huron — saving the limestone cobble beaches, the deep sand dunes, and the small dwarf lake iris that grew happily only in that place.

Even when Michiganders thought she had finished her work, she managed to save the best gift for last.

Unearthed Words

In today's Unearthed Words, we hear a passage from A Garden in the Hills, a garden diary by the Scottish gardener and writer Katharine Stewart, written on this day in 1994.

Katharine wrote from Abriachan, a hillside village near Loch Ness in Scotland.

Katharine's garden lay beside a burn — a small Highland stream — with birches, currants, and wind off the water.

After all the years living on the hills, Katharine understood that May in the north is never guaranteed.

"If April is the cruellest month, May, so far this year, is not much kinder.

Still, the tatties and the first sowings of vegetables are in the ground, though they'll be wise enough to bide their time before emerging.

The birches are greening and in the hollow by the burn there's the gleam of celandine.

Chaffinches are singing non-stop and a thrush is shouting from the top of the highest pine.

Some years ago, when there was no one living in these parts, I came upon a garden, a long, narrow stretch beside the burn.

Rhubarb plants had grown to the size of small trees, there were blackcurrant bushes drastically overgrown, but alive, and gooseberries still bearing pale yellow fruit.

I took cuttings of these and now have half a dozen good bushes fruiting happily.

This little garden must have had a really devoted gardener, for in one corner was a lilac and in another a gean — a wild cherry."

Katharine found that abandoned garden beside the burn — rhubarb the size of small trees, gooseberries still bearing — and her first instinct was to take cuttings.

Abandoned gardens are just another way of describing someone else's devotion left dormant for a while, but still alive in the ground, waiting for the right person to find it.

Book Recommendation

The Alcatraz Rose by Anthony Eglin

This book is part of Garden Mysteries Week, which means all this week's book recommendations feature tales of intrigue, plants, and poison straight from the garden.

We close the week with another rose mystery — this time from Anthony Eglin, who gave us The Blue Rose on Monday.

A thirteen-year-old girl asks botanist Lawrence Kingston to reopen a case:

Her mother's disappearance.

Eight years unsolved.

And almost at the same moment, word arrives that an English rose — extinct for fifty years — has been found growing on Alcatraz Island, five thousand miles from where it last bloomed.

Two mysteries.

One botanist.

And a connection nobody sees coming.

The American Rose Society called it a bestseller.

Garden Design gave Eglin a Gold Trowel Award.

And The Blue Rose won a French award for mystery novel of the year.

This is garden fiction from someone who knows exactly what roses mean — and exactly how dangerous that knowledge can be.

This week, our garden had secrets.

Next week, we go back to the soil.

Botanic Spark

And finally, here's something sweet to ignite the little botanic spark in your heart.

1861 Nellie Melba was born in Melbourne, Australia.

Nellie sang on every great stage in Europe and beyond — for decades.

And then, after all of it — the standing ovations, and the farewells — Nellie came home.

One evening, driving through the Yarra Valley, she spotted a for-sale sign on a gate near Coldstream.

Nellie looked across at the blue hills of her childhood — the same familiar landscape and the same familiar light — and the house, with sixty acres, was bought on the spot.

After claiming the property for herself, Nellie named it Coombe Cottage.

And quickly set about making it her own.

There, she planted a cypress hedge six hundred meters long, enclosing the whole of it — a sense of mystery that has lasted more than a hundred years.

When twenty thousand daffodils arrived from the Blue Mountains of New South Wales as a gift from a farmer in exchange for a private performance, they became a happy part of the spring landscape and a stark counterpoint to Nellie's own suffering.

Nellie had known real grief — a marriage that became a cage, and a son taken from her and carried to another continent.

Nellie held all of that and still, she planted those daffodils.

In 1925, as if sensing that people wanted to know her better, Nellie wrote:

"If you wish to understand me at all, you must understand, first and foremost, that I am an Australian."

Though she was the most famous voice in the world, in the end, all Nellie wanted was a garden, a cypress hedge, and the blue hills of home.

Today, the Nellie Melba rose has a pale pink opening from magenta buds.

It is long-stemmed and nearly thornless.

It is beautiful.

Elegant.

And a little mysterious.

Final Thoughts

May has this way of making everything feel possible.

And maybe it is.

Maybe that's not the season lying to you.

Maybe the season is just giving you a window.

And it's up to you whether you use it or stand there admiring the light.

I've been thinking about that — how the best planting days aren't the ones you plan.

They're the ones where you walk outside with your coffee and something catches your eye and you think:

Today.

Not because it's perfect.

But because it's time.

Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener. And remember, for a happy, healthy life, garden every day.

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Today's Show Notes

Mid-May mornings in Minnesota come early now.

The light is already there when you walk out.

The soil is warm enough to hold what you give it.

And if you're lucky, there's someone beside you — handing you a flat, holding the stake, pulling the same weeds you were about to pull.

The garden does most of the talking.

I gardened with my friend Judy for a few summers, and what I remember most isn't any single plant we put in — it's those early mornings.

She'd show up with something in a pot.

I'd send her home with something in a bag.

After a while we joked that our gardens were becoming one.

Many hands, light work.

And something else, too — many hands, more noticing.

You catch things you'd miss alone.

There's no shortcut to that.

You just have to show up on the same morning, with dirt on both sets of hands, and let the garden be the thing between you.

Today's Garden History

1824 Wilhelm Hofmeister was born in Leipzig.

Wilhelm never finished formal schooling.

He worked in his father's shop — selling sheet music, stacking books, and greeting customers.

But every morning, before the shop opened, he would sit studying plant specimens with his face mere inches from the leaves.

Wilhelm was severely nearsighted, but he refused to wear glasses.

So anything beyond six inches was a blur.

But up close, his vision was quite vivid.

While other botanists squinted through clunky brass microscopes, Wilhelm could just bring a moss, a fern, a sliver of cone right up to his eyes and see plainly what most people would miss.

Somehow he could dissect what others needed lenses to see — if they could see it at all.

At just twenty-seven, Wilhelm had published a monograph showing something no one had pieced together.

In it, he showed that a fern doesn't simply make more ferns.

It drops spores that grow into something else entirely — a tiny, flat, heart-shaped thing you'd step right over and never notice.

And that tiny thing is what produces the next fern.

Parent and child, looking nothing alike — taking turns.

He found the same pattern in mosses, in pines, and in every plant he studied.

He called the phenomenon alternation of generations.

In 1847, he married Agnes Lurgenstein.

Together, they had nine children.

Agnes held the household steady while Wilhelm focused on his work.

Soon, the universities came calling.

Heidelberg offered a professorship and oversight of the Botanical Garden — despite the fact that Wilhelm had no degree.

Yet he had earned it at his kitchen table, before dawn, with his face two inches from a leaf or petal or stem.

But then there was profound loss.

Over a brutal five-year period, Wilhelm buried his darling Agnes.

Then his youngest daughter.

Then both surviving sons.

Then his half-brother.

Seven of his nine children gone before him.

His student Karl von Goebel later wrote that he succumbed to the weight of his own grief.

On his birthday, Wilhelm suffered the first of several strokes.

Seven months later, he died in Lindenau, near Leipzig — near where his story began.

Wilhelm was fifty-two.

What lingers is the image of a nearsighted man in a dark kitchen at four in the morning, his face so close to a fern it seemed ridiculous.

The man who literally couldn't see far saw the smallest thing — and it changed how we understand every plant alive.

1930 Wolfgang Oehme was born in Chemnitz, Germany.

Wolfgang started growing plants at five in a corner of his parents' community garden.

He was nine when WWII started.

By the time it ended, the cities he knew were rubble.

