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| Snowdrops |
Years before New York City’s high line became the fabled Highline, a close friend who knew how to break into locked spaces took me for a walk along the old railroad tracks. There was something special about being the only people trudging down the abandoned rail line, spotting anything bold enough to sprout to the surface. We both had a predilection for trespassing despite the risk to our jobs and careers. Maybe it was because the best part of our jobs offered exactly this – the opportunity be where we were not supposed to be.
In the Hudson River Valley we have similar almost--empty public spaces. This past summer I planned to visit public gardens along the Hudson River, expecting to talk to visitors about their particular affection for their choices, only to find most of the gardens empty. Blithewood and Montgomery Place, two grand estates now Bard College properties, were devoid of visitors on the day I came by. They were as empty as the abandoned old highline railroad tracks. Perhaps these public gardens are busier on weekends, when visitors are more likely than fulltime residents to take advantage of them.
For families with children a visit to a working farm would to be a better destination than the grand estates. Rose Hill is a favorite stop; fields of apples and pumpkins ready for picking, an airy barn with beautiful views outfitted with tables and chairs for dining, couches and armchairs for drinks offered by the cheery bar, and a revolving pop-up food service hosted by local restaurants and offering bargain-price dinner options.
As a child growing up in New York City we had the great public parks and botanical gardens as our backyards and ball fields. They were carefully planned and beautifully executed to bring the best experience to the largest number of visitors. But it is the small gardens surrounding the village where I live now that matter most when everything else seems lost.
We have been blessed in the Hudson River Valley. Our towns and villages are not at war or destroyed by flood or fire; our plants will reappear this spring and again year after year, surviving even the possible disappearance of the host garden itself.
It is well known that there are wins and losses in everyone’s garden; it is always a battleground between the gardener’s demands and the determined behavior of the elements, the soil, and the plants themselves. Try as you may to impose your will, the garden either accepts or rejects your efforts. The earliest spring days usually let you know what came through the winter safely and what has been lost.
My garden on Livingston Street was planned as an April garden, but when I started to return from the city earlier in the year there was not much to see. And so in the fall of 2023 we planted hundreds of snowdrops both in the beds and the lawn; when I returned in March of 2024 there was a sea of small white blooms. But it was a gift I forgot to share with the lawn crew, neglecting to ask them to hold off on the mowing for a few weeks to let the bulb foliage ripen; bulbs gain their food supply for the following year in the ripening foliage of the current year. Supposedly. We shall see. This March will be the test.
Looking ahead to June, the hydrangeas blooming are the most glorious weeks in the garden. I started with one of the earliest, the flatleaf arborescens White Dome. The half-sterile, half-fertile flowers have a more delicate bloom then the blowsy queen of the radiatas, the popular Annabel. The arborescens require only the most judicious pruning. In the few warm days of February cut them back to knee-high; they will reach the perfect height by the time they are ready to bloom. If you fall in love with the entire hydrangea family remember their bloom habits vary as will their pruning requirements – some bloom on new wood, others on old.
In 2024 the appearance of gypsy moth (renamed spongy moth) in the township sent a shudder through gardeners, but the village seems to have escaped significant damage. We are twiddling our thumbs till spring arrives. 2025 will tell all.
