Published: October 28, 2007 10:16 am         

Time to hurry: Winter's in the wings

OK. Time's up. Donning gloves, I dive in, having put off final tasks far too long.

The giant hostas sag; I cut them to the dirt, tossing exhausted remnants into the wheelbarrow. Wow! Every year I marvel at how much earth they'd occupied. Now that vacant space is shocking.

Dispensing with hosta, I move quickly on to the huge ostrich ferns; those tattered, shriveled fronds look awful.

A quick tug separates broken stems from thick rhizome crowns, which protrude baldly above the soil, like lumpy brown moles.

The Flutist Garden's polyantha "Fairy" rose still blooms madly, ignoring the season. I'll cut her back, but not until the first really hard frost. Dormant then, she won't notice a thing.

Sadly, I extract the marvelous marigolds; they belong in every garden, as nothing daunts them. With decent sun, food and occasional drinks, these beauties have bloomed vigorously, pest-and disease-free, for four months, and still show no signs of flagging.

But after a freeze, extraction is impossible. They'd wither, die in bed, and look wretched all winter long. I won't allow such an ignominious end.

It's easier to eliminate the sweet potato vines. Bugs and time have severely diminished their lush, chartreuse beauty. Clearly, all five giants are well past their expiration date. Whack!

Quick, shallow penetration with my trusty shovel yields 40 huge canna lily tubers, which will be stored in a very cool, dark environment for the winter. Their huge, frost-blackened, thick-stemmed leaves are trashed. For the next eight months a vast emptiness here will remind me of past glory.

Stifling sadness, I move briskly on. This is no time for sentiment.

Whenever I come upon an annual geranium, I pluck it out. Those glowing pink blooms just keep coming; each is tossed into the wheelbarrow, protesting. I harden my heart.

Uh-oh; here's the stupid spiderwort. Hmmm. I stifle the urge to strangle it and instead dig much of it gone. This plant's shamelessly sex-mad; all season it hops into bed with outraged neighbors, making itself at home, making whoopee, making more ... but, darn it, those ball-sy blue flowers are so attractive!

Sighing, I keep just a few, knowing it won't make any difference. One plant will be 10 in a blink. I remind myself to patrol it if I mean to control it next year.

'Spidey' sits there, smug, knowing it's safe.

Gritting my teeth, I turn to the spent silver lace vine.

Long, exhausted stray tendrils drape disconsolately over the alley fence, wistfully twining around the chocolate Eupatorium bush. Shortening these, I leave the rest of the huge vine to decorate the fence-top; snow enhances its skeleton in deep winter.

In early spring I'll chop it almost to the ground.

Whack! Both aging peonies hit the dirt. Siberian iris and daylily leaves are trimmed to smart, short angles. Withered lily stalks are cut to within two inches of the earth; remaining "handles" mark their location.

The last shasta daisy fades to black; stems are cut to basal leaves.

The winter garden, with its clean, spare look, emerges. Giant, plumed miscanthus grasses stand out; the huge yellow pyramidal pseudo-cypress now co-anchors the Main garden. Bright red berries shine on the euonymus bush and crabapple tree; the fothergilla's colorful foliage gleams.

The drained, elegantly swanned fountain, mute now, looks regal in evening light; snow on jet-black will be lovely.

I feel hushed expectation: another fascinating performer waits in the wings. How will winter play it this year? Autumn exits noisily, passing wind; backstage, the Old Man clears his throat, and takes a deep breath ...

Dee Blair has cultivated her English secret garden at Sunnybank on Sixth Street in Traverse City for 15 years. Open to visitors in season, the garden is now closed. She will write throughout the winter, and can be reached care of the Record Eagle, or via e-mail at dblair@voyager.net. Also, see her blog, which often elaborates on columns, at http://blogs.record-eagle.com.