At seventeen, Wolfgang apprenticed at a nursery in Bitterfeld.

He learned Latin names and propagation.

And he also learned that a plant doesn't care who's in charge of the government.

It was there that he discovered the work of Karl Foerster — the famous German plantsman who believed gardens should move, should catch the wind, like the grass named in his honor.

Foerster called grasses the hair of the earth.

He never forgot that.

After Wolfgang fled East Germany, he ended up in Baltimore.

He looked around and saw lawns with clipped hedges and foundation evergreens, and impatiens in rows.

Wolfgang later said, "When I came to Baltimore, it was like a desert. I went on a crusade."

When American nurseries didn't carry the plants Wolfgang needed — he smuggled seeds into the country through hollowed-out books.

He found a partner in James van Sweden — a polished architect who could charm clients into ripping up their lawns.

Wolfgang was the opposite.

Short.

Thick German accent.

More at home with a shovel than with people.

Together, James and Wolfgang invented what became known as the New American Garden — sweeping drifts of ornamental grasses, black-eyed Susans, Russian sage, coneflowers — planted not in dots but in waves, hundreds at a time, so that when the wind came, the whole garden moved like water.

As a result, their firm, OVS, designed gardens for the Federal Reserve, Reagan National Airport, and the National World War II Memorial.

Wolfgang never stopped being possessive.

If someone had planted impatiens where his grasses had been, he would stop the car, get out, and start pulling them up.

In a heat of passion, he once told a client, "This is my garden, not yours."

But in a clearer moment, Wolfgang also said, "Human beings need nature; nature does not need human beings."

And then followed quickly with, "I like it wild."

After thirty years of landscapes, the friction between Wolfgang and James van Sweden finally cracked.

In the end, he spent his final years in a small apartment, far from the grand terraces of movement made by his hands.

He died at eighty-one, on December 15th, 2011, in Towson, Maryland.

But he did not want a funeral.

Just before he died, Wolfgang had returned to Bitterfeld in East Germany — the town where he had apprenticed as a teenager in the rubble — taking pictures of the many thousands of grasses and perennials on old industrial land.

Somehow, after all the garden making, the photos of that earlier work were what Wolfgang clung to in the end.

Unearthed Words

In today's Unearthed Words, we hear an excerpt from a poem by the English novelist and poet George Meredith, who died on this day in 1909.

George spent his final decades at Flint Cottage, at the foot of Box Hill in Surrey.

Even when illness confined George to a bath-chair, he insisted on being taken up the hill.

He believed a person had to keep walking into the landscape to understand it.

His book of poems was published in 1851.

In it, he wrote one of his most enchanting and lyrical poems called Love in the Valley.

It was said that after Tennyson read it, he could not stop thinking about it.

The poem offers vivid imagery of a young country woman and George's unrequited love for her.

George describes a farmhouse, an orchard, and a bubbling wellspring and wrote that the young lady is as "Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow, And swift as the swallow along the river's light."

By the end of the poem, he compares her to heaven.

Here's the last verse:

Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, I would speak my heart out: heaven is my need. Every woodland tree is flushing like the dog-wood, Flashing like the whitebeam, swaying like the reed. Flushing like the dog-wood crimson in October; Streaming like the flag-reed South-West blown; Flashing as in gusts the sudden-lighted white beam: All seem to know what is for heaven alone.

George could barely walk by the time he wrote those words.

He was a man being pushed up a hill outside in a chair.

And yet the poem is all motion — branches swaying, leaves turning, and light flashing on trees in the sun.

And I often think of that moment.

George writing from inside a landscape he could no longer enter on his own.

Book Recommendation

The Blue Rose by Anthony Eglin

This fiction book selection is part of Garden Mysteries Week, which means all this week's book recommendations feature tales of intrigue, plants, and poison straight from the garden.

Alex and Kate Sheppard have found their dream home — a Wiltshire parsonage with a two-acre walled garden.

And in that garden, they find something impossible:

A blue rose.

No blue rose exists in nature.

None has ever been grown.

And yet there it is.

What follows is a thriller about coded journals, genetic experiments, and what happens when the world finds out you have something everyone wants.

Anthony Eglin is a member of the American Rose Society.

And it shows — the roses in this book are as real as the danger.

Botanic Spark

And finally, here's something sweet to ignite the little botanic spark in your heart.

1872 Bertrand Russell was born at Pembroke Lodge in Richmond Park, England — a grand house set inside a sweeping garden overlooking the Thames Valley.

Bertrand was orphaned at three, and raised by a grandmother who was strict and Victorian and not given to softness.

Over the course of his childhood, he spent a lot of time alone in that garden, watching sunsets, and staying quiet.

Bertrand spent decades writing about logic, mathematics, peace, and the question he never stopped asking — how does a person find happiness?

And then Bertrand wrote this:

Every time I talk to a savant, I feel quite sure that happiness is no longer a possibility.

Yet when I talk with my gardener, I'm convinced of the opposite.

To think of Bertrand searching for a happy person only to find the answer lay in his gardener — the man who came each day and waged quiet war against the rabbits — steady but purposeful and entirely at peace.

Bertrand also told a story about a parson who had terrified his congregation by announcing that the second coming was imminent — and very imminent indeed.

The congregation was frightened until someone noticed that the parson who had foretold a tale of doom was seen out in his own garden planting trees.

Bertrand loved that image.

Apparently, even a man who believed the end was near couldn't help but put something in the ground and wait for it to grow.

Bertrand died at ninety-seven.

He never stopped believing that the world was full of what he called magical things — patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper.

Maybe that's what the garden is.

A little magic.

And a lot of waiting.

Final Thoughts

If there's someone you garden alongside — even loosely, even just a few times a season — that's not a small thing.

It's not about efficiency, though the work does go faster.

It's the fact that someone else saw your garden on a Tuesday in May, when the light was a certain way and the peonies hadn't opened yet.

That's a kind of knowing that doesn't get recorded anywhere.

It just lives between you.

And if you don't have that person right now — you might be that person for someone else and not even know it.

The one who shows up with a division wrapped in wet newspaper.

The one who says, "That looks good there."

May is still making itself.

There's time.

Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener. And remember, for a happy, healthy life, garden every day.

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Today's Show Notes

Every gardener has a lost garden.

Maybe it was your grandmother's.

Maybe it was the one you left behind when you had to move.

Maybe it's a spot you drove by last week.

Just to check.

And now barely recognize.

Lost gardens stay with us longer than we expect.

The smell of a tomato leaf.

The color of a peony.

The way the light hits a certain spot in the afternoon.

You can bring a lost garden back this spring.

Not all of it.

You don't need all of it.

Just one plant that used to be there.

One cutting.

One color.

Even a windchime or a stepping stone can call a whole garden back to you.

Rosemary is the herb of remembrance.

That's why it's the logo of this show.

Remember.

If you've lost a garden you loved, plant something that remembers it for you this season.

And if you know a garden friend carrying a lost garden in their heart, feel free to share this episode.

Sometimes it helps just to hear that someone else remembers too.

Today's Garden History

1866 William Henry Harvey died in Torquay, England.

He was fifty-five years old.

William once wrote that being "useless, various, and abstruse" was reason enough to love a science.

And of course, he meant botany.

Born in 1811 in Limerick, Ireland, William was the youngest of eleven children in a Quaker family.

As a boy, it was his nanny who sparked his love of flowers.

William was drawn to the things most people stepped over.

Seaweeds.

Mosses.

Algae.

Small organisms clinging to rock at the edge of the tide.

He was the first to classify algae by color.

Green.

Red.

And brown.

A system still used today.

But the real story of William is what he lost.

In 1835, his brother Joseph was appointed Colonial Treasurer in Cape Town.

William sailed with him.

Eager for adventure.

Eager to explore the flora of the Cape.

But Joseph's health failed almost immediately.

He sailed home.

And died at sea.

William stayed.

Thousands of miles from everything he knew.

He took his brother's post.

Sat at his desk.

Did the work.

And in his spare hours, collected plants.

Every specimen was a letter to a ghost.

Eventually, William returned to Dublin.

To his sister Hannah.

His anchor.

While he traveled the world—Australia, New Zealand, Sri Lanka, Fiji, Chile—

Hannah stayed home.

She received his parcels.

Damp boxes filled with seaweed and seeds.

She dried them.

Filed them.

Recorded them.

Together, they built a body of work.

Over one hundred thousand specimens.

More than seven hundred fifty species of algae described.

William also sent seeds and bulbs back to Europe.

Proteas.

Heaths.

Pelargoniums.

Plants now so common, we rarely think about how they arrived.

But we have William to thank.

He mentored anyone who showed interest.

Lighthouse keepers.

Clergymen's wives.

Amateur collectors on windy shores.

He sent them books.

Identified their finds.

Gave them a voice.

One of his most cherished friendships was with Margaret Gatty.

A mother with little money.

No microscope.

William sent her his own materials.

Encouraged her to write.

Her book, British Sea-weeds, stayed in use for nearly a century.

William didn't want a legacy for himself.

He wanted one for the plants.

He wanted them remembered.

And for that, he is remembered too.

A genus now bears his name.

Harveya.

But his true monument is the herbarium at Trinity College.

Organized with care.

Built by a man who believed naming plants was a kind of prayer.

1900 Blanche Ames married Oakes Ames.

A partnership that would shape botany for the next fifty years.

Their love story began with orchids.

Oakes, a young Harvard botanist, sent Blanche rare specimens instead of roses.

And Blanche was captivated.

They married.

And became partners in science.

Oakes collected.

More than sixty-four thousand orchid specimens.

But Blanche was the eye.

At her drawing table, she created thousands of precise illustrations for Oakes's seven-volume Orchidaceae.

Her drawings are still used today.

Oakes insisted she sign every one.

In an era when wives were invisible.

He made her visible.

He called her his colleague.

In 1922, they traveled to Berlin.

Blanche copied herbarium sheets by hand.

Years later, when bombs destroyed the originals, her copies remained.

She had saved them.

With her art.

Their life together was full of moments like that.

Once, when their car broke down in the Yucatán, Blanche repaired it.

With a hairpin.

And a bullet.

She also designed their home.

A stone mansion on twelve hundred acres.

Borderland.

After Oakes died, Blanche carved his tombstone herself.

Etching orchids into the stone.

She kept going.

At eighty, she wrote a six-hundred-page biography of her father.

At ninety, she patented an antipollution toilet.

When Blanche died in 1969, she was ninety-one.

The New York Times called her "Mrs. Oakes Ames, Botanist's Widow."

Not artist.

Not architect.

Not inventor.

But widow.

The world had not caught up to her.

But her work remains.

Her initials still on every drawing.

B.A.

Thousands of them.

Still precise.

Still beautiful.

Unearthed Words

In today's Unearthed Words, we hear from the Russian novelist Mikhail Bulgakov, born on this day in 1891.

Mikhail began as a doctor.

And lived through revolution, war, and censorship.

Much of his work was banned.

At one point, he burned a manuscript in despair.

Then rewrote it from memory.

His masterpiece, The Master and Margarita, opens with a woman carrying yellow flowers.

He wrote:

"She was carrying some repulsive, alarming yellow flowers.

God knows what they're called, but for some reason they're the first to appear in Moscow…

She looked at me with surprise, and I was suddenly struck by her extraordinary, lonely beauty. 'Do you like my flowers?'… 'No.'"

Those flowers were almost certainly mimosa.

The first bloom after winter in Moscow.

Bright.

Feathery.

Fragrant.

In Russian culture, yellow flowers signal betrayal.

Or madness.

And yet they also signal spring.

Arrival.

A beginning.

Only a gardener understands how something can be both.

Book Recommendation

Your Natural Garden by Kelly D. Norris

It's time to Grow That Garden Library, with today's book: Your Natural Garden by Kelly D. Norris.

This book is part of Mother's Day Week here on The Daily Gardener.

And that means all of this week's Book Recommendations feature garden stories about care, inheritance, teaching, and the quiet ways gardening is passed from one generation to the next.

Kelly writes with a deep reverence for place.

He invites gardeners to work with native plants.

To design in harmony with the local ecology.

Not as a trend.

But as belonging.

In the introduction, Kelly wrote:

"Living well with a place requires a relationship…

But having a relationship with landscape and the life it supports doesn't immediately command more work.

It does, however, warrant more attention."

He writes about prairie grasses.

Wildflowers.

Pollinator corridors.

Landscapes that reflect place rather than fashion.

This book expands what inheritance can mean.

Not just roses and recipes.

But living systems.

Care that can be passed forward.

Botanic Spark

And finally, here's something sweet to ignite the little botanic spark in your heart.

1886 Emily Dickinson died in Amherst, Massachusetts.

She was fifty-five years old.

Emily lived most of her life between her home and her garden.

She kept a glass conservatory.

Growing gardenias and camellias through New England winters.

She also kept an herbarium.

Over four hundred pressed plants.

Each labeled in her own hand.

Emily gardened on her knees.

She said she felt always attached to mud.

Though she lived quietly, she found ways to reach out.

She would lower a basket from her window.

Filled with warm gingerbread.

For neighborhood children below.

Small offerings.

Made with care.

Left at the edge of her world.

She knew her world deeply.

So deeply that she named what others only felt.

She wrote:

Summer has two Beginnings — Beginning once in June — Beginning in October Affectingly again —

Emily knew that seasons are often sweetest as they leave.

She also wrote:

For thee to bloom, I'll skip the tomb And sow my blossoms o'er — Pray gather me — Anemone — Thy flower — forevermore.

At the end, when she could no longer write, she dictated her final letter.

Four words:

Little Cousins — Called back.

She was going home.

Today, her garden still grows.

The same heirloom varieties.

Still rooted.

After a lifetime of loving plants, Emily knew:

Some things are deciduous.

And some are not.

Final Thoughts

Every garden you've ever loved is still with you.

Not as a photograph.

But as a way of seeing.

The garden you lost taught your hands something.

Your eye.

Your sense of color.

Of light.

Of place.

Lost gardens don't disappear.

They show up again.

In the next bed you plant.

In the next seed you choose.

In the next moment you pause and notice something no one else noticed.

Every garden ahead of you carries every garden behind you.

Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener. And remember, for a happy, healthy life, garden every day.

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Today's Show Notes

Here's an exercise to try.

Take a minute today and write a letter that describes your garden.

What do you love about it?

What do you enjoy doing there?

What are your favorite flowers?

What areas give you trouble?

Be honest.

Be specific.

Write it the way you'd tell a friend who's never seen your garden.

Then clip a few flowers from the beds.

Tuck them into the envelope.

Seal it.

Date it.

And put it away.

Now imagine doing this every year.

A stack of letters.

A record of seasons.

A portrait of the gardener you were in May of 2026.

And how different that gardener will be in May of 2036.

What a gift for a future you.

What a gift for your grandchildren.

Today's Garden History

1752 Albrecht Daniel Thaer was born in Celle, Germany.

Before Albrecht was a man of the soil, he was a man of the sickbed.

At the University of Göttingen, he trained as a physician.

And later served as a court doctor for royalty.

He was very good at his job.

But eighteenth-century medicine was still primitive.

He often watched patients die from things he couldn't fix.

And it wore on him.

But then came the garden.

Attached to his house, Albrecht had a small plot.

Nothing grand.

Just a place to grow flowers in his spare hours.

What started as an amusement quickly became an obsession.

He treated the garden like a science class.

Experimenting with carnations and auriculas.

After his marriage, he expanded.

Obtaining four hectares outside the city gates as a wedding gift for his wife.

The garden became both ornamental.

And productive.

From the start, Albrecht kept records.

Every input.

Every output.

Every change in the soil.

And he used what he learned to teach others.

In 1804, he moved to Brandenburg.

And purchased an estate.

Gut Möglin.

Two years later, he founded the Möglin Agricultural Institute.

The first agricultural college in Prussia.

Often called the cradle of scientific agriculture.

Before Albrecht's work, farming was guided by feel.

By folklore.

By instinct.

Albrecht made it a science.

With textbooks.

Lectures.

And data.

His masterwork, Principles of Rational Agriculture, became the standard across Europe.

Earning him the title:

Father of Modern Scientific Agriculture.

After years of observation, Albrecht championed crop rotation.

Never grow the same thing in the same place twice.

The soil, like the body, needed variety.

And rest.

At the center of his thinking was humus.

That dark, crumbly, living layer of soil.

He believed plants fed on it.

He was wrong.

A tree doesn't eat the earth.

It builds itself from the sky.

From carbon dioxide.

From light.

But here's the thing.

Albrecht's advice still worked.

Because compost feeds the microbes.

And microbes build healthy soil.

Healthy soil grows strong plants.

He was wrong about the chemistry.

But right about the care.

Today, regenerative gardeners are circling back to everything he taught.

Feed the soil.

Not the plant.

Build the humus.

Close the loop.

Albrecht died at seventy-six.

On his beloved estate.

His eyesight had failed him the year before.

The great observer left in the dark.

In his final years, he asked to be buried in his garden.

On the shore of a clear pond.

Surrounded by trees he had planted himself.

He called those trees his children.

Over his grave, they placed a pyramid of flowers.

Not marble.

Not bronze.

Just petals.

One tribute said it best:

"The ornaments of nature's rich temple mourn for their departed friend."

1905 Federico Delpino died in Naples.

He was seventy-one years old.

Federico was born in 1833.

A fragile child.

Thin.

Prone to illness.

His mother's remedy was the garden.

She kept him outside for hours every day.

Not because she knew the science.

But because she knew her son.

And to her, Federico needed the garden.

It worked both ways.

The garden needed watching.

And Federico watched.

Ants climbing stems.

Bees disappearing into flowers.

Emerging dusted in yellow.

Years later, Federico would say that as a child, he had already begun to think about studying plants.

Life had other plans.

When his father died, Federico left school.

Took a job at a customs house.

Counting crates.

Stamping documents.

Supporting his family.

For fourteen years, he worked there.

But never left the garden behind.

In his free time, he studied nature.

No university.

No lab.

No mentor.

Just his eyes.

And his patience.

In 1867, he published Thoughts on Plant Biology.

And changed botany forever.

Stop naming the parts.

Start watching what the plant does.

Federico saw plant life as negotiation.

A night-blooming flower?

That's for moths.

A deep tube of nectar?

That's for butterflies.

Nectar, he said, was a wage.

Plants hire help.

They advertise with petals.

They pay with sugar.

And when the bee arrives, it carries pollen forward.

Work complete.

He also saw plants hiring bodyguards.

Acacias with hollow thorns.

Housing ants.

Feeding them.

And in return, the ants protected the tree.

He called this relationship myrmecophily.

Mutual benefit between ants and plants.

Federico wrote to Charles Darwin.

Darwin was fascinated.

And frustrated.

Because he couldn't read Italian.

Federico later became director of the Naples Botanic Garden.

A long way from the customs desk.

He once wrote:

"The plant is not a simple machine. It is an individual that acts with a purpose."

He died on this day in 1905.

Buried in Naples.

Among the Illustrious.

All because his mother sent a fragile boy outside.

And told him to stay.

Unearthed Words

In today's Unearthed Words, we hear from the American poet Georgia Douglas Johnson, who died on this day in 1966.

Georgia was a central voice of the Harlem Renaissance.

By day, she worked a government job in Washington, D.C.

By night, she wrote.

After the house was quiet.

After the dishes were done.

She called herself a "writer by night."

As her reputation grew, her home became a gathering place.

Young Black poets.

Langston Hughes.

Countee Cullen.

Finding their voices.

But when her own heart grew heavy, Georgia turned to nature.

Here is her poem Hope:

The oak tarries long in the depth of the seed, While the sharp blades of clover rise and fall, And the plants of the garden fulfill their need, But the oak is silent and makes no call.

It fuses the strength of the sun and the soil, In the secret dark of the silent years, It weaves a garment of patient toil, And drinks of the rain of the valley's tears.

Till a hundred years are gone and past, And the bough is great and the trunk is vast!

Clover rises quickly.

Falls quickly.

But the oak waits.

Some days we are the clover.

Quick.

Useful.

And gone.

And some days we are the oak.

Doing our work quietly.

In our own time.

Book Recommendation

The Regenerative Landscaper by Erik Ohlsen

It's time to Grow That Garden Library, with today's book: The Regenerative Landscaper by Erik Ohlsen.

This book is part of Mother's Day Week here on The Daily Gardener.

And that means all of this week's Book Recommendations feature garden stories about care, inheritance, teaching, and the quiet ways gardening is passed from one generation to the next.

Erik opens his book with a scene.

You step out your back door.

Birdsong everywhere.

A basket on your arm.

And within ten minutes, it's full.

Vegetables.

Herbs.

Eggs.

Fruit.

And a bundle of flowers resting on top.

This is what Erik calls "a landscape of real abundance."

Not a fantasy.

But something to build.

Erik is a permaculture designer.

And his book is a field guide to creating landscapes that produce.

Not through force.

But through relationship.

He writes about soil health.

Water stewardship.

Biodiversity.

And resilience.

But what holds the book together is the work.

Years of building soil.

Planting trees whose fruit you may never see.

Designing water systems that slow rain.

And let it soak.

He asks a simple question:

What are you leaving behind?

Because healthy soil is not built in a season.

It is layered.

Fed.

Protected.

Observed.

And passed on.

Botanic Spark

And finally, here's something sweet to ignite the little botanic spark in your heart.

1865 Edward Augustus Bowles was born in Enfield, England.

His friends called him Gussie.

He was the youngest of four children.

And once planned to become a priest.

But tragedy changed everything.

His sister Cornelia died at nineteen.

Then his brother John died at twenty-seven.

The same year.

Half the children in the house gone.

Before New Year's.

Gussie returned home.

To his parents.

And to the garden.

He never went back to Cambridge.

Never became a priest.

At some point that year, he pressed his initials into the brick wall of the kitchen garden.

E.A.B. 1887.

Not perfect.

Not polished.

Just a mark.

A young man saying:

I am still here.

Gussie spent the next sixty-seven years in that garden.

And those initials remain.

In the brick.

Near the gateway to the pond.

Still legible today.

Final Thoughts

Mid-May has a strange quality.

Everything is moving.

And yet nothing has quite arrived.

The whole season still ahead.

It asks a different kind of patience.

Not the endurance of winter.

But the patience of watching something begin.

To come to life.

In its own way.

Maybe not the way you expected.

And that's the work of May.

To watch.

And to wait.

Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener. And remember, for a happy, healthy life, garden every day.

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Today's Show Notes

This is the time of year to throw a spring garden party.

It doesn't have to be fancy.

A few chairs. A pitcher of something cold. And a neighbor you haven't seen since the leaves came down.

The garden does most of the work.

It sets the table.

It arranges the flowers.

And it gives everyone something to talk about.

Because nothing starts a conversation faster than a bloom someone hasn't seen before.

You can offer to walk your guests through the beds.

Encourage them to touch something new and green.

Or smell an herb.

Have a little one pull a radish.

If you've got one ready.

Sharing your garden is the best gift of all.

And you don't have to give anything away.

Just open the gate.

And let people in.

Today's Garden History

1906 Enid Annenberg Haupt was born in Chicago.

She once said,

"Nature is my religion. There is no life in concrete and paint."

Enid spent ninety-nine years living that statement.

Growing up, she was the fourth child of eight in the Annenberg family.

A dynasty built on publishing.

And the hard politics of American media.

She found her way into the orbit of orchids.

It started when her second husband, Ira Haupt, courted her with a single spray of cymbidium orchids.

And Enid—raised surrounded by money and power—looked at the orchid and saw something that meant more to her than all of it.

Beauty.

She was so smitten with orchids that for her wedding, she requested thirteen orchid plants instead of jewelry.

Professionally, Enid ran Seventeen magazine for sixteen years.

And transformed it into a serious primer on careers and literature for young women.

Reflecting on her active lifestyle, she once said, "I haven't the time for boredom."

But it was gardens that became the great work of her life.

When the Victorian conservatory at the New York Botanical Garden was about to be demolished, Enid sold jewelry from her personal collection.

To make the first five-million-dollar gift that saved it.

As she aged, Enid came to see plants as something people needed.

But also something that made the world a better place.

And she believed beauty was not just a luxury.

But a human right.

Over the years, Enid gave more than thirty-four million dollars to the Botanical Garden alone.

And she funded a four-acre garden on the National Mall in Washington, D.C.

Behind the Smithsonian Castle.

Above all, she wanted it to feel like it had always been there.

Waiting for visitors on the day it opened.

So that the average person could walk in and feel peace immediately.

When she bought George Washington's former estate in Virginia.

River Farm.

She turned around and donated it to the American Horticultural Society.

Enid also cared about accessibility.

And she built one of the first wheelchair-accessible gardens.

At a hospital.

Where children could reach the flowers from their chairs.

And when the money ran short on many of the projects she helped sponsor, Enid sold Impressionist paintings from her own private collection.

Her inheritance.

Monet. Van Gogh. Gauguin. Cézanne. Renoir.

Fifteen masterpieces.

For twenty-five million dollars.

Unlike many who found gardens, Enid believed that if you helped create a garden, you must endow it.

Because a gift without a future is just a burden.

One that often ends up lost to time.

By the time Enid died in 2005, she had given away more than one hundred and forty million dollars.

Nearly all of it to gardens and green spaces open to the public.

Which makes Enid Annenberg Haupt the greatest patron American horticulture has ever known.

2018 Beth Chatto died peacefully at her home in Elmstead Market, in Essex, England.

She was ninety-four years old.

Beth was born in 1923.

Her mother gave her her first trowel.

And that was the beginning.

When Beth married the botanist Andrew Chatto, his research into the origins of plants helped shape her thinking.

Her work centered on a single, radical idea:

Right plant.

Right place.

It sounds obvious now.

But it wasn't at the time.

In the 1950s, the British gardening ideal was a manicured lawn.

And stiff beds of annuals.

Ripped out every autumn.

And replanted every spring.

If the soil was wrong, you changed the soil.

If the ground was too wet, you drained it.

Beth said no to all of it.

She encouraged gardeners to flip the paradigm.

To find plants that already want to grow where they are.

In her late thirties, Beth began work on a difficult piece of land.

Boggy hollows. Parched gravel beds. Brambles. Scrub.

Her neighbors told her to forget it.

But Beth saw five gardens.

She dug out ponds.

Shaped them like clouds.

On the dry gravel, she planted silver-leafed plants.

That color told her everything she needed to know.

Those plants would not need pampering.

So she chose euphorbias.

Lavender.

And giant feathery grasses.

That caught the wind and light.

Like something breathing.

Beth once said,

"I don't want a garden that looks like a florist shop. I want a garden that looks like a piece of the world."

Nearly twenty years later, she brought her ideas to the Chelsea Flower Show.

The traditionalists were horrified.

Beth displayed grasses.

And common plants like cow parsley.

Things most people called weeds.

And yet she won the gold medal.

And then again.

In all, Beth won ten consecutive gold medals.

Her boldest move came when she was nearly seventy.

She planted a gravel garden on a former parking lot.

And never watered it.

Not once.

Outside of rain, it remains unwatered.

And still blooms today.

Beth credited her artistic eye to her friend, the painter Cedric Morris.

He taught her to see the garden as a canvas.

And her dearest garden friend was Christopher Lloyd.

Christo.

Of Great Dixter.

In the garden, they were opposites.

Beth was silver and restrained.

Christo was orange and chaos.

She once wrote to him:

"I feel like a tired old horse, plodding along… then comes your letter, like a sharp spur."

Beth's gardens.

Seven and a half acres in the Essex countryside.

Are now a National Heritage landscape.

And her granddaughter Julia runs the nursery today.

Her insight remains one of the quietest laws in modern gardening:

Right plant.

Right place.

Unearthed Words

In today's Unearthed Words, we hear from the English poet and memoirist Laurie Lee, who died on this day in 1997.

Laurie grew up in the Slad Valley in Gloucestershire.

A small Cotswold village.

With steep lanes.

And half-wild gardens.

His memoir Cider with Rosie is a love letter to a vanishing rural world.

Written especially to honor his mother.

Here is Laurie remembering her in the garden:

"So with the family gone, Mother lived as she wished…

Slowly, snugly, she grew into her background, warm on her grassy bank, poking and peering among the flowery bushes, dishevelled and bright as they.

Serenely unkempt were those final years, free from conflict, doubt or dismay, while she reverted gently to a rustic simplicity as a moss-rose reverts to a wild one."

Earlier, Laurie wrote of her gift with roses:

"She could grow them anywhere, at any time, and they seemed to live longer for her…

She grew them with rough, almost slap-dash love, but her hands possessed such an understanding of their needs they seemed to turn to her like another sun."

Laurie's mother was not a formal gardener.

Or a designer.

She worked without a plan.

Welcomed self-seeders.

And forgave the weeds.

Laurie described her this way:

"All day she trotted to and fro, flushed and garrulous, pouring flowers into every pot and jug she could find… until [the] dim interior [of the house] seemed entirely possessed by the world outside — a still green pool flooding with honeyed tides of summer."

That passage is more than a description.

It's a restoration.

Word by word.

Laurie brings her back.

Book Recommendation

In a Green Shade by Allen Lacy

It's time to Grow That Garden Library, with today's book: In a Green Shade by Allen Lacy.

This book is part of Mother's Day Week here on The Daily Gardener.

And that means all of this week's Book Recommendations feature garden stories about care, inheritance, teaching, and the quiet ways gardening is passed from one generation to the next.

In a Green Shade gathers Allen's essays on gardens and gardeners.

Most of these pieces were originally written for a newsletter called Homeground.

A father-and-son project that Allen almost didn't start.

In the introduction, Allen tells the story:

"Soon after I gave up my column in the Times, my younger son, Michael, a magazine art director, began mumbling that he and I should publish a gardening newsletter together.

I resisted, but he persisted, entreating me to consider the wonders of desktop publishing and the miracles of software programs with strange names not in any known language.

Finally, on Christmas Eve, he nudged me again.

This time I said yes.

On New Year's Eve Michael dropped by to show me the design dummy for Homeground.

The newsletter comes out quarterly and runs to sixteen pages an issue.

It's now approaching its eighth year. I had new things to worry about, such as the costs of paper, advertising, and postage.

We started off with no subscribers, and then we got a few, and a few more every month.

We have had a satisfying renewal rate, but Martha Stewart need not fear our competition."

On the page, Allen writes like a gardener who has been working the same land for a very long time.

He doesn't give advice.

He simply shares what he notices.

And for Mother's Day Week, this book speaks to that gentle continuity.

Honoring the gardeners who came before us.

Who taught by example.

Often without ever naming what they were doing.

Botanic Spark

And finally, here's something sweet to ignite the little botanic spark in your heart.

1907 Daphne du Maurier was born in London.

Most people know Daphne from her novel Rebecca.

With that unforgettable opening line:

"Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again."

But Manderley was not entirely imagined.

It was a real place.

Menabilly.

On the southern coast of Cornwall.

Overlooking the sea.

As a young woman, Daphne stumbled upon the property.

Pushed through brambles.

Followed an overgrown path.

And when the house appeared, it felt like a dream.

She fell in love with it immediately.

With the wildness of the land.

Rhododendrons gone feral.

Rare specimens planted long ago.

All tangled together in what she called an alien marriage.

In 1943, Daphne leased Menabilly.

Moved in.

And began to tend it back to life.

Not redesigning it.

Simply living with it.

Walking its paths every day.

Writing her books in a small hut.

With the garden just outside her window.

Her daughters remembered that wherever she lived, the house was always full of flowers.

In one of her books, a child slips away from a garden party and into the woods.

And Daphne wrote:

"The woods were made for secrecy. They did not recognize her as the garden did."

For Daphne, gardens were not decoration.

They were witness.

The one place that truly knew you.

She lived at Menabilly for more than two decades.

And when the lease ended, she was heartbroken.

She had given the garden her best years.

And it had shaped her life's work in return.

Daphne du Maurier died in 1989.

She was eighty-one.

Final Thoughts

This is the time of year when the garden does most of the work.

Take some time to enjoy it.

Grab a couple of chairs.

Something cold to drink.

And sit beside a neighbor you haven't seen in a while.

Fill the kiddie pool.

Add a little Epsom salt.

Soak your feet.

And suddenly.

It's a party.

Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener. And remember, for a happy, healthy life, garden every day.

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Today's Show Notes

For the past week, I've been working on dividing plants.

Redesigning and refreshing my cottage garden.

Little by little.

Anyway, I potted up extras.

And set them on the curb with a "free" sign.

They were all gone by noon.

And I kept thinking about that afterward.

Not the plants.

Although I'm sure they've found good homes.

But how easy it was.

How little it cost me to share them.

And how the very thing that made me feel most like a gardener this week wasn't anything I planted.

It was something I gave away.

Today's Garden History

1924 William James Beal died peacefully in his sleep.

He was ninety-one years old.

William studied at Michigan and Harvard under Asa Gray before landing a professorship at Michigan State.

He taught botany for nearly four decades.

William was wiry and energetic.

And he was most famous for his long white beard.

And the broad-brimmed hat he always wore.

Whether he was in the garden or not.

True to form, William was not a small-talk man.

But if you handed him a glass of punch at a party, he would have probably handed you back a magnifying glass.

And pointed to a weed.

Asking, "What do you see?"

And he wouldn't have let you leave until you actually looked.

And told him.

William called his hands-on approach the New Botany.

In his approach, he threw out the textbooks.

And handed students living plants.

Their job was to observe them.

Not to memorize the Latin name for them.

And that simple idea—learning by doing, learning by experience—is still how most of us learn to garden.

When William was forty, he founded the W.J. Beal Botanic Garden on the Michigan State campus.

On the north bank of the Red Cedar River.

It is the oldest continuously operating university botanical garden in the country.

And visitors can still enter through the ornate metal gates.

But William did something else in 1879.

Something that is still going on today.

He filled twenty narrow-necked glass bottles.

Like pint jars.

With moist sand.

And fifty seeds each from twenty-one species.

Mostly common weeds from any Michigan field.

Then he buried them in a secret spot on campus.

About twenty inches deep.

Upside down.

And slanting.

So water wouldn't pool.

Every twenty years, a small group of Michigan State plant biologists are given a map.

To find a single bottle.

And dig it up.

In the middle of the night.

For secrecy.

And to keep the seeds from being exposed to sunlight.

Then, back at the lab, they empty out the seeds.

Plant them.

And see if they still grow.

Remarkably, many do.

With Verbascum, or mullein, proving the most resilient.

The next bottle is scheduled to be unearthed in 2040.

With the final one uncovered in the year 2100.

William was forty-six when he buried those bottles.

And he knew he would not live to see them all opened.

But that was the point.

It was a message written in seeds.

To young scientists he would never meet.

1935 William Robinson died peacefully at his home in Sussex, England.

He was ninety-six years old.

As a young man, he arrived in London totally penniless.

But what William did have was opinions.

And when it came to Victorian gardens, he disliked them.

Very much.

The rigid rows.

The geometric beds.

And the thousands of identical greenhouse flowers.

All ripped out at the end of every season.

William called it a mutilation.

Instead, he believed plants should be allowed to grow according to their nature.

If a flower thrives in a woodland, it should be planted under a tree.

If it loves wet feet, it should be planted by a pond.

Right plant.

Right place.

In 1870, William published his thoughts in a book called The Wild Garden.

And it shook English horticulture.

In it, William pushed back against the rage for exotic plants that needed hothouses.

And the constant cycle of bedding out.

Where flowers were replaced three to four times each season just to keep the look fresh.

To William, the entire approach was wasteful.

And soulless.

To name what he preferred, William coined the term wild garden.

His notion of growing hardy perennials.

Plants that come back year after year.

Three years later, William wrote another book.

The English Flower Garden.

And it was so popular and timeless that it has never gone out of print.

In midlife, William used the money from his writing to buy a crumbling Elizabethan home.

Gravetye Manor.

Nestled on a sandstone ridge about thirty miles south of London.

Once he got to work, he treated it as a giant canvas.

Planting thousands of wildflowers and spring-flowering bulbs.

Daffodils.

Scilla.

Anemones.

And giving the meadows around Gravetye the wild, unstyled beauty he had chased his whole life.

When William was seventy, he was paralyzed from the waist down after a serious fall on his way to church.

After the accident, he made Gravetye accessible for his wheelchair.

Including a little path system from inside his house.

And out to his beloved elliptical kitchen garden.

Undaunted, he gardened almost every day with the help of his staff.

For another twenty-six years.

Despite his spinal injury.

And he somehow managed to scatter bluebell seed until his final days.

In the end, William left Gravetye.

And all of its thousand acres.

To the people of England.

Unearthed Words

In today's Unearthed Words, we hear from the American poet Amy Lowell, who died on this day in 1925.

Amy lived her entire life at Sevenels.

Her family's estate in Brookline, Massachusetts.

The home sat on ten acres of land.

With formal garden beds.

Long borders.

And plenty of lilacs planted deep into the New England soil.

Amy was a leader of the Imagist movement.

A school of poetry that was clear, precise, and rooted in the imagination.

Here's an excerpt from Amy Lowell's poem Lilacs:

"Lilacs, False blue, White, Purple, Color of lilac,

Your great puffs of flowers Are everywhere in this my New England.

Among your heart-shaped leaves Orange orioles hop like music-box birds and sing their little weak soft songs;In the crooks of your branches

You are everywhere. You were everywhere.

You tapped the window when the preacher preached his sermon,

And ran along the road beside the boy going to school.

Maine knows you, Has for years and years; New Hampshire knows you, And Massachusetts and Vermont. Cape Cod starts you along the beaches to Rhode Island;

Connecticut takes you from a river to the sea.

You are brighter than apples, Sweeter than tulips, You are the smell of all Summers, Lilac in me because I am New England,

Because my roots are in it, Because my leaves are of it, Because my flowers are for it,

Because it is my country And I speak to it of itself

And sing of it with my own voice

Since certainly it is mine."

Amy never wanted to stray far from Brookline.

The estate and its lilac-bordered gardens weren't just scenery for her.

They were who she was.

Amy was awarded the Pulitzer Prize the year she died.

For a collection she humorously called What's O'Clock, which includes her poem Lilacs.

Yet she never knew she'd won.

She died before anyone could tell her.

But I think she would have shrugged.

The lilacs were already enough.

Book Recommendation

The Glory of Roses by Allen Lacy

It's time to Grow That Garden Library, with today's book: The Glory of Roses by Allen Lacy.

It's Mother's Day Week here on The Daily Gardener.

And that means all of this week's Book Recommendations are devoted to garden stories about care, inheritance, teaching, and the quiet ways gardening is passed from one generation to the next.

Allen Lacy was a garden writer who thought slowly.

And wrote carefully.

The kind of writer who could spend a whole chapter on one rose and make you feel like you'd spent an afternoon beside him.

In The Glory of Roses, Allen turns his gaze to a flower often burdened with symbolism.

But he doesn't reduce roses to romance.

Instead, he writes about the discipline roses require from gardeners.

The pruning.

The feeding.

And the patience.

In the book, Allen quotes Candace Wheeler, who wrote in 1902:

"[The rose has] a mysterious something in its nature — an inner fascination, a subtle witchery, a hidden charm which it has and other flowers have not — ensnares and holds the love of the world."

That's the rose, isn't it?

All of it together.

The fragrance.

The thorn.

And the beauty.

A kind of magic that other flowers just don't carry.

If someone in your life grows roses in their garden, or simply loves them as their favorite flower, this is the book to hand to them.

Botanic Spark

And finally, here's something sweet to ignite the little botanic spark in your heart.

1812 Edward Lear was born in London.

The English artist and nonsense poet was the twentieth of twenty-one children.

And when his family ran out of money and couldn't care for him, his eldest sister Ann raised him.

Ann taught Edward to draw.

And drawing became his way forward.

By his early twenties, he was producing scientific illustrations for the Zoological Society in London.

Alongside that work came taxonomy.

The Latin names.

The rigid classifications.

The serious business of labeling everything properly.

Edward could take the drawing seriously.

But the naming struck him as a little absurd.

So he invented his own botanical Latin.

And illustrated his creations.

He drew people dangling upside down from a plant stem like bleeding hearts.

And called it Manypeeplia Upsidownia.

He drew a lily where tigers became the petals.

And called it Tigerlillia Terribilis.

And he drew a flower with a large, grumpy face.

And called it Phattfacia Stupenda.

Edward's creations were an immediate success.

The popularity of his nonsense books exceeded his serious art.

But he never complained about his work.

Or his chronic poor health.

Edward suffered from epilepsy.

Which he called "the Demons."

And from depression.

Which he called "the Morbids."

He moved repeatedly.

Searching for warmer climates.

From London to Rome.

To San Remo on the Italian coast.

Where he eventually settled.

And named his home Villa Emily.

At Villa Emily, Edward finally had a garden of his own.

With a fat tabby cat named Foss.

Who inspired his beloved poem The Owl and the Pussy-cat, which begins:

"The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat, They took some honey, and plenty of money, Wrapped up in a five-pound note."

When the end came, his friends could not be with him.

Dear old Foss had died the summer before.

Edward Lear died alone in San Remo in 1888.

He was seventy-five years old.

And was buried beneath a fig tree.

Final Thoughts

The garden gives you more than you can hold.

And you don't have to keep it all to yourself.

Nobody's keeping score.

Nobody's checking to see if you gave away your best division.

Or your scrappiest one.

The giving is the thing.

Most of us don't keep it all.

Most of us end up at the fence.

Or in a neighbor's yard.

Saying, "Here — take some."

It's part of gardening.

And it's what the best gardeners are known for.

Generosity.

Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener. And remember, for a happy, healthy life, garden every day.

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Today's Show Notes

If you got plants from your kids this Mother's Day, here's a thought.

Don't plant them all at once with everyone together.

Plant them with one kid at a time.

I called it YAMA time.

You And Me Alone time.

And it gave each of my four kids their own quiet garden moment with me.

Because something happens when you're working side by side with just one child.

It's quiet.

Your hands are busy.

And their little thoughts and curiosities start to bubble up to the surface.

And little comments come out.

Little questions.

Little moments.

And those were more precious to me than the plants themselves.

I'm not saying I made four gardeners.

I highly doubt I did.

But I do know that each one of them has their own memory of gardening with me.

And that, I think, they will remember.

Today's Garden History

1808 Moses Ashley Curtis was born in Stockbridge, Massachusetts.

Moses came from a long tradition of clergymen-botanists.

Men whose parish rounds made plants as familiar as congregants.

On missionary journeys through the pine barrens and the damp coastal lowlands of North Carolina, Moses brought back a full portfolio of plants from every trip.

Ferns pressed between the pages.

Fungi sketched by lamplight.

And orchids dried and labeled and sent north to Harvard.

When his academic peers started acknowledging his expertise, Moses remarked:

"Nothing surprised me more than to be called a botanist at first.

Although I had accomplished the survey of the [flowering] plants of the State, I still felt that I was comparatively not a botanist."

Yet Moses enjoyed many botanical firsts.

Including the thrill of being the first person to describe a Venus flytrap catching its prey.

It was a little bit of being in the right place at the right time.

Because it just so happens that most of the world's wild Venus flytraps grow within seventy-five miles of Wilmington, North Carolina.

In an 1834 paper about these carnivorous plants, Moses noted the function of the hairs, the digestive properties of the leaf, and the mucilaginous fluid that seemed to dissolve insects.

He wrote:

"It is very aptly compared to two upper eyelids joined at their bases.

Each side of the leaf is a little concave on the inner side, where are placed three delicate, hair-like organs in such an order that an insect can hardly traverse it without interfering with one of them, when the two sides suddenly collapse and enclose the prey with a force surpassing an insect's efforts to escape.

The fringe or hairs of the opposite sides of the leaf interlace, like the fingers of the two hands clasped together."

"The little prisoner is not crushed and suddenly destroyed, as is sometimes supposed, for I have often liberated captive flies and spiders which sped away as fast as fear or joy could hasten them.

At other times I have found them enveloped in a fluid of a mucilaginous consistence, which seems to act as a solvent, the insects being more or less consumed in it. It is not to be supposed, however, that such food is necessary to the existence of the plant, but like compost may increase its growth and vigor."

During his lifetime, Moses also became the foremost authority on North American fungi.

A field most botanists wouldn't touch.

Fungi were unglamorous.

And widely feared.

Yet Moses walked straight into that fear.

And made it his life's work.

Once, when someone asked about his ambitions, he wrote back:

"All I expect, and I may say, all I desire, is to settle down with the mediocrity."

But Moses was not mediocre.

He was sturdy in a field that killed its collectors young.

And it wasn't because he played it safe.

Moses hiked mountain ridges until his clothes were in tatters.

And once met a local tailor named Silas McDowell.

Silas mended his coat.

And then joined him in the field.

Because Silas happened to be an amateur botanist.

Back home in North Carolina, Moses's wife Mary and their children processed his specimens.

Pressing.

Drying.

Labeling.

And they did it so well that no one ever guessed it was a family operation.

But through it all, his greatest joy was walking in the woods.

In contrast, the greatest heartbreak of his life happened during the Civil War.

As the Union blockade tightened and North Carolina began to starve, Moses looked at the woods he loved around Hillsborough.

And saw what no one else could see.

A pantry.

As he foraged the land within two miles of his own house, he had collected and eaten over forty different species of mushrooms.

Moses immediately realized that if it was possible for him, foraging could work for anyone.

So he wrote a book.

To teach ordinary people how to identify and cook edible mushrooms.

And his son Charles painted the color illustrations.

So that someone with no training could look at the page and know what was safe to eat.

But when the South ran out of paper and ink, the book was never printed.

And though people would listen to Moses on Sundays, they would not follow him into the woods on Mondays.

That is why his message about the edibles hiding in the forest never reached the people who needed it most.

It was his biggest regret.

That he couldn't help people who literally starved to death while food was growing all around them.

For most of history, the world has wanted to pit science against God.

And yet there were people like Moses who held both in the same mind.

And the same life.

And found no contradiction.

Moses died in 1872.

Twenty-five years after his death, his book on edible fungi was finally published in 1897.

Today, his gravestone in the churchyard at St. Matthew's Episcopal Church in Hillsborough, North Carolina, reads simply:

Moses Ashley Curtis, D.D.

Priest and Scientist.

1794 Frances Stackhouse Acton was born.

The British botanist and illustrator grew up at the elbow of one of England's most celebrated botanists.

Her father, Thomas Andrew Knight.

President of the Royal Horticultural Society.

Fanny, as her family called her, later said those years working beside her father were the happiest of her life.

While other girls were taught needlework, Fanny was taught to graft a pear tree.

And cross-pollinate a strawberry.

When she came of age, no woman could attend a university.

But her father's orchard was on par with any degree.

And the botanical illustrations she painted for his published works were the equivalent of a thesis.

At eighteen, Fanny married Thomas Stackhouse.

A man twenty-five years her senior.

But they were both serious.

And curious.

And shared a passion for botany.

For nearly twenty years, everything was going along just fine.

Fanny had her husband.

Her father.

And a life full of the work she loved.

But when Fanny was in her late thirties, she gradually lost her entire family.

First, she lost a baby girl.

The only child she would ever have.

Then her mother-in-law and her husband died within about twelve months of each other.

And the final blow was losing her father.

The man who gave her a love for nature that would last her entire life.

By the time Fanny was forty-one, she was alone in the world.

But she had also inherited her husband's family estate.

Acton Scott Hall in Shropshire.

Along with all the wealth and responsibility that came with it.

Fanny would spend the next forty-six years as a widow.

But also as a woman fully prepared to live a life of service, science, and stewardship.

Everything she learned at her father's elbow.

The patience.

The precision.

The love of the land.

Made her ready for her final four decades.

Fanny seized her independence with both hands.

And never let go.

In an era when a man could say "I am self-made," but a woman could not, Fanny built a legacy that rested squarely on her own shoulders.

She cared for her local village the way a mother cares for her family.

Repairing what was broken.

Building what was missing.

And making sure no one around her went without.

And when Fanny died in 1881 at eighty-six, a local newspaper wrote that her name had become "a household word for all that is good, kind, and benevolent."

Fanny was buried at St. Margaret's Churchyard on the family estate.

Right beside her husband.

And the baby daughter they lost.

Unearthed Words

In today's Unearthed Words, we hear from the Irish novelist William Trevor, born on this day in 1928.

William wrote about quiet lives.

And missed chances.

In his work, gardens appear again and again.

Not as decoration.

But as memory.

And inheritance.

In his 1988 novel The Silence in the Garden, an old Irish estate is set inside a landscape he knew by heart.

He wrote:

"The high white gates stood open at the head of a sunless avenue…

Moss and cropped grass softened the surface beneath the horse's hooves, making our journey eerily soundless.

Beech trees curved their branches overhead. The shiny leaves of rhododendrons were part of a pervading greenness."

Although William spent most of his life in Devon, his imagination never left rural Ireland.

And William kept returning to it.

Again and again.

Just to be there once more.

Book Recommendation

My Gardening Life by Mary Berry

It's time to Grow That Garden Library, with today's book: My Gardening Life by Mary Berry.

It's Mother's Day Week here on The Daily Gardener.

And that means all of this week's Book Recommendations are devoted to garden stories about care, inheritance, teaching, and the quiet ways gardening is passed from one generation to the next.

Most people know Mary Berry for cakes.

And careful measurements.

But in My Gardening Life, she steps outside the kitchen.

And into the garden.

Which she freely admits has always been her first love.

This is not a technical manual.

It is a memoir of seasons.

About childhood gardens.

About the solace of tending plants while raising a family.

And the steady comfort of returning to the soil after life's disruptions.

In the opening pages, Mary wrote:

"As a child, gathering things in the wild is my first real recollection of enjoying plants and flowers. We used to go primrosing in spring, and often my grandparents would be there.

My father's father, Grandpa Berry, was a canon of York and was very proper and correct. He used to come on these outings wearing an overcoat and a sort of trilby-style hat. Mum would make up a picnic.

After we'd enjoyed a rock cake, we'd pick primroses and would tie them into bunches with lengths of wool. We'd put them in small vases around the house, and, most likely, I would take some to school the next day for my teacher to sweeten them up, because most of the time I was quite naughty.

To this day, I still clearly remember the delicate smell of those primroses, and they remain one of my favourite flowers.

They herald spring."

Mary is an absolute delight.

And this book shows how tending a garden can mirror tending a family.

Both imperfect.

And both enduring.

Botanic Spark

And finally, here's something sweet to ignite the little botanic spark in your heart.

1939 Henri Correvon died.

The Swiss alpine gardener spent his life devoted to the small, stubborn plants of the mountains.

As a young boy, Henri lost his mother.

And was raised by his grandfather.

A nurseryman.

It was in that nursery that Henri first fell in love with alpine plants.

And he never let them go.

As a garden designer, Henri built gardens on north-facing slopes.

Where the air was thin.

And the soil was mostly rock.

Because he believed hardship made flowers more beautiful.

Henri had an intimate understanding of plants.

He could walk through a garden and toss out the secrets of a lifetime without breaking stride.

Once, passing a group of acacias, he simply said:

"Acacias hate lime."

And kept walking.

Just a small piece of hard-won wisdom.

Shared in passing.

Once, when a British diplomat visited his nursery in Geneva, Henri was unimpressed.

But later, when that same diplomat identified a rare tulip by its leaves alone, before it had even bloomed, Henri lit up.

He later said:

"There is a Minister of Foreign Affairs in every country, but there is only one who can identify Tulipa clusiana by its leaves."

That was Henri.

He didn't care who you were.

He cared what you knew.

His nursery, Floraire.

The place of flowers.

Passed to his son.

And then to his grandson.

Three generations rooted in the same soil.

In his final years, Henri began to go blind.

He had spent eighty-five years seeing what no one else could see.

Losing his sight was a loss he could not bear.

So Henri went in for what should have been a straightforward operation.

To help him see again.

It did not work out that way.

A former student later wrote:

"He went to sleep happy in the thought that he should again see his beloved flowers, and he did not awake."

Final Thoughts

If you're standing in your garden this week with a flat of plants and your kids running about, try something simple.

Have them help you.

One at a time.

Just you and them.

Hand them the trowel.

Show them where to dig.

And then be quiet.

You'll be amazed at what comes up.

And I don't just mean the plants.

Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener. And remember, for a happy, healthy life, garden every day